“Would you tell me if it did?”
She glanced at him ferociously, and he could see love blazing in her eyes. He stepped back from the force of it. “If it would help Meredith and Rowena—then yes.”
For only a moment, he saw ambition and love balanced on an imaginary scale. It wasn’t very often he was compelled to take a good look at himself, at what drove him to undertake risks few of his countrymen would dare and for results that were elusive at best. For the first time, he didn’t like what he saw. And so Alexander Francis Strathmore found himself giving in to Julia Woolcott when he said, surprising himself most of all, “Very well, we meet with Lowther tomorrow evening. As always—”
She interrupted with a small smile. “Yes, I can guess. I’ve heard it several times in the past few days. As always, follow your lead.”
But Strathmore was left wondering exactly who followed whom.
Chapter 7
With no small amount of anxiety, Meredith Woolcott ran her long fingers through the dry soil of a dying potted orchid. The damned thing needed water. For the past twenty-four hours she had done nothing but watch the rain-soaked landscape from the windows of the drawing room at Montfort. As she watched the orchid die she felt the spirit drain from her with each minute that passed without word from Julia.
She compressed her lips at the pain that was almost physical, eating at her like the sharp teeth of an invisible gremlin. She should never have let Julia go, innocent and infinitely fragile Julia. Shaking her head, Meredith wandered restlessly over to the wide-sashed windows which afforded a magnificent view of the estate. Fog and mist enshrouded gently rolling green hills, and her eyes strained to see through the thickness to the horizon.
If anything happened to Julia, she would never forgive herself. The words were whispered, a promise, as stale and fevered an exhortation as she had ever made.
Her eyes scanned the expanse of green, expecting to see Rowena on her horse, knowing that the girl rode equally joyfully in the rain or the sun. Hers was the more resilient nature, a gift of fate, that she had been so young, not really more than an infant, when she had first come to live with Meredith.
The burden of knowledge had always rested with Julia. A little girl who chose to sit wordlessly, day after day, in the nursery where no amount of cajoling or pretty toys could move her from her haven of silence, until the day Meredith had spied her from the doorway, pulling books from the nursery shelves, opening them with her tiny hands. As her rosebud mouth moved while she read the words silently to herself, her world began to blossom.
Meredith remembered dismissing the hovering nurse and reading to Julia, instinctively aware of the prodigious curiosity and appetite for learning that her young charge exhibited. Gradually, like a flower opening to the sun, Julia began to venture beyond the nursery rooms of Montfort. Finding herself in the kitchen, in the stables, or in Meredith’s private library, she watched steadily and carefully, like a small woodland creature, the floured hands of the cook kneading dough, the mesmerizing flick of a horse’s tail in the stables, or the gardener at work in the rich dark soil of the gardens.
So many years ago.
Meredith’s heart swelled with love and worry. She was neither a weak nor sentimental woman, a rarity in an age freighted with dependent women, entangled in the ties that bound them as wives, mothers and widows. All the more reason she detested the feeling of helplessness, her inability to do much more than wait. It did not sit comfortably with her, the unfamiliar tightness in her chest. She had done so well for so long. In a strange twist of fate, she had been made wealthy in her own right, wealth that had allowed her to protect herself and her wards from the evil that she had had a hand in creating.
Her profile was outlined in the misted pane of glass, dark shadows scored beneath her eyes. She pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress, wiping a few traces of earth from her fingers before twisting the fabric into a tight braid.
Meredith had regrets. All too many. But she did not lament retaining Harold Masters, scientist and scholar, upon the recommendation of her old friend, Henri Daguerre. Masters was the last in a long line of tutors hired to instruct Julia, who had quickly outgrown a series of governesses versed in little more than French and pianoforte. Who could have predicted that Julia would fall in love with the newfound discovery of daguerreotypy, with its ability to fix the world on copper plates? Meredith smiled to herself. She should have known that Julia, the eternal observer, with her wide eyes and fathomless gaze, would find herself entranced with the mechanisms that could capture the splendors and details of nature and reality.
