The Deadliest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “He is a monster. Not born but made, I fear,” Meredith said so softly the words were almost inaudible.

  “What do you mean, madam?” asked Strathmore quietly, looking up from the tartan with a frown.

  “I made him the monster he is. Faron,” said Meredith under her breath.

  There was silence, a thick miasma filling the spaciousness of the room. Julia sank back onto the divan. “I don’t understand,” she said, taking in the fierce beauty of her aunt, a woman who was exemplary both inside and out. “You must not blame yourself for the darkness of someone else’s soul. That’s utterly ridiculous.”

  “Is there anything you would like to say, madam, that could be of help in this instance?” Strathmore probed quietly.

  “Do you ask because you have no further ideas?” asked Julia sharply, casting him a look that could cut glass. “Perhaps this is a scavenger hunt for you, but it means a trifle more to us, Strathmore.”

  Ignoring her outburst, he quietly urged Meredith, “Whatever you remember can only help us find Rowena.”

  For an instant Julia thought she saw the glitter of tears in Meredith’s green eyes. She rose gracefully to face Strathmore. “It would make matters far worse,” she said. “In this instance, the truth will not set us free but rather unleash a force far more terrifying than what we face at present. You must believe me when I say I would do anything to have Rowena returned safely to us. And you must respect my judgment when I say I could do far more harm to those I love by revealing what I have sworn to keep secret.”

  It was a variation on a familiar theme, one which Julia had heard most of her life. Looking around the familiar room, the years spent together with her aunt and sister unspooled before her. The Christmas tree was always in the corner under the crystal chandelier they had purchased together on one of their few trips to London. The fireplace bellows, which she had tripped over and broken, still resting by the hearth, its repair invisible. Meredith’s favored pen, sitting atop her desk. And, dear God, Rowena’s brightly colored shawl, thrown carelessly over the Queen Anne chair…Julia rose to stand by Meredith’s side, taking a slender hand in hers. “I ask you to desist, Strathmore. My aunt knows of what she speaks. Besides which,” she continued, not bothering to keep the derision from curling her lips, “I take it you know more about the scrap of a clue you’re holding than you are letting on.” Her eyes flew to his, but the coldness in their depths was far from reassuring. “After all, this game of Faron’s was devised with you at its heart.”

  Suddenly it was as if they were in the room alone together. A tremor passed through her and she had to lower her eyes when his burned still colder. “An assumption on your part.” His voice was devoid of anything at all, as though they were disagreeing on nothing more important than the color of a hair ribbon.

  “It all makes perfect, though thoroughly mad sense, a hallmark of Montagu Faron,” she continued, her fear for her sister’s life making her brave. “Faron wishes to test you yet again, Strathmore, to offer you another opportunity to prove yourself to him as the highly vaunted explorer and adventurer you purport to be. It leads me to conclude the clue you hold in your hands means something more to you than anyone else. Faron would not have it any other way.”

  His features tightened. “Astute as always, Miss Woolcott.”

  At some point Meredith had released her hand, aware of the private tension between the large man and her niece, who was exhibiting an entirely unusual assertiveness. Confusion marked her brow as she tried to come to terms with Julia’s marked transformation. “I have heard of your exploits, Lord Strathmore,” she said by way of dispersing the uneasiness in the room. “And I can understand why Faron might find himself interested in your varied career.”

  “So what will it be, Strathmore,” Julia snapped, gesturing to the scrap of tartan. Despite the anguish writhing in her soul, she kept her gaze level with Strathmore’s. He turned to stare out the windows, one gloved finger tapping against the envelope in his hand.

  “Is there anything you need, my lord?” Meredith asked. “Access to my library? I have men I can place at your disposal.”

  Strathmore turned away from the window, his shoulders filling the width of the portal. He twisted his lips into a smile. “I have everything I need, madam, thank you.”

