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Authors: Caroline Richards

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“Cambridge—my father's alma mater. A professor, then. So what brings you to London, sir?” she asked. “The museums and such?” The sleet had ceased for a time and overhead the heavy gray clouds thinned to allow a thin, watery light. Meredith forced herself to concentrate on the normalcy of their conversation.
“Your father attended Cambridge. How splendid, Lady Woolcott. And you are quite right. The city of London has much to offer and although I confess I seldom tire of my rus-tications in the countryside, it does one well to venture beyond the confines of one's modest existence from time to time.” Looking up at the sky, he opened his arms in an expansive gesture. “A reprieve, Lady Woolcott, it would seem.”
The tension easing from her body, Meredith loosened her hold on the reins.
“If I might be so bold, might I accompany you farther, Lady Woolcott?” he asked.
Detecting nothing but kindness in his voice and manner, Meredith studied the gentleman, in truth looking less for company than escape from the dangerous and unstable nature of her thoughts. “But of course, Mr. Hamilton,” she forced herself to respond brightly. “I would be pleased to have you accompany me. Perhaps you may tell me of your studies.”
“Excellent,” he said, offering a small bow from atop his horse. “In return, perhaps you can give me a tour of Rotten Row whilst we meander.”
Meredith found herself spending the next hour with Hector Hamilton, who was an amiable and diverting companion. Despite his self-effacing appearance, he was passionate in describing his work. As they ambled slowly on their mounts through the cool afternoon, he told her of his recent appointment as don and his work at the Fitzwilliam Museum. Meredith had never visited Cambridge, but had heard of the Fitzwilliam with its collection of ancient manuscripts, coins, medals and antiquities from Egypt, Greece, Rome and Cyprus. Mr. Hamilton spoke about the extraordinarily fine series of papyrus with decoration from
The Egyptian Book of the Dead
, explaining every detail of each panel's history. His enthusiasm for his subject was contagious and for the first time in over a fortnight, Meredith felt herself begin to relax.
 
“ ‘I did no evil in that land in the Hall of the two truths, because I know the names of the gods who exist there.... I am pure.... My purity is the purification of the phoenix.' ” Mr. Hector translated fluidly. “You understand, Lady Woolcott, that Inpehufnakht is dead. But the words that surround him and those contained within the shrine emerge from a series of spells designed to assist the soul of the deceased through the underworld, toward a paradiselike end.”
“I am assuming that the papyrus containing these words would have been placed in or near the coffin of Inpehufnakht, along with other objects intended to ease his soul's passage into the life beyond.”
Mr. Hamilton stared at her admiringly from behind his spectacles. “Indeed, Lady Woolcott. You obviously have some knowledge of the subject.” Their mounts walked in perfect tandem. “I am certain that you would be eager to see the papyrus of which I speak. You would see Amun-Re, king of the gods, as he raises his hands toward a shrine with an open door.”
“Where a ribbon and a perfume cone decorate his head,” Meredith finished smoothly, her grip light on the reins. She was familiar with the different spells from the Ptolemic
Book of the Dead
published by a German scholar some ten years earlier.
Looking at her sharply, his brows leaping in surprise, Hamilton interrupted her. “You have seen the papyrus!”
Ahead the Marble Arch was visible, the white Carrara marble monument based on the triumphal arch of Constantine of Rome. Meredith shook her head. “I have not. But my late father had, as a student at the university many decades ago now.”
“Why, of course.” Mr. Hamilton nodded vigorously and then adjusted his scarf against the damp. “Then you will indulge me while I tell you what happens next—unless, of course, you already know.”
“I should like to hear more,” she said with a smile, pausing to lean forward and pat the neck of her mount, who snorted approvingly.