Meredith pulled the flimsy fabric in her hands taut. She thought of the monograph, Flowers in Shadows: A Botanical Journey. Dear God, why had she permitted its publication? And why had she allowed Julia to accept Wadsworth’s invitation and the use of Wadsworth’s conveyance? Rather than her own? The girls had never strayed far from her orbit, a sacrifice without doubt, but one necessary to their continued well-being.
Her eyes scanned the horizon, looking for Rowena tacking the expanse of gray and damp hillside. Her younger ward should be back from the stables. The knot of worry hardened in her stomach.
Meredith stepped back from the window. Those overriding and dark presentiments did not suit her disposition one whit. She would send Marksbury to Eccles House. She had barely made the decision when the door to the drawing room slammed open. In two strides, Marksbury was in the center of the room, chest heaving, perspiration running down his face and dampening the tightly wound cravat at his throat.
Meredith’s heart stopped beating.
“Forgive me for the intrusion, Lady Woolcott,” her secretary stammered. “However, I have no choice but to burst in, unannounced. I don’t know precisely how to relay the news.”
Meredith felt the blood drain from her face. It took all the courage she had to achieve a measured tone. “Calm yourself, Marksbury. What is it? Is it Miss Julia?”
The man’s eyes bulged with disbelief. “Once again, I must ask your forgiveness. I realize that I am not at my most coherent at the moment. But it concerns not only Miss Julia.”
For a fleeting moment, Meredith Woolcott stared dumb-foundedly at her secretary. Montagu Faron. She twisted the handkerchief in her hand into one more knot before tossing it to the ground. “What is it? Out with it,” she ordered, aware that her voice was high-pitched and strained.
“Miss Rowena…” Marksbury thrust a hand through his hair and turned to stare out the windows, afraid to meet his mistress’s panicked gaze.
Behind Meredith, as though in another world, a world she’d left behind, there were the usual familiar sounds, the chime of a clock, the crackle of a fire, evidence of a well run household, a universe unto itself.
When Marksbury could bear to form the words, he said, “It’s not simply Miss Julia…”
“Rowena ventured out, riding,” said Meredith, lying to herself because she could not abide the truth. “Please gather yourself together, Marksbury.”
“If it were only so. I regret…,” said Marksbury.
Meredith Woolcott steeled herself. “Regret.” She paused. “Regret what?”
Marksbury’s voice trembled and his next words were muffled, as though coming from far away. A note with a piece of fabric fluttered from his clenched fist to the floor.
The fragile serenity of the drawing room fractured into a hundred sharp pieces. Meredith sank to her knees, holding her head in her shaking hands, her skirts ballooning around her. She did not have to ask who. Or what. Or why.
The abyss yawned before her, the maw of the devil.
She knew.
Giles Lowther paced in the downstairs parlor of his rented rooms above Whites. Despite having been born in the capital, he’d never liked London, its eternal grayness and low squatting buildings an inexplicable affront to his sensibilities. Having spent most of his childhood and youth abroad, he felt more at home on the continent than he ever had in his place of birth.
Lowther clenched and unclenched his fists, his mind further disordered by the complications that had overtaken all his careful machinations. He shifted from foot to foot, his riding boots gleaming in the firelight that burned low in the small hearth.
Where the bloody hell was the man?
It wasn’t enough that Strathmore had been unable or—interesting thought—unwilling to murder the woman. Disappointing to Faron on the one hand but intriguing in other ways. Lowther recalled Faron’s eyes glinting behind his mask with something close to appreciation at the news. He seemed to savor a nugget of knowledge he had mined from Strathmore’s actions, a clue to the man’s true character that he would store away for further use.
Being the genius he was, Faron had simply moved on to the next level of his labyrinthine scheme. The plan had always been to ensure that Meredith Woolcott would suffer, in the most exquisitely attenuated way possible.
