The Deadliest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  Next to the image was a landscape by Joseph Niepce, with whom her tutor had studied in Paris. According to Masters, Niepce had been an amateur scientist and inventor who had succeeded in securing a picture of the view from his window by using a camera obscura and pewter plate coated with bitumen. Niepce, Julia recalled, had named this picture-making process heliography, or sun drawing. It was only later, through experimentation, that he abandoned pewter plates in favor of silver-plated sheets of copper and discovered that the vapor from iodine reacted with the silver coating to produce a light-sensitive compound.

  Julia had not visited her studio since she had left Montfort at Wadsworth’s invitation—what seemed a lifetime ago. Her heart twisted at the sight of Rowena’s discarded riding jacket, dust still clinging to the worn velvet, hanging jauntily from the arm of a chair. Emptied of tears, she walked dry-eyed to the jumble of boxes that had been hastily deposited at the edge of the raised platform. Her hands shook as she lifted the smaller one from the top of the pile and took it to the table.

  Discarding the cover and rustling through a layer of tissue paper, she extracted a polished silver-coated copper plate nestled in cotton wool. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the original photographer placing the sensitized plate into a camera placed on a high shelf. When the sitter was ready, the photographer removed the camera cover and began timing the required exposure with a pocket watch.

  Julia’s experience told her that the plate appeared in pristine condition, although that promised very little. An air of inevitability hung in the room along with the spinning dust motes. Competing voices jostled in her head as she caressed the sides of the plate carefully, looking into its surface as though looking into a crystal ball.

  What would she find? The face of the demon that Strathmore had taunted her with? After one week of nightmares and fitful dreams, she felt compelled to look directly into the eyes of the man who had unleashed a torrent of pain on her. The man who had sent her aunt to the brink of insanity, and who had sent Alexander Strathmore to take her life and to murder her sister.

  Perhaps looking directly upon such evil would prove her undoing. Regardless, she would know.

  Working with surprising calm, she assembled her apparatus quickly in the darkened alcove at the end of the long upper floor, holding her thoughts at bay. Donning heavy leather gloves, she suspended the photographic plate over a dish of mercury before placing it inside a small fuming box where the image was to be brought out.

  Keeping her mind deliberately blank, she watched as the chemical emulsion did its work, the outlines of an image appearing as though by magic. It was usually her favorite step in the daguerreotype process, although she took no pleasure in those moments she waited for the likeness to emerge. The acrid aroma of iodine pinched her nostrils, familiar and disturbing at the same time.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the dark before she lifted the plate from its bath. Expertly fixing the image in a mixture of specialized soda, she took a closer look at the likeness miraculously unveiled.

  With the slowness of a nightmare, the image blurred, faded and then returned. Julia looked at it disbelievingly. The man, wearing a tight waistcoat with its row of military buttons, sported a fashion already twenty years’ past but it was not the sartorial detail that held her transfixed. There was something familiar about the image.

  The arrogant tilt of the head, the aggressive jaw and slight hook of the nose. Even the breadth of the shoulders, and the sheen of thick, dark hair worn in the Byronic style. Only the eyes were different, inky jet instead of cool gray.

  Blood pounded in her ears, awakening emotions in her she had mistakenly believed to have been drained away.

  Impossibly, the ghostly image of Alexander Francis Strathmore stared back at her.

  From the door at the rear of a discreet gentleman’s club in London, Lowther and Beaumarchais stepped into the darkness of the late evening. With curt instructions to his driver, Lowther and his companion ducked into his coach and instantly drew up short. In the gaslit interior, Lord Strathmore waited, all too menacing despite his casual sprawl against the well-upholstered squabs.

  “Do sit, gentlemen,” he said, leaning forward. He swept a black-gloved hand at the seat opposite him in a show of good manners. “We have quite a journey ahead of us, as I’ve already informed the coachman.”

  Lowther at first failed to recognize the tightening in the back of his neck for what it was. Fear. Beside him, Beaumarchais turned an unflattering shade of red under the rim of his top hat, his hands fisting over a gold-handled walking stick.

  “Truly, Strathmore. Your time spent amidst the savages has clearly left you with few manners.”

  Strathmore’s white teeth flashed in a grim answering smile.

  The coach lurched into motion and Lowther settled his bulk on the seat, reluctantly wishing he had secreted a pistol in his waistband. God only knew that Beaumarchais would be of no help. Instinct told him the man who sat so cavalierly across from him had something dark on his mind. Strathmore had never seemed so still. With those calculating eyes trained upon him as though the world depended on it, Lowther felt caught in the crosshairs of a pistol. All the more reason he forced levity into his tone as the coach sped into the London night.

  “If you desired a meeting with me, you need simply have asked,” he said. “Commandeering my coach seems a trifle melodramatic.”

  “Barbaric,” Beaumarchais agreed, emphasizing the point with a thump of his cane on the carriage floor.