  Fighting the urge to scream out her impatience, Julia forced her gaze away from his false smile to the bouquet of flowers brilliantly displayed on the occasional table in one corner. Tall, elegant lilies held her attention, the room swimming in their scent. How long would they have to wait for the damned man to—

  Strathmore’s voice broke into her careening thoughts. “The earliest tartans were made of undyed wool from the indigenous Soay sheep—much like this,” he said tonelessly, fingering the brown and white streaks of color.

  And so? What has that to do with finding my sister, Julia wanted to shout, but she held her counsel, willing him to continue. Beside her, Meredith stiffened but said nothing.

  “This is a sample of the oldest preserved Scottish tartan, which was buried near Hadrian’s Wall.”

  “Which, unfortunately, is seventy-five miles long,” Meredith added. “But I don’t understand what this Roman fortification has to do with Rowena. Or how it brings us any closer to finding her.”

  Julia interrupted. “How do you know where this tartan was found?”

  “You do remember Dr. Grant’s London home?”

  Julia nodded, her mind returning to the chaotic and exotic contents of the drawing room on Gordon Square. And the two of them, secreted away behind one of the bookcases, passion barely held in check. Mortified and nauseated with guilt, she turned pale at the memory. “I do. But what of it?”

  “Seven summers ago, Dr. Grant and I spent several months on an archaeological excavation. His quest was to add to his collection of specimens, in that case the bones of the Ichthyosaurus platyodon which he coveted for the cabinets that wall his study in London. Dr. Grant proposed that I accompany him as I had only recently returned from India and had some time on my hands before I would begin my explorations of the Ruwenzori mountains.”

  Julia let out an exasperated breath, her agitation stilled by Meredith’s calming hand on her arm.

  “Faron obviously knows your history, Lord Strathmore,” said Meredith. “He is a thorough man when he is intent upon something, leaving no stone unturned.”

  Strathmore nodded. “He would also know that Dr. Grant and I spent our time along the River Irthing, which defines the border between Northumberland and Cumbria. There are characteristics of the local geology of particular interest to Grant that are only found on the Irthing’s banks.”

  “We’re still talking fifteen miles of river,” Julia said hopelessly.

  “That’s true. However the River Irthing marks a significant transition in the construction of Hadrian’s Wall, between the limestone to the east and sandstone to the west. Hadrian’s Wall crossed the river on a bridge at Willowford, east of Birdoswald—a Roman fort.”

  Her mind buzzing, Julia felt the facts slide together like bolts. “Which is where, precisely?”

  “A few miles from here. The fort at Birdoswald was linked by a Roman road known as the Maiden Way.”

  Meredith held back a small cry. “Maiden Way. Faron can be exceptionally cruel.”

  And exceptionally brilliant, thought Julia bitterly.

  Strathmore was already halfway to the door, clearly intent on making his departure. “The fort is situated above a steep gorge carved by the river from the deep glacial till overlying the area. From that point, as I recall, its course as it turns west is lined with other Roman sites associated with Hadrian’s Wall.”

  “I can have my men prepared to accompany you at a moment’s notice,” Meredith offered.

  “No.” The denial was stark. “I am meant to go alone. This assignment was clearly designed with me in mind, as Miss Woolcott has noted. Anyone else accompanying me could imperil the life of your niece.”

&
nbsp; Julia shoved a shaking hand over her hot cheeks. Faron’s cunning stunned her. The realization convinced her all the more that Strathmore’s involvement in the Frenchman’s schemes was more than simply a game or charade.

  Her vision cleared, and she was aware of the chill creeping through her bones. Strathmore had been summoned by Faron, as she had been, for the purposes of laying a trap from which her family could never escape. To be close to a man like Strathmore was an invitation to be used by him. Unless, as she had intended from the start, she could use him. Julia would allow Strathmore to believe he was pursuing the quest on his own—but she would never trust him with Rowena’s life.

  Madness lay that way, she recognized, but madness might well serve as the Woolcotts’ only salvation.

  Begun one hundred and twenty-two years after the birth of Christ, during the rule of Emperor Hadrian, Hadrian’s Wall was built as an easily defensible fortification that clearly marked the northern frontier of the Roman Empire in Britain. The wall was the most heavily fortified border in the empire, dotted with sixteen forts, one of which was Birdoswald.

