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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Deepest Sin
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“You're in shock,” he murmured into her hair.
“I am not,” she returned, aware that he was staring at her when all she wanted was for him to touch her again. She longed to turn and curl into him, bask in the warmth of his body, of desire and of forgetfulness. Her face flushed, testament to her mortification. Not morality. She was beyond the simple bourgeois calculations of society, her past dictating that she balance precariously on the margins of life. But the fact that she had welcomed him and had thrown herself into the moment only reminded her that she was running away once more from the past.
But she was finished with running. Only moments before she'd been secure in the knowledge that she would never hide again. She had aimed at a man who would do her harm and released the hammer of her pistol to take his life. Taking control because anything else was unthinkable. For the past few months, she had felt alive for the first time in years. Rowena and Julia had come back to her. They were safe and she would never let anyone rob her of that security again.
His warm breath fanned her cheek. “Rest,” he said, and she wondered whether he was rejecting her, regretting their embrace. He smiled, confident and sure, as though he found himself in similar situations often. Which, she was sure, he had. She wondered what he'd wanted and why he'd kissed her. But she wasn't about to ask him, not just now.
Men like Archer did not find women like Meredith Woolcott to their taste. She was too clever. Too challenging. Too old. Another reason not to trust him. With an inaudible sigh, she forced herself to look away from those penetrating eyes, the sensual curve of his mouth that promised pleasure. A sudden constriction in her chest reminded her of her folly. Romance and intrigue did not fall within her purview. She was six and thirty, for pity's sake, ready to welcome Rowena and Julia's children, content with her studies, with her horses and with whatever travels her newfound freedom allowed.
Sir Richard Arthur was anomalous, as out of place in her life as a shooting star in a cloud-filled night. She closed her eyes, shifting away from him.
She stroked the raised ridges of skin beneath the linen sleeves of her jacket, the scars everlasting reminders seared onto the inside of her wrists. Although she knew the tissue was dead, the pleated skin burned and throbbed when she least expected. The image of Montagu Faron rose stubbornly in her mind. He was dead, but she could still remember the intimacy in his voice. She recalled looking at him with young love in her eyes, at the tall and handsome youth with the coal-black hair, his cloak slung over his arm, a loose white shirt open at the throat. It was the image that remained with her, now an image from her dreams, dark and brooding like the heroes in the novels she'd loved to read as a girl.
He had been her soul mate, their love forged by the hours spent together in his father's chateau outside Paris, scouring ancient texts in the library, exchanging heated words in heated debates. She had always felt an inexplicable premonition of a shared fate.
Meredith opened her eyes to the desert sky, the pain in her heart unbearable. Faron's men had come for her today. Looking into the dark, she wondered how her life had taken such a perverse turn and why the only man she had ever loved was now the man she would hate to her grave.
Chapter 3
“
Y
ou are four minutes late,” the man in the tufted chair behind the screen said, his eyes closed. He was in the midst of his toilette, shaving being the ritual that it was, and the razor did not stop in its ministrations.
“I came down from Paris the moment I could, but the roads were swamped with autumn rains, delaying my travels.” The countryside had been wreathed in gloom and mist, the skeletal branches of oncoming winter wrought-iron against the gray sky.
The apology was met by silence interspersed only by the soft grating of the razor. There was an audible sigh, as the man in the chair opened one eye. His mouth turned down at the corners. “How go your pursuits?” he asked perfunctorily, looking through the gap in the screen.
Tall and slight, with spectacles perched on his nose, Mr. Hector Hamilton had an annoying way of clearing his throat. Even from a distance, the man could see the ink stains on his hands and the hesitation in his stance. Nevertheless, it wasn't Hamilton's comportment that he was interested in but rather his research, ongoing at Cambridge.
The Book of the Dead
would add quite wonderfully to the collection, he thought. Most fascinating and useful, this book of ancient Egyptian spells that were deemed necessary by the ancients to pass safely through difficult and dangerous situations in the afterlife. The irony was not lost upon him.
It was his wont to keep a keen eye on the universities in England, France and Germany; their dons and professors were harbingers of knowledge that could prove of incalculable value, in the right hands. Of course, his own laboratories and library were the envy of the world. The best maps, the most accurate depictions of the planets and a veritable museum of artifacts from distant lands filled shelves groaning from floor to ceiling with labeled jars and yellowed papyrus and coiled codexes.
“Very well, thank you, monsieur.” Hamilton's voice was a dull monotone, but the sharpness of his eyes behind his spectacles indicated that he was keen to see the face behind the screen. It was only a footman arriving with a tea tray for Hamilton that halted the proceedings momentarily. He himself preferred strong coffee.
