And this time, he meant every word.
“You,” he said softly, “do not deserve to breathe the same air as Ruby. You haven’t got a hundredth part of her cleverness or courage, and she is good and brilliant and goddamned heroicin spiteof you. In spite of your very best attempts to stifle her.”
He broke Hangleton’s gaze to look at Ruby. Her lips were parted, and he couldn’t read the expression on her face.
But her eyes were clear as she looked at him; the strange distant despair he’d seen there had faded.
He had her back. And he wasn’t letting her go.
He turned to Hangleton. “Listen to your daughter,” he said again. “She is trying to save your skin along with the Monfalcone royal family, and I assure you, Hangleton, it is in your best interest to close your mouth and think very, very hard before you open it again.”
The earl sat back down. He was still looking at Archer, and when he spoke, his voice was measured. “I know you,” he said. “I’ve seen you before.”
Fear moved through Archer’s body. A shifting uncertainty, like sand pulled out from beneath his feet by the tide.
But before he could reply, Ruby intervened. “He is my husband.” She lifted her chin and looked at her father straight on. “Before you accuse him of anything else, Papa, remember this: His name is connected to yours now. Forever.”
Hangleton sat back. His eyes shifted from Archer to his daughter, and he didn’t say anything else.
And very slowly, Archer lowered himself into his chair as well. “Your turn now,” he said to Ruby. “Tell him what he needs to know.”
Chapter 29
Ruby managed to get through her explanation of the princess’s arrival at Pomeroy House and subsequent abduction without crumbling, weeping, or flinging herself at Archer and tearing his clothes off—all of which seemed roughly equal in terms of their likelihood.
When her father had started in on her list of flaws and failures, she’d felt more raw and exposed than she could ever remember feeling in her life. It was worse—much worse—than the catastrophe with the drapes or her faux pas in Gravesmuir’s ballroom. This time, it was not a roomful of strangers watching her, but her husband.
She had been afraid to look at him. She could not bear to see how he had taken her father’s words.
But when he had risen to his feet—when he had spoken up for her and trammeled her father into silence...
She’d felt undone. She had felt as though the world were a brilliant parti-colored kaleidoscope, whirling and then settling into a new shape she could not quite make sense of.
Though she had resolved not to care about her father’s opinions any longer, when he’d closed the door on their crew, she had been forced to confront the fact that some little, impossible-to-quash part of her had hoped for a reconciliation. The same foolish corner of her heart that had placed theRoyal Archaeological Journalby his plate. The same part of her that, when she thought of her family, wanted to recall nothing but sunny mornings in Rome, rose-petal jam, and Cassandra’s small hand tucked into her own.
But when Archer had put her father back on his heels with swift, ruthless, and frankly arousing efficiency, she’d found that all those foolish dreams had fractured into shards. Had, when she was not attending, coalesced into something new.
He devastated her. Curled her toes and rent her heart to pieces. He had faced down her father and defended her like he meant to keep speaking until he ran out of breath. And then he had looked at her, all stubborn blue earnestness—as though she were worth every word.
He was ahero. And he was hers.
As quickly and succinctly as she could, she finished her story of the abduction and their thus-far-unsuccessful efforts to recover Tamsin and Princess Serafina. She described their search of Verdura’s empty ship and then bit her lip, hesitating on her next words.
She did not quite know how to speak to her father anymore.
But she thought of how Archer had faced him—howher fatherhad quailed under Archer’s implacable authority—and she lifted her chin.
“I understand that you were skeptical of my association with the princess in the past,” she said. “But the evidence is clear. I have with me the diamond collar we recovered from theVulcanoand a letter from Signor Neri. We have come to you because the princess is in danger, and because we believe that you can help us find her.”
She reached into her reticule to pull out the collar, but her father waved a hand in dismissal. He’d calmed as she’d told her story, and his expression had gone sharp, all calculating politician. “I don’t need to see it. I don’t doubt your tale, Ruby, wild as it seems.”
Ruby paused. She did not trust the hope that wanted to rise up inside her. Cautiously, she set her reticule back down in her lap and crossed her hands atop it. “So... you will help us?”
Her father leaned back in his chair. His eyes roamed Ruby’s face and then Archer’s. “Verdura is not in London. There is nothing to be done except to wait and see what happens.”
Ruby gritted her teeth. “I can’t believe that. You know the Duca di Verdura. You can find out where he is. You could use your connections to uncover his associates.”
“I could,” the earl allowed. “If I thought it wise.”