  The fort was situated in a commanding position on a triangular spit of land bounded by cliffs to the south and east overlooking a broad expanse of the River Irthing. Julia had once ridden with Rowena to the site and remembered the harsh landscape and remnants of stone buildings which, as subsequent reading had informed them, had served as a central headquarters, granaries, and barracks when the Romans had occupied the area.

  At present, the challenge was how Julia planned to escape the fortress Montfort, which Meredith had surrounded by dozens of men. Her aunt would keep her remaining charge safe, heavily protected and as carefully guarded as the crown jewels.

  Pacing the confines of her workroom above the stables, Julia realized she was already thirty minutes behind Strathmore, whose fresh mount would take him to the fort in under two hours. No longer anxious or confused by emotion, she took stock with the coldness of a mercenary soldier, aware that passion had been her sole preoccupation for too long. Her sister was her exclusive focus, her concentration as precisely defined as the view through a camera’s lens.

  Julia would use her pony, Squire, reliable and steady as an old friend, to take her to the fort. Quickly pulling on an old riding habit from one of the workroom’s cupboards, its velvet crushed and comfortably worn, she made her way quietly down the back stairs and into the stables. The grooms were already abed, save for Meredith’s old retainer, Mclean, who had been at Montfort longer than anyone could remember. Vigorously oiling a leather bridle under the light of a lantern, he looked up and then stroked his grizzled cheeks contemplatively as he saw her leading Squire toward the stable doors. Alarm was written on the old man’s face.

  “I know what I’m doing, Mclean,” she whispered with no preamble. “You must trust me in this.”

  “Lady Woolcott will have my head.”

  “This is my doing. Not yours.”

  “This is not anything like you, Miss Julia.” His wrinkled eyes held concern. Mclean had known her as a shy little girl. He did not recognize the brazen woman who would challenge the hostile night alone to find and save her sister. “Leave this dangerous business to others. There’s little you can do even if you do find Miss Rowena.”

  “When I find her,” she said stoically. “Please, Mclean, Lord Strathmore has gone before. He will ensure that nothing befalls either of us,” she lied, aware of the bitterness on her tongue. She gave Squire a quick pat with her gloved hand. “Squire and I know the terrain well. We shall be fine. All I ask of you is that you create a diversion. Perhaps call the guards at the side entrance to the stables to help you with some task or another. I only require a few moments and we’ll be out the door.”

  The old man regarded her from beneath a heavy brow. Clearly undecided, he picked up the bridle he was oiling and then put it down again before turning his attention to the rough hewn tool box in the corner. Opening the lid furtively, he grabbed something in his hand before turning his attention once again to Julia.

  “Take this,” he said brusquely, placing a dark and ugly pistol in her hand. Julia forced herself not to recoil, recognizing that accepting the weapon might be the only way Mclean would do her bidding. Her palm closed over the metal, which radiated coldness through the leather of her glove. Mclean knew very well she hadn’t any experience or knowledge of marksmanship. Rowena had excelled at skeet shooting and had even bested successive groundskeepers in her ability to drill a dime at twenty paces. Whereas Julia was sure she would be unable to hit the proverbial side of a barn.

  Nevertheless she said with every bit of confidence in her voice, “Thank you, Mclean, for your concern. I shall do my best…if need be…for protection,” she tried.

  Mclean eyed her deliberately. “‘Tis very simple, Miss Julia. You are most likely a better markswoman than you believe. Pretend you’re looking through one of those cameras of yours—then squeeze the trigger.”

  Ten minutes later, with Mclean’s words still ringing in her ears, Julia left Montfort under a moonlit sky, Squire’s familiar gait buoying her confidence. They were in the foothills of the Cheviots but the light frost made her pony’s footing treacherous. The landscape held an eerie stillness, only the dogged footfalls of her mount breaking the pristine silence. A small lantern fixed to Squire’s saddle illuminated the way, hardly brighter than the milky light provided by the moon.