He was in a surly mood. Motioning his valet aside impatiently, he took up the linen towel around his neck and daubed at what was left of the soap. The servant dutifully collected his tray and backed out the door on silent feet. Rising from the chair, he looked away from Hamilton to the French doors that framed the parterre with its plane trees and disciplined shrubs.
Hamilton was biddable enough, not daring to look beyond the screen to the man who had been paying his gambling debts these past few months. If only Hamilton's prodigiously scholarly mind were as adept at cards. He'd no doubt been mesmerized by the agile fingers that cleverly shuffled cards in parlors and dens across London.
Hamilton's game was vingt-et-un with a two-hundred-pound minimum, rich play for the younger son of a vicar. But who could divine the underbelly of human nature that had taken this man from the august lecture halls and laboratories of Cambridge to the stale smoke and sour perspiration of the gambling halls? Far stranger things had happened, in his own life most of all, he reflected.
Hamilton was in debt,
his debt
more precisely, and was indeed looking rather desperate today, his pallor marked, his thin hands twitching. The game had grown too fierce for him. The professor played deep, lost often and could not hold his liquor. A perfect constellation of character flaws that only grew in magnitude with every hundred pounds that went into and flew out of his coffers.
The man turned from the view beyond the French doors, studying the fleur-de-lis of the screen shielding him from Hamilton. The room's appointments, its gilded chairs, its rosewood banquettes and its rich tapestries had taken generations to accumulate. Even after so many years, the effect still astonished him every day.
No doubt Hamilton stood in awe as well. The man recognized that there was power in rococo splendor, the accumulated accretion of aristocratic privilege. After another interminable pause, he returned to his chair and broke the spell. “Whatever more you need, Hamilton, my factotum, George Crompton, will provide.”
“That is too generous of you, monsieur.”
“Indeed. Spoken like a man who has never had to earn his keep.”
Need overpowered shame. “My post at Cambridge pays very little, a paltry addition to the small trust left by my father.”
Ah, yes, the vicar. Who was no doubt apoplectic, even in his grave, at his disaster of a son.
“Let's be clear. You are costing me a pretty penny, Hamilton,” he said.
Hamilton stiffened what little spine he had. “I do share with you the fruits of my labor.”
“Small recompense.”
“The latest translations from the archeological sites at Petra and
The Book of the Dead
are of some value to you, surely.”
“So you should like to imagine.”
Hamilton clenched his ink-stained fingers together. “Then why is it that you asked me here? Other than to discuss my debts?”
“You mean to inquire as to the purpose of your presence here? Obviously, I wish something in return.” Hamilton said nothing. He continued. “Simply give your assent.”
“I must know to what I am giving my assent.”
The man behind the screen chuckled. “You will find out in due course. Your agreement is a foregone conclusion.”
“I shall not break any laws.”
“I wouldn't dream of asking you to.”
Anxiety burned in Hamilton's eyes.
“Calm yourself, Hamilton. There is nothing sinister to fear. What I ask is a simple enough task. Surely you will not demur when I request that you break off your engagement to that Westminster girl. She doesn't seem much of a prize, after all, for someone of your potential, gambling debts notwithstanding.”
Hamilton's pale white hands twitched at his sides.
“Your tea is getting cold, by the way.” And it would continue to grow tepid as the professor's needs warred with his conscience.
“How do you know about Miss Pettigrew?” he asked finally, his mouth slackening in a combination of disbelief and resignation. He peered at the screen, at the voice that drifted over his head. He would no doubt like to put a face and name to the threat behind the words.
“It's of no import how and where I get my information. Simply answer my question.” As though the younger man had any choice.
“You will concede that it is a difficult question to answer. It would all depend ...”
“The right answer will make all your debts disappear, Hamilton. As well as seeing that your coffers remain reasonably full. After all, isn't that what brought you to Claire de Lune? Through the cold rains and unpassable roads?”
He spluttered, indignation battling now with contingency. “Well, then ... monsieur ... but I don't understand what difference it will make if I leave off with Miss Pettigrew. We have been engaged for nearly three years,” he added with some desperation.
“Three years do not speak to much urgency, I should note. You appear to me a natural bachelor in any case. And your freedom would make you available for another woman I have in mind for you, Hamilton.”
“Another woman? That's preposterous.”
The man behind the screen turned from the well-ordered vision of the Renaissance garden. He crossed his arms over his chest, considering. “The woman I have in mind shares your interests—in ancient languages. And all I ask is that you pay her court.”
The silence was deafening. Hamilton had clearly never considered himself a lothario. “Pay her court?”