Lowther wondered if there was something else at play. Faron, at his most lucid, did everything for a reason and his interest in Strathmore was intriguing. He could have dispatched any number of loyal acolytes to Eccles House to ruin Julia Woolcott and yet he’d chosen to inveigle Strathmore in his plans.
Why? Lowther turned the question over in his mind, expecting the discreet knock on the door when it came. “Enter,” he said.
Beaumarchais complied, droplets of rain shimmering on his top hat and cloak, neither of which he bothered to remove. They dispensed with formalities. Lowther turned to pour coffee from the low side table. He detested the English tea habit, the murky hot water with its milky cast.
He looked up, handing Beaumarchais the cup and saucer. “Well, what’s the news?” he asked without preamble.
“The message has been sent to Montfort.”
“Well and good. However, you and I both know it won’t take long for Meredith Woolcott to discover the truth of the matter.”
Beaumarchais pursed his lips. “That her ward is indeed alive.”
Lowther nodded, looking into his coffee cup as though to divine some meaning from the brown depths. “Have you seen to the other set of instructions?”
“Of course. Need you ask?”
“After the last mishap, absolutely.” Lowther was aware of the other man’s fingernails tapping against the porcelain cup. A sign of nervousness, never good. “Are you certain there will be no irregularities this time?” He stared pointedly at Beaumarchais, watching as his eyes darted around the room. He had never understood what Faron liked about Beaumarchais who seemed to be nothing more than a dissipated rogue more concerned with his own vanity than lofty, complex pursuits.
Beaumarchais returned his gaze with thinly veiled venom. “I did not choose Strathmore for the assignment in the first instance, as you will recall. And I was the one who recognized early on that he had experienced a crisis of conscience.” The last three words were said contemptuously. “Who would have thought that a man who has lived among savages for the past five years would find himself reluctant to ruin and then dispatch the chit.”
Lowther smiled thinly. “So sorry to disappoint, Beaumarchais, but I’m afraid Strathmore is still part of the overall plan.”
Beaumarchais was perplexed and put down his cup and saucer noisily. “He can’t be trusted, clearly. So why involve him further?” He flicked raindrops impatiently from his arms.
“I think you heard me.” Beaumarchais opened his mouth to ask for more details, but Lowther cut him off. “Never mind Strathmore at the moment. I shall look after him.”
Beaumarchais bristled at the slight. “I don’t like or trust him.”
“That’s entirely immaterial to me. Of absolutely no account.”
“And as a result, I chose another man for this latest purpose,” Beaumarchais said petulantly.
“Very well,” Lowther replied coolly. “Whoever it is that you’ve chosen, please assure me that we will be successful this time.”
“I did not choose Strathmore,” Beaumarchais repeated.
“So you’ve said,” replied Lowther. “Although it does you little good to remind me repeatedly.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel before taking a final look at the dregs of his coffee. “I am late.”
Beaumarchais narrowed his eyes. “Oh, do allow me to accompany you, sir. You might discover that you require assistance on your mission.”
Lowther wondered whether, for all his irritating qualities, Beaumarchais might prove of further use. Highly unlikely, he thought cynically, deciding to swallow the bitter dregs of his coffee after all.
Chapter 8
Torrington Place was a strange, domed structure, out of place in London’s Gordon Square. To the back of the lumbering Queen Anne edifice, at the corner of Euston and Gower streets, sat a smaller building on the edge of a park, bordered by tall, densely planted trees and smaller clumps of bushes.
Under the hissing glare of gaslight and the torch in Strathmore’s hand, a path strewn with pine needles and leaves led to two metal doors curiously decorated with lions’ heads and unicorns. Behind her, Julia heard Strathmore’s carriage clatter around the corner, leaving them standing alone on the front stoop. No light glowed through the handsome curtained windows of the residence.