  It would only be an hour’s ride, if they continued their pace. The wind stiffened the skin of her cheeks and her resolve. Hands clenched around the reins, she recognized that she had no set plans, other than to do what she must to ensure her sister’s safety. Mclean’s pistol rested on her lap, beneath the folds of her cloak, cold but necessary comfort.

  Scrub pine and alder bushes marked the landscape and Julia surveyed the scene, quartering the area, assessing it as though planning the layout of a photograph. With Squire sure and steady beneath her, she passed Brampton as it merged with the River Gelt, the rushing of water telling her they were near Warwick Bridge, just north of Wetheral. But it was not until they came to the Irthing’s banks and the Willoford Bridge that they slowed. They were perhaps a quarter mile east of Birdoswald, her memory told her.

  The rush of the water beneath the planked bridge intensified, a white froth along a harsh, rocky shore. Julia slowed to a stop. For the first time the reality of the situation penetrated her consciousness with a steady stream of disquiet. She realized how the past few days had been excruciatingly tense, each agonizing hour passing in a nightmare of apprehension, fear, and uncertainty. Now that she had all but reached her destination, she was unsure of what to do next, almost wishing Strathmore were by her side rather than out there in the night possibly bartering away the life of her sister and the security of her family for his own shallow ambitions.

  Sliding her gloved hands over the gun on her lap, she considered her few options. As she had recognized the moment she had first met Strathmore, he was the one man who could take her to Faron. If she were truly clever, she would allow him to complete his assignment and rescue Rowena.

  But Julia would be there, observing undetected. If she believed even for a moment that he would forfeit her sister’s life to serve his own purposes—Her thoughts stopped cold.

  Julia urged Squire toward an outcrop of dwarf trees on the other side of the bridge, one of the few copses in an otherwise battered landscape. In the moonlight the scene was harshly beautiful, but she focused instead on sliding from her pony, her stiff calf reminding her of her recent injury. With a departing whisper in Squire’s ear, Julia unhinged the lantern and extinguished the wick. Hiding it under her riding jacket, she began walking toward the rushing river and the steep gorge.

  The murmur of the river grew louder but suddenly she heard voices. She slowed her steps, crouching low into the scruffy underbrush, her ears straining to pick up Rowena’s familiar tones. A moment later, she heard the muffled echo of a male voice.

  “Where is she?”
Strathmore was saying, the sound low and controlled.

  “I think that’s up to you to discover,” another masculine voice replied. “Do you think you’re up to the assignment, Strathmore?”

  Julia crouched lower, almost on all fours, creeping toward the mutterings, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. A man’s broad silhouette loomed against the moonlight. He held a dagger in his right hand. Facing him was Strathmore, a sheen of silver in his right hand, the blade glinting like ancient treasure. Julia wondered wildly why the men were confronting each other with knives rather than pistols.

  “Faron thought it would be more amusing to have our confrontation using daggers from his collection,” said the larger man, unwittingly answering her question.

  “Early Etruscan, how appropriate,” said Strathmore without glancing at the weapon in his hand. He stood motionless in the moonlight, tall and calm, although Julia imagined his eyes were vivid with anticipation. Rowena was nowhere to be seen nor heard. “If you are not willing to answer my question, I suppose I’ll have to kill you quickly,” he said softly.

  There was an angry growl from the larger man, and he thrust and lunged with his knife in a straight push for Strathmore’s chest.

  Strathmore slipped sideways. “You’ll have to do better.” His tone was insolent, but he ducked as the blade slid by his ear.

  Then neither spoke as the slashing blades glimmered in the moonlight. The men fought in earnest, sliding, moving, their breathing becoming more labored by the minute. Julia held her breath as the two well-matched opponents used instinct and superb coordination to gain the advantage. To the untrained eye, Strathmore was outmatched by the larger man’s skill but made up for the deficit by attacking with increased intensity, moving brutally fast, meeting every trick with a natural fluidity.

  Julia cursed silently at the display of masculine bravado, her anxiety for her missing sister building as she watched Strathmore, his shirt soaked with sweat, foiling the larger man’s thrusts and aggression with his superior physical condition and faultless reflexes.