“I'm not asking you to grow two heads, Hamilton. She is reasonably attractive and, since you will already be attending the meeting at Burlington House next month, you have the perfect avenue to make her acquaintance. And more importantly to further your acquaintance.”
Hamilton put a hand to his head, more perplexed at the request than at the sight of a quadratic equation. “ ‘Her acquaintance, ' ” he repeated. “This is hardly the thing,” he stuttered. “I am hardly ...”
“I guarantee you will find her of interest, much more so than Miss Pettigrew. And no need to sputter on. Trust me, she will appreciate your charms, Hamilton.”
Hamilton took a steadying breath. “And if I refuse?” “You have no such option available to you, I'm afraid.” The specter of his debts loomed. “I'm sure Cambridge would not like to hear of your latest escapades. Your future career would be imperiled, your post given to someone of a more studious nature.”
With a shaking hand, Hamilton removed his spectacles, peering through them as though to find an escape from his predicament.
“Come now. What I propose is hardly purgatory.”
Hamilton replaced his spectacles with shaking hands before asking, “May I have a few days to think over the matter?”
“No.” There was no need to mention workhouses, where people of Mr. Hamilton's type would die from the thin gruel, tubercular environment and hard physical labor before ever being able to retire their debts.
Hamilton stared grimly at the trompe l'oeil ceiling featuring gamboling unicorns and hapless maidens. “And to what purpose shall I make this woman's acquaintance?” he asked at last.
“You shall be apprised more fully in the coming days. Crompton shall be your guide.”
“May I ask her name?”
The man raised his head to look beyond the French doors, where the bare plane trees stood swaying in the bitter wind. “Lady Meredith Woolcott.” He paused, the name acid to his tongue. “She will be presenting a paper at the upcoming meeting at Burlington House.”
Hamilton's brows shot up. “A woman presenting to the Society? Highly irregular ...”
The man nodded, more to himself than anyone else. “A highly unusual woman—as you will soon learn for yourself.” The blind leading the blind. It couldn't be more perfect. “Crompton will show you out.” And as if he had been waiting for the command, Crompton appeared behind Hamilton, startling both with his stealth, his square frame incongruously resplendent in a superbly tailored waistcoat and jacket. “And by the way, Crompton will be following you to London, to ensure you have everything you require, Mr. Hamilton.”
Crompton moved farther into the room, his bulk at odds with the well-modulated cadence of his speech. “Mr. Hamilton, wonderful to make your acquaintance. I am certain we will meet from time to time in England as I learn more about you and your varied interests, from gaming to
The Egyptian Book of the Dead
.”
Hamilton stepped back, alarm and understanding mingling in his expression. George Crompton, whose forebears had made their living in the Rookery close to Bainbridge Street, had a way of making his presence felt. Hamilton turned to the man behind the screen. “I don't quite understand how Mr. Crompton might be of service.”
Crompton answered to spare the man behind the screen the trouble. “I shall explain my role in your endeavors as we take our leave, Mr. Hamilton. Shall we?” And for the moment, Hamilton was reminded of a medieval etching he had once seen in a monastery in Italy, of a hooded executioner holding out his hand to a prisoner to guide his way to the tumbrils.
 
When he was finally alone, the man came out from behind the screen. He strode to the exquisite escritoire in the corner of the salon and extracted a mask of beautifully tooled leather. Montagu Faron had always been impossibly reclusive as well as powerful, both characteristics bringing with them a measure of fear. And for good reason. Faron was never without his leather mask, shielding the world from the facial tremors that overtook him with unexpected ferocity. The man was seemingly indestructible, having escaped certain death by fire at the hands of Julia Woolcott only one year earlier and from drowning at the hands of Rowena Woolcott only a few months later. Now with scars from flames all over his body, there were whispers that the great man of science and reason had made a pact with the devil.
Only his right-hand man, Giles Lowther, knew the truth. He alone executed Faron's wishes. There was a story told that when he had been a brilliant student at the Sorbonne, Faron had saved Lowther from the gallows. And hence, the man's undying loyalty.
The mask was light in his hands, reminding him of all he had lost as well as gained over the years. He chuckled, recalling poor Jerome, the troubled second cousin, whey-faced and eternally confused. Jerome was from Bordeaux, a branch of the family that had taken aristocratic inbreeding much too far. Or perhaps it was syphilis, the sins of the father visited upon the son. Didn't matter. Long dead now. And a good thing too.
It was Jerome who had attacked Faron, leaving him permanently incapacitated. It had been simple to prey upon a diseased mind, to urge Jerome onwards.
A clock struck somewhere from deep inside the chateau. The man shook his head at his recollections. Closing the escritoire drawer, he drew the mask to his face, placing it firmly over his features. The fit was all but perfect.

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