The Deepest Sin (18 page)

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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Deepest Sin
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“I know very little about the man, and should hate to cast aspersions.” His fingers twitched as they were wont to do when he was hesitating over a matter. But then his conscience must have dictated that he complete his confession, and he added abruptly, “We met in a gambling den.”
Meredith swallowed a small laugh. That was it? Hardly an earth-shattering revelation. “Not unusual for Lord Archer from what I'm led to understand. But for you, sir?” She kept her tone casually disapproving, hoping to change the direction of the conversation.
His brows knit together. “You sound exactly like my Cressida—” He stopped in mid-sentence, and cleared his throat again. “Has Broton summoned a carriage as yet?”
Fatigue and pain had obviously eaten away at Hamilton's sense of decorum. The corner of Meredith's mouth curved at the mention of a woman's name, glad the conversation had drifted away from Lord Archer. “And who is Cressida? She must be someone close to you to voice her concern about such matters.” A sister, an aunt, a wife? Hector Hamilton appeared a comfortable bachelor, but for the second time that evening, Meredith was struck by how little she actually knew of the man now sitting in the library of her town house as the clock on the mantel ticked past midnight.
Hamilton looked guilty and crestfallen simultaneously. He nervously swept the throw from his knees and thrust it aside. “Cressida Pettigrew and I were affianced,” he said shortly.
“I see.” Meredith sensed that she trod on delicate ground.
Hamilton hesitated briefly before starting again. “Cressida is ... was the woman I intended to marry, ever since I can remember. We grew up together in Hampshire.”
“A youthful love, then?”
Hamilton looked pleased with her description, but then his frown returned. “Yes, a youthful love. However, now well in the past, behind me.” The words seemed to lack conviction.
Meredith listened with a certain detachment. She lifted her head, her eyes distant. It seemed that once again, she and Hamilton had more in common than they realized. “Life does not always proceed as one has planned.”
“Indeed,” he said carefully. “We had a falling-out, you see.” Meredith wondered why he was telling her all this. A sense of forced intimacy invaded the room, settling over them like a heavy mantle. “Our parting was final and irreparable,” he added with downcast eyes.
Meredith made the appropriate noises before rising from her chair, wary of what she was hearing. She hoped that it was the blood loss talking, slight though it was. Hamilton could not possibly be hoping to
court
her, of all things. It was as though he was telling her of his prospects, assuring her that he was indeed free of romantic entanglements. Groaning inwardly, she clasped her hands in front of her, and moved diplomatically toward the door. “Perhaps one day you shall see yourself together again with Miss Pettigrew,” she said. Then looking in the direction of the hallway, she added awkwardly, “However, I do believe the hansom is here. I shall confirm with Broton.”
She strode to the door only to see Hamilton rise and feel his hand upon her elbow—looking for balance or staying her exit, she wasn't sure. “I did not intend to make you uncomfortable. It is the last thing I should wish to do. I seem to be apologizing again.” His smile was sad.
“You have nothing for which to apologize, Mr. Hamilton.” Her heart wrenched. He favored his leg slightly. The dying embers of the fire were reflected in his spectacles.
“I wish you only the very best, Lady Woolcott. And my counsel regarding Lord Archer was not intended as interference but rather a reflection of my high regard for you.”
“No need to explain. Neither of us is at his best. We have both had enough adventure for one evening, I fear.”
Hamilton leaned upon the doorjamb. “I do so hope the events of this evening have not led you to change your mind about Cambridge, Lady Woolcott. Unless the doctor indicates otherwise, I intend to return within a few days and should delight in having you visit. At your convenience, of course.”
“As promised, Mr. Hamilton, I shall give your kind invitation some thought.”
“My colleagues would be delighted to meet with you to discuss the Rosetta stone,” he added with a shy smile, “and, of course, I should be pleased to show you the papyri of
The Book of the Dead
.”
Meredith insisted upon escorting him into the cold night where the hansom was waiting. She looked up and down the street, expecting Lord only knew what to leap from the neatly trimmed hedges. She refused to go back to living this way, she told herself, helping Hamilton to clamber into the carriage, a footman on either side of her.
“I wish this had never happened, Lady Woolcott,” he repeated again, wincing. “And I beg of you not to think poorly of me regarding my comments pertaining to Lord Archer.”
“I value your opinion, Mr. Hamilton, I can assure you. As for the attack, for the last time, it was not your fault. Now let's not hear any more of this nonsense. Return to your rooms and let the doctor do his work.” The door closed decisively on his protestations. The footman gave instructions to the driver before the conveyance clattered down the empty street.
 
A scant twenty minutes later, Meredith curled into a ball, tucked into the large armchair in her bedroom. She shut her eyes, inexpressibly fatigued and anxious at once. She had wanted to wash the whole night away, climb into a tub of steaming water and scrub until her skin was raw. But it had been too late and she did not wish to disturb Broton again or the staff. It had been a robbery, nothing more, an attempted robbery, she told herself, the phrase unspooling in her mind. Unsavory sorts were a common hazard in London and it was her own stupidity—and her hot anger with Archer—that had led both her and Hamilton to linger on a dark and wet London night.
Dry eyed, she stared at nothing, recalling Hamilton's words of warning about Archer. Her mind seethed with the implications. It was peculiar, she thought, since meeting with Archer, there had been two attempted attacks on her person, not including the strange encounter on Rotten Row. A flicker of doubt curled to life. She'd somehow sensed it, but the confirmation, here in the depths of her consciousness, shook her more deeply than she could ever have believed it would. Meredith took a deep, slow breath and stood up. The house was silent and there was a disturbing quality to the stillness. The ormolu clock on the mantel chimed three o'clock.
Perhaps Hector Hamilton was right. Lord Richard Buckingham Archer was somehow behind the recent attacks upon her person. And if not, she was simply going mad.
 