“You are indeed accommodating, Lady Woolcott,” Hamilton acceded, responding with a smile of his own. “In the next section of the spell, the deceased addresses each of the deities in turn, denying any wrongdoing in his life. ‘I have done no falsehood. O, Fire-Embracer, who came forth from Kheraha, I have not robbed. O, Dangerous One, who came forth from Rosetjau, I have not killed men... .' ”
The watery sun was beginning to lose what little strength it had, dipping behind the clouds and ushering in early evening. Suddenly cold, Meredith shuddered within her coat. “The soul is being asked to be judged righteous,” she said, “whereas the corrupt soul faces utter annihilation.”
“Indeed, the demon Ammut is often shown lurking by the scales, a cross between a lion, a crocodile and a hippopotamus, prepared to devour the soul of the wicked.” Mr. Hamilton looked at her sharply. “I am boring you, I fear.”
“Not at all, Mr. Hamilton.” Abruptly, she forced a smile, well aware that it would never occur to a man that a woman might have scholarly knowledge to call her own. “I have some slight interest in the subject. One of the most intriguing scrolls to my knowledge is the one containing a scene showing the heart of a dead person being weighed against divine order, and a recitation of his sins.”
“But of course.” His smile lit his serious face. “You studied at your father's knee.”
“And for a lifetime afterwards.” She smoothed the leather of her gloves, her hands tightening instinctively on the reins. “I speak five languages fluently, as well as having a knowledge of Greek, Latin, Arabic and Coptic. And as my own scholarly interests encompass ancient languages, I have a peripheral understanding of
The Book of the Dead
.”
Hamilton's eyebrows arched again in apparent surprise. “Well done! Astounding. You have my admiration, Lady Woolcott.” He brought his palms together in a show of appreciation, and then slowed his mount to a halt.
Suddenly embarrassed, Meredith followed suit, reining in the gelding, wishing to return to Belgravia Square and the warmth of a roaring fire. She proffered her hand across the pommel of her saddle. “Sir, I thank you for your entertaining company. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“You are cold. And here I've been keeping you.” Hamilton took her hand and then, oddly, pressed his other hand atop hers. “Lady Woolcott ...” he said, a bit unsteadily. “I thank you for your company.”
The late afternoon had once again turned cloudy and a chilly wind sailed up from the Serpentine River. Meredith pulled her hand away, ostensibly to draw her hood over her head, taken aback by his gesture and the odd intensity of his expression. Suddenly, she found their proximity disconcerting. But how ridiculously fanciful, again. She was allowing her nerves to vex her when Mr. Hamilton was merely making overtures to further their acquaintance, after learning of their common interests. Briskly rubbing her hands together, Meredith forced herself to feel generously disposed toward the entreaty in his tone. “It is I who should thank you for coming to my aid, ensuring that all was well, Mr. Hamilton.”
The wind seemed to change direction, whistling with renewed vigor. For a moment, neither of them spoke, until at last, Mr. Hamilton shifted away, his horse taking several steps back. “A nasty day, inclement weather and a chance encounter,” he said rather wistfully, his eyes drifting over a low stone wall.
Meredith managed a weak smile. “And a wonderful conversation,” she murmured. He returned her gaze, staring at her openly, his eyes behind the spectacles sincere, his smile warm. “And now I must return home having made your acquaintance, Mr. Hamilton. Perhaps our paths will cross once more.”
“I know my words are precipitous... .” His tone dropped to a solemn whisper.
Meredith felt as though she should respond and opened her mouth, but she must have hesitated a moment too long. Mr. Hamilton's tone was edged with concern. “We seem to have much in common, Lady Woolcott. And so I might hope ... although I trust I was not overly presumptuous regaling you with the details of my work at Cambridge,” he rambled. “Then again, a woman of your unusual erudition must find herself exceedingly in demand.”
The gelding twitched beneath her. “By no means is your company tiresome. Quite the opposite,” she answered, willing the uncertainty from her voice. They did have much in common and it would be churlish of her not to respond to the poor man who had stopped to come to her aid. “Mr. Hamilton,” she said spontaneously, “I am delivering a lecture tomorrow night. At Burlington House. And I should very much like it if you would come as my guest.”