“Is this where he lives? Lowther?” asked Julia. “Although it seems that no one is at home, the place looks quite forlorn.” Pine needles crunched underfoot, and she was relieved to be wearing her own sensible boots and boucle cloak rescued from her trunks earlier in the day.
“We’re early by several hours. I thought it best to investigate the premises before Lowther’s arrival,” said Strathmore. He produced a key from his greatcoat, inserting it into the heavy oval lock and easing the door open.
Julia shook her head in amazement, pushing back the hood of her cloak. “How did you get that?” She pointed at his right hand, illuminated by the light of the torch.
“It pays to be prepared,” he said briskly, pulling her into the hallway and closing the door behind him. “We must find a place to stow you safely out of sight, before Lowther’s arrival.” The remnants of reluctance were in his voice. He had agreed to allow her to accompany him as long as her presence remained undetected.
The torchlight illuminated a handsomely proportioned atrium dotted with unlit sconces bracketing shadowed entranceways. A mustiness like dried leaves permeated the air. “We assume that he already knows I’m still alive. So what precisely is the point?” Julia kept her voice low. Turning around in a half circle, she examined her surroundings, her booted feet in their low riding heels silent on the polished parquet floor. “Besides which, I should like to get a close look at the man. It may help in some way.” Yet at the same time, she didn’t want to awaken what her memory might hold.
Strathmore’s look was assessing. “You have the purported daguerreotype of the man we’re looking for.”
She had been reluctant to share it with him. “You doubt it is Faron’s likeness?”
He shrugged under his greatcoat, the torch sending an unsettling beam of light skittering across one wall. “We can’t be certain, despite your aunt’s assurances.”
She was uncomfortably reminded of those intimate moments in the carriage house. And of every uncomfortable moment they had ever spent together. “That’s the reason you didn’t press the matter,” she said tightly. “And why you agreed to allow me to accompany you this evening. At least you believe that I may be of some help to you. I do have a particular talent remembering people’s faces, given my interests.”
They both knew that he was pressing for something entirely different, using whatever devious means at his disposal to arouse her attraction to him. Well, it would not happen again. She was mortified at how easily she melted at his touch, like one of her copper images, blo
ssoming in the light. What must he think of her, a pitiful spinster thirsty for a man’s attentions?
He was watching her carefully. “I still believe that you’re hiding, Julia. If not from me, then from yourself,” he offered so softly he might have been talking to himself. His shadow loomed, as unaccountably frightening as her conviction that she had given him a glimpse into her life. From their first moments together, he had pushed the door open and she was aware that she didn’t even know what lay beyond it.
There was no response she could readily give, so she swallowed her fear and uttered the words heaviest on her heart. “At the very least, I insist that after this rendezvous, I send a missive to my aunt and sister, letting them know the truth.”
“Which is what exactly?”
The question hovered in the air between them, destined to remain unanswered.
Julia looked around the hallway wordlessly before returning her eyes to Strathmore’s, preferring to focus on the exigencies of the moment rather than the emotions that raged between them. “You are quite correct in that we should take the time to explore and find a suitable vantage point from which I can observe undetected,” she said, deliberately neutral. “Perhaps a wardrobe might do, although I don’t know where we might find one in a salon or drawing room.”
The chill of Strathmore’s gray eyes in the shadows reminded her again how freighted with tension their conversations always were, emphasizing the improbability of their burgeoning physical intimacy. Julia had never allowed herself to believe such a world of blazing carnality existed. At least for her. And with a man such as Strathmore. It seemed impossible.
He looked at her hard. “I’m sure we’ll find something suitable. The owner of the house, Dr. Grant, has unorthodox tastes pertaining to furnishings, as you will see.”
And Julia did see. Following behind Strathmore, she found not a traditional drawing room but what could only be called a life-sized curio cabinet, holding floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crowded with dusty tomes and interspersed with jars holding unidentifiable objects. In the center of the chaos stood two long tables displaying what appeared to be blanched bones and other curious creatures.
The Deadliest Sin Page 11