  “You might try asking where it is we’re going,” Strathmore said.

  “I trust in your good judgment, so do forgive me if I’m not overly concerned.” Lowther thought it best to be politic.

  “Most unwise,” Strathmore said easily, although Lowther was hardly deceived by his neutral tones. “Gentlemen, I’m changing the proceedings to which you have become overly accustomed. Typically, it is you who do the commandeering.” The gas lamps shuddered with the coach’s movements, temporarily illuminating Strathmore’s empty smile and the handle of the pistol tucked beneath his overcoat.

  Lowther smoothed the folds of his cloak, his unease building. “I’m not a stupid man, and I take it from your tone and unexpected appearance this evening that you are unhappy with the present state of affairs.”

  Strathmore’s smile disappeared. “I’m not here to provide long-winded statements that are meant to provide a testament to my emotions. I’m simply here to present my demands.” He stretched his long legs deliberately in the confines of the coach.

  Lowther arched a brow. “Your demands?”

  “Demands?” Beaumarchais echoed. “Outrageous!”

  Strathmore nodded. “I have decided to change the rules of the elaborate game that we play.”

  Understanding dawned, but too slowly for Lowther’s liking. He unbuttoned the top fastening of his overcoat, the fabric straining over his barrel chest. “I had not thought you squeamish about certain matters,” he said in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone. Faron would have his head if they lost Strathmore. “Clearly, I was wrong.”

  Strathmore remained silent, merely staring at the older man.

  Beaumarchais spoke with the experience of a qualified rogue. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your so-called heart to the woman,” he said, unable to hold back his contempt. His chest heaved visibly underneath his impeccably tailored satin topcoat. “Good God, Strathmore. I should never have believed it, despite your curious volte-face at Eccles House. You have somewhat a reputation for, shall we say, rather more outré liaisons. I should think after having tasted more exotic fare in those heathenish backwaters the likes of Miss Woolcott would rather bore your adventurous palate.”

  Lowther held himself in check, swallowing the urge to beat Beaumarchais over the head with his own walking stick.

  “Here you are,” continued the Frenchman, unaware of Lowther’s glowering beside him, “on the brink of having precisely what you desire. Not that I begin to comprehend the allure of that
particular chase—all that nonsense concerning the Nile and so on. However, still so very, very close,” he nattered on. “Instead, you succumb to the dubious charms of a woman.” He snorted again with derision. “Good lord!”

  “You’re wasting my time,” Strathmore replied coolly.

  “Am I? Or is it just the truth that you find discomfiting?” Beaumarchais persisted.

  It simply defies reason, this sudden and unexpected change in Strathmore, Lowther thought. A turn of events Faron had not counted upon, and his assessments were rarely wrong in such matters.

  “The truth has no relevance in this discussion,” returned Strathmore all too calmly.

  “Really?” Beaumarchais lazily traced a pattern on the velvet-covered seat beside him. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  Strathmore’s gaze sharpened upon Lowther, compelling him to say something.

  He complied with a tight smile. “We are straying from the point of this unexpected rendezvous, Beaumarchais. So what shall it be, my lord?” he addressed Strathmore directly. “How long shall we continue driving in circles around London in my well-appointed carriage?”

  Strathmore gave an indulgent shrug. “As long as it requires.”

  “For you to outline your demands,” Lowther confirmed, though he’d prefer not to hear them. His regret at the moment was that he’d been caught unaware, and with the ridiculous Beaumarchais in tow. Had he left for Paris when he’d originally planned, he might have been able to avoid that unnecessary and ultimately uneasy confrontation. He forged ahead against his better judgment. “Faron will not be pleased.”

  “Fuck Faron.”

  Lowther sat up straighter.

  “A young woman is dead,” said Strathmore tonelessly.

  “Your astonishment strikes me as disingenuous,” interrupted Beaumarchais.

  Strathmore ignored the comment. “I believe the time has come for me to tell Faron what I require from him. For a refreshing change of course.”

  Lowther tried to find a more comfortable purchase on the overstuffed upholstery. “You do understand. I am merely the messenger. All this,” he said with a wave of his hand, “is beyond my control.”

  In the dimness of the carriage, their eyes locked.

  “You are overreacting, Strathmore,” tried Beaumarchais. “I should never have thought—”

  Strathmore smiled. “So you choose to believe. If you don’t heed what I’m about to say, this encounter will appear mild, indeed.”

  Lowther shifted in his seat, his eyes on the pistol at Strathmore’s side. Not that the man needed a weapon. A fleeting image of his own body lying face down in a river of blood took shape and was gone. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “Yes it is. As I pointed out at our last rendezvous, Faron wants to meet with me as much, if not more, than I want to meet with him. As a result, we’ll be working on my terms from now on.”

  The carriage took a sharp turn, jostling Beaumarchais so he almost tumbled into Lowther’s lap. “Don’t take me or, worse still, Faron for a fool,” Lowther said, pushing himself upright, irritation bright in his eyes.