Mr. Hamilton's face lit up first in surprise and then at the prospect. “A paper! Burlington House—why I am a Fellow.” He adjusted his spectacles, which had slipped down his nose. “I should be positively delighted to attend. As a matter of fact, I had been intending to go in any case.” His fine hair whipped back from his coat collar in the breeze as he leaned across the saddle toward her. “And why am I not surprised that a woman of your obvious intelligence and interests has been asked to deliver a lecture at such an august institution? Well done, Lady Woolcott! Might I inquire as to the subject of your address?”
Chapter 6
L
ord Richard Archer walked up the steps of Burlington House just before seven. He handed his coat and hat over to a footman, gave his name, which was already on the list, and made his way to the main salon off the center hall. The first floor was a sequence of interiors suitable for grand social occasions with twenty-four-carat gold leaf throughout adorning walls lined with silk damask. A ballroom with a coved, compartmented ceiling was linked to a state dining room on the south side of the building, the two yoked by an enfilade of five south-facing rooms.
The evening was not yet under way, but the agenda had been distributed in a handsome brown binding, which most of the members had folded neatly under their arms. About a hundred or so men were standing in groups of three or more and Archer found himself introduced to a rather squat older gentleman with muttonchops and a ruddy complexion, who proceeded to regale him with the most recent investigations published in the Linnaean Society journal. Resigned to his fate, Archer pretended to listen, casting his eyes about the hall.
No sign of Lady Woolcott. For some reason he did not wish to examine, Archer was in a rare temper. He had been since he'd met with the odious Hamilton and then shared his subsequently foul mood with the Countess of Blenheim. Her assessment of his situation frankly rankled and he had left Mayfair only to find himself pacing his town house, his unheralded appearance startling his butler and staff. The more he thought about Meredith's cavalier and quite frankly dangerous behavior, the angrier he had become. He recalled Camille's words, but it was anger, not fear, as she'd suggested, that drove him. Worse still, anger had not been found in his repertoire before the advent of Meredith Woolcott in his life. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a temper as, quite frankly, he didn't care enough about anything to set his blood boiling. Yet he'd thought of little else during the past few days. He was not given to conjecture, but he now agreed with Lord Spencer that the noose was tightening around Lady Meredith Woolcott's slender neck, although she was loath to admit it. First the attack at Rashid and now Hector Hamilton... .
This mood was untenable. He thought of the copper kaleidoscope wrapped in silk and stuffed incongruously in the stuffed squabs of his carriage. A spectacularly cruel reminder for Meredith Woolcott, with special import. He had read the second dossier Spencer had assembled, assimilated the facts, all the while well aware that what he was about to do would only bring Meredith's searingly painful past back to her.
Still no sign of her. He made his excuses to the mutton-chopped gentleman and wound his way to one of the seats arranged in a half-moon to face the raised dais. He tried to envision Meredith giving her paper, precise and prim and yet passionate all at the same time.
Passion.
Suddenly he saw her lying naked in a tousled bed, a secret smile illuminating her face, her hand reaching out to draw him down to her, her long limbs gilded by firelight.
With great difficulty, and a darkly muttered curse, he returned his attention to the dais behind which Lord George Cavendish, whose outrageously wealthy uncle had bequeathed Burlington House to the Learned Societies of London a decade earlier, rose from his chair and began to speak. The audience settled into chairs.
“Gentlemen, first, allow me to welcome everyone to this month's meeting of the Learned Societies. I am certain I speak for all of us when I say that I'm pleased so many of our Fellows could be in attendance this evening.” Cavendish was a barrel-chested man balanced precariously on two spindly legs. He was carefully and somberly dressed in a jacket and waistcoat that barely closed around his paunch, straining the mother-of-pearl buttons on his waistcoat. He wore thick spectacles, a seemingly unacknowledged prerequisite for membership in the Learned Societies, Archer thought uncharitably. Polite applause rippled around the hall accordingly. Cavendish droned on about important business and then gave a short dissertation on the society's newest acquisition, a series of drawings by the sixteenth-century architect Andrea Palladio.