Archer's jaw tightened.
He waited alone in the mews, by the town house off Belgravia Square, his blood running cold.
Meredith had looked like the slightest breeze could knock her over. Pale, disheveled, as though she'd been to hell and back. He had dissolved into the shadows of the hedges and watched her walk back up the steps to the front door of the town house, the cold wind ruffling the hem of her skirts. She had cast a quick look over her shoulder at Hamilton's receding carriage.
An attack? What in bloody hell had she been talking about? Hamilton had obviously been injured. Archer swore again under his breath, unable to account for the surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He should never have let her flounce away from him at Burlington House, and with that milquetoast Hamilton yet. Even from a dozen steps away he had heard Hamilton's plaintive tone. It was an indulgent, possessive sound that made him want to strangle the conniving wastrel.
When he was done here, he vowed, she was going to damn well talk to him if he had to drag her kicking and screaming from London. Getting into the house would be simple, despite the burly footmen and the sour butler he'd spied. The kitchen entrance was usually best, he thought, moments later casting about the back of the town house, noting that the windows were locked against the cold night air. He extracted a thin blade from his boot, a souvenir from a sojourn in Harar, and jammed the lock twice before it snicked open. His exploits had rendered the servants' quarters of London townhomes all too familiar to him, the location of the granary, the larder and the entrance to the cold cellar, where a man of even his size could go unnoticed behind sacks of flour.
There was a rustling sound. His senses came alert. Someone or something was rummaging about in the kitchen. He saw no candle. Ducking into the corner by the pantry, he lifted his head, eyes trying to penetrate the darkness. Framed in the doorway leading to the front of the house, a figure loomed, feet shuffling along in the dark. In the gloom, he could scarcely make out the slender outline of someone who clearly wished to slip through the house unnoticed.
A faint scent of lemon verbena. Archer lunged, grabbing Meredith Woolcott around the waist in the narrow space between the pantry and the kitchen doorway. Something metallic clattered across the floor as they tumbled down. She strangely made no sound. Instead, she was quick and deadly silent. Kicking and flailing viciously, she gave Archer an elbow to his ribs in a blind, backward jerk.
“It's Archer,” he whispered, a hand clasped around her mouth. Instead of holding still, she twisted fiercely against him, their arms and legs entwined, her elbows flying. Archer cursed softly, and caught Meredith just before she could land a sharp jab to his throat. Another grunt, and she almost squirmed away. He'd had about enough and hauled her up ruthlessly before slinging a leg over her body to weigh her down.
She did her best to squirm from beneath him, attempting to knee him in the groin. He tried to grab her around the waist again, but Meredith twisted violently, splayed against his body, panting for breath. Her body was slender and warm beneath his, and while he didn't know what had just happened, he had no intention of letting her go.
“Bloody, bloody hell, Archer,” she whispered in the dark. “What the devil are you doing breaking into my home?”
Archer snapped, “And why are you attacking me like a she-wolf?”
Meredith twisted impotently. “Let me go this instant. Or I shall ...”
“I don't believe I will. You're not the screaming type. We've established that already,” he said, thinking back to St. Julien and the cool gray eyes framed above the smoking pistol. Archer peered at her in the dimness. Her hair was drawn back tightly, and he fisted his hand in a thick coil and forced her face closer to his. “Who attacked you tonight? And when were you going to tell me?”
“How do you know about what happened after we left Burlington House?” Her body tensed beneath his. “And for the hundredth time, why are you following me?”
“How I know doesn't matter. What does is that you are in danger and refuse to believe me.”
“I owe you absolutely no explanation. What makes you believe that I have to account to you?” But Archer had ceased to hear her. His mind had seemingly disengaged, an uncharacteristic and totally unfamiliar mixture of anger, fear and desire pulsing through him. He heard only her breath in the darkness, felt only the tautness of her body.
She tried to jerk free.
“Don't even try. If this is the only way to have you listen to me, I'll hold you forever,” he said, pressing his lips to her ear. “We've unfinished business, you and I. I'd prefer not to have to say it again.”
Meredith Woolcott maddened him. He had never in his life felt so on edge, unbalanced, thinking of nothing but thrusting a hand beneath her buttocks and lifting her hips against his suddenly raging erection. She squirmed desperately, unwisely. Anger and lust swept through him, his hands determining that she wore very little save a narrow skirt and only a thin layer of petticoats. He wanted nothing more than to touch her, jerk her skirts free until her flesh lay bare, soft and inviting.
But Meredith Woolcott was anything but soft and inviting. The pelisse over her shoulders told him that she was intent on going out into the night. To do what exactly? A jolt of possessiveness shot through him:
Hamilton.
“Where are you going in the middle of the night?”
“Let me go.” Each word was a chip of ice.
He gritted his teeth, wishing for his usual calm. He dropped his arms and lifted his body off hers. Meredith moved away from his grasp, rubbing her arms, watching him with eyes that could freeze a rushing river in summer. “I have nothing—”
“To say to me, I'm sure. But I have several things to say to you and all I am asking is for some semblance of cooperation.”
Her eyes narrowed and she brushed past him. Archer followed, his temper straining on its leash. She paused at the kitchen entrance. “I do not wish to alert the household, so we can conclude our business here.”
Extracting a flint, she expertly lit a small lamp on the wood block table. A teapot and bits of crockery, cups and saucers, sat abandoned. Archer looked her up and down. “Tell me that you are not slipping out to see Hamilton.”
Her breaths were coming more evenly now. “How dare you even inquire! You are the most insufferable, high-handed—”

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