Archer's thoughts drifted elsewhere. The salon was magnificent, an incongruous backdrop to the balding heads and spectacles bathed in the light of an astounding crystal chandelier. Around him came the drift of hushed concentration, allowing him to survey the room from his seat. Hector Hamilton would be certain to make an appearance, sobriety and necessity cruel taskmasters. He would recall little of their conversation at Crockford's or what he had unwittingly revealed, and confirmed. Archer counted upon it.
In the interim, another gentleman had approached the dais, having been introduced as a gifted mathematician and an exceptional experimentalist. Michael Faraday, with a white mane of hair and brusque manner, brandished a magnet in his hand before launching into the phenomena of electricity and magnetism and explaining how a moving magnet could induce an electric current in a wire.
“If changing magnetic fields may induce a current,” he told the audience, “what is the effect of changing gravitational fields? If you believe that, at the deepest level, all forces have some common cause—as
I
do—then what shall we find?”
Twenty minutes passed. A whispered conversation began to Archer's far right. He would not have thought Hector Hamilton a latecomer, but he drifted near the back doors before sliding into a seat. Faraday had just finished his dissertation, gathering his papers before Cavendish took his place behind the dais. With hands clasped behind his back, straining his waistcoat further, he waited for the attendant applause to dissipate before clearing his throat portentously.
“I should like to introduce the last of our lecturers this evening.” The room fell into a deeper hush. “Our history is a long and distinguished one. From the establishment in 1788 of the Linnaean Society to the Royal and Geological Societies founded in 1807, our intent has always been to give a stronger impulse and a more systematic direction to scientific and scholarly inquiry, to promote the intercourse of those who cultivate learning in far-flung regions of the British Empire and indeed, with foreign philosophers, to obtain attention for the objects of scholarly inquiry and to remove any disadvantages which impede its progress.” Cavendish looked meaningfully at his audience. “However, it behooves us to preface this presentation by addressing the question—the female question—if I might be so audacious, to which learned societies such as ours are increasingly being asked to entertain.” There was a rumble in the audience, which Cavendish endeavored to still with raised palms. “It's a highly contentious issue, the entry of women to learned societies.” A few well-timed guffaws reached the podium. “It is of course, out of the question,” he said with confident assurance. “However, we cannot dismiss the increasing number of ladies, eminent as travelers and scholars, as contributors to the stock of our knowledge. There is evidence brought forward of a desire to enjoy the practical privileges conferred by our Fellowship here.”
Cavendish stepped out from behind the dais. “Which brings us to our next lecturer, a woman whose father, you may recall, was one of the foremost philologists in the ancient languages, the late Lord Christian Woolcott.” His tone dripped condescension. “It would appear that Lady Woolcott, his daughter, inherited in some modest way her father's talents and prodigious intellectual interests. As a result, she is here this evening to deliver her paper, based on recent excursions to Egypt, regarding the Rosetta stone and the intriguing questions it continues to pose. I should like to introduce Lady Meredith Woolcott.”
A smattering of applause, faint praise indeed, as Meredith appeared. Her head held high, she acknowledged the room briefly. Archer had the sense that she was searching for something, grappling with a notion she could not fully understand, standing before an audience who did not welcome her. Her garments for the evening were well chosen, a high-necked blouse with lace marching up to her chin, an emerald-green jacket and a narrow skirt that displayed a modest bustle. Save for the green jacket, which complemented her hair, the ensemble was deliberately chosen not to draw attention.
The strategy did not work for Archer. Images looped through his mind and speared directly to his groin. To see her, touch her, taste her. It had been close to two months since he'd been able to do any of those things. An eternity that engendered a kind of thirst that he couldn't hope to explain, to himself or anyone else, much less to Camille, whose insights had touched an open nerve. Meredith stared down at the audience for a moment, her mouth set in a firm, almost disapproving line, her color high, cheeks flushed a faint pink. Her eyes widened when she saw him and he could see her consider turning about and marching off the podium. Pride prevailed and she raised her chin and stared him down for a moment before turning her attention decisively to the neat collection of papers in her hand.
Her low voice, like honey, poured through the salon. She thanked Lord Cavendish and her reluctant audience with a hint of irony in her tone. “To find myself in such august company is indeed a rare distinction, one to which I should never have imagined to aspire.” Holding the disgruntled spectators with the directness of her gaze, seemingly unaware and unconcerned about being the sole female in the company, she continued. “The Rosetta stone unlocked one of the world's great mysteries by providing a key to the meaning of Egyptian hieroglyphics. However, I, among other philologists, still relish the remaining mysteries of this large fragment of stela, originally placed in a temple of Ptolemy. I should add that the decoding of the Egyptian script is not a single event that occurred in 1822 when we deciphered the enigma, but a continuous process that is repeated at every reading of the artifact. Such study,” she continued coolly, “I would argue, is the closest one can come to speaking with civilizations long past. And like any act of reading, it is a process of dialogue. It is therefore my contention that the deciphering of the stone and of ancient Egypt is an engagement that has scarcely begun.”
Archer found himself mesmerized. Several strands of her hair fell forward over her shoulder, only to be pushed impatiently back again. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he was acutely aware of the sudden constriction of his breeches, despite the arid and lofty subject. He realized with no embarrassment that he'd spent half the night thinking about Meredith, sunk in the inadvisable imaginings that came all too readily to him of late. Sleek, naked limbs, a cloud of auburn hair and her cries echoing into the darkness. He scrubbed a hand down his face, wondering yet again when last he'd had a woman. He couldn't remember, that was the problem. There was something about the way she held herself, there on the podium, with her low voice, and that fierce intelligence that seemed equally passionate and defiant. This was a woman who had battled fire, isolation and fear. And bested a madman. Meredith Woolcott was extraordinary to the point of distraction.
In the end, he decided, with another spurt of anger, he would have to bed her. Perhaps fucking her would be enough to cure him. As it was, he didn't want to give further thought to Lord Spencer's dictates and whether he had the bollocks to see them through.
Archer paused, waiting as Meredith finished glancing at her notes. She wielded a formidable intelligence without restraint. As her gaze swept the audience, Cavendish hovered indecisively behind her.
“Interesting indeed, Lady Woolcott,” he said, damning with faint praise once more. “Now I see we appear to have a query—yes—Sir Beauchamps.” A flurry of questions ensued, all of which were answered with measured tones, testament to her confidence in her subject matter: questions about her father's work, the nuances of Champollion's translations and mysteries yet to be uncovered.
“Many still question, Lady Woolcott, whether the inscription was written first in Egyptian or in Greek. Do you have an opinion upon the matter?”
Meredith graciously nodded, stepping away from the dais. “I should think that it was composed simultaneously during a fractious meeting between courtiers and priests,” she answered definitively, following with evidence from her impressive command of previous translations by Thomas Young and Jean-François Champollion. Several questions followed while Archer wrestled with the entirely unfamiliar urge to swoop her away from this veritable swarm of men. He wished to drag her off, even though half of London would bear witness to his outrageousness.
Another question was asked, which Archer half heard, only paying attention to Meredith's response. “Indeed, traces of pink pigment were found recently on the stone. We cannot determine whether the pigment is ancient or used by the French scholars who first worked on the stone. We also do not know exactly where the stela was placed in the temple, although during my recent visit to the remnants of the fort of St. Julien in Rashid”—she paused to take a short breath—“I discovered indications that it was placed against a mud wall in the outer part of the building.” Archer recalled Meredith leaning into the shadows, Murad holding the lantern higher. And then she'd scribbled something into her notebook.
“The significance of the question has to do with who was intended to read the stone,” she continued. “An elite group which had access to the inner temple or a wider audience. If the pigment proves to be ancient, that also would support the notion the stone was inside the temple, because the pigment would make the inscription visible in low light.”

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