  “Indeed,” echoed Beaumarchais, straightening his top hat.

  Strathmore leaned out from behind the shadows, his features harsher than Lowther remembered. He recalled what had been said about the man. How he had survived weeks in the desert with little more than what he carried on his back. And the rumor that he had taken on a tribal chieftain in hand-to-hand combat to ransom a group of children from slavery. There was a simmering undercurrent of impatience about him, a dark brutality.

  “My instructions are very simple.” The words interrupted Lowther’s increasingly uneasy thoughts. “And I shall relay them only this once.”

  The threat was explicit. Lowther crossed his arms over his chest, wise enough to know he had no choice but to listen.

  Strathmore continued, speaking very softly. “You will tell Faron to desist in his pursuit of the Woolcotts,” he said evenly, watching for Lowther’s reaction. “Did I not warn you that my demands are simple?”

  The older man shut his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath as a chill ran down his spine. “You don’t know what you ask.”

  “And I don’t care to,” Strathmore said quietly. “I trust I needn’t elaborate.”

  The rumbling of the wheels over the cobblestoned streets was the only sound in the tense silence.

  When Lowther finally spoke, he said, “You are prepared to forfeit your major expedition in search of the Nile’s source, then?”

  “Not at all,” Strathmore said simply, the arrogance of prerogative undeniable. “I shall leave that discussion for the moment when I meet with Faron himself.”

  Lowther stared, disbelieving, hardly aware that the coach was slowing to a stop.

  “I expect to hear from him within the fortnight—and I shall give him the courtesy of deciding where and when we shall meet.” Strathmore’s voice was moderate, detached. He rose from his seat.

  Beaumarchais surged to life. “You are a bloody fool, Strathmore. Julia Woolcott is hardly worth the trouble.”

  Strathmore’s gray eyes flicked past Beaumarchais. “I hate repeating myself. I thought my directives were simple enough.”

  Beaumarchais’s lips curled, his tone taunting, despite Lowther’s hand on his arm. “I did notice at Eccles House that Miss Woolcott was a tasty morsel indeed. So fresh and untried.”

  Lowther noted the telltale hardening of Strathmore’s jaw line, the subtle flaring of his nostrils.

  Beaumarchais continued, “From what I could see, she is possessed of the most winsomely long limbs and I can only guess at her other fulsome charms, that lovely mouth for one, which you were so reluctant to share with the rest of us that evening.”

  In an instant, strong fingers twisted into Beaumarchais’s topcoat, all but lifting him from his seat with the mere flex of an arm. “You do not listen well, do you, Beaumarchais?” Strathmore’s eyes narrowed. “Let me make this abundantly clear—the Woolcotts no longer exist for the likes of you. And I would suggest you watch your back. There are, shall we say, more primitive means of making you understand the reason for our little visit this evening.” To demonstrate, he grabbed Beaumarchais’s walking stick and broke it in half over his knee. He looked over Beaumarchais’s head, addressing Lowther, who had shrunk into the upholstered seat. “I trust we understand each other.” He tossed the broken walking stick to the floor and shouldered open the carriage door. The night air swept into the compartment as Beaumarchais gripped the upholstered seat to keep his legs from crumpling beneath him. Strathmore disappeared into the night.

  The shroud of predawn gray was heavy when Julia stepped from beneath the dripping roof of the stables where Mclean had prepared a coach and four for her use. She drew the black veil of her bonnet more closely over her face as she approached. She kept her face deeply shadowed and averted, unable to put into words what lay heavy on her heart. Her booted feet moved determinedly over the slick cobblestones, making little sound in the quiet of the morning.

  Meredith would read her note with some surprise and perhaps even a glimmer of hope. Despondent herself, she was at a loss as how to reach her remaining ward, who had cloistered herself away, refusing to speak or even to indulge in her usual pastimes. Books remained unread and, save for the one fateful afternoon spent in the studio above the stables, Julia had stayed in her rooms, sealed in her own exclusive and self-made hell.

  The single trunk loaded into the carriage held her mourning wardrobe and the small wooden box that contained the fully developed daguerreotype Meredith had given her a lifetime ago. It was all she needed for her sojourn in Paris, France where she would reinvent herself as a widow, free to come and go as she pleased.

  And ultimately, to find Faron.

  That the widow was unwilling to speak, the world would attribute to her all-encompassing grief and unfamiliarity with the French language. Julia had already contacted a solicitor in London to find her discreet apar
tments in Paris along with a small staff who would interpret her wishes.

  The veil of silence was reassuringly familiar, a defense, a warm cocoon that had served as her armor once long ago and would do so again. She did not panic at the thickness lodged in her throat, cutting her off from the world. She welcomed it.

  Without glancing at Mclean for fear she would change her mind, she directed the coachman to her trunk, then climbed unassisted into the conveyance that would take her along the eight-hour journey to Calais, with stops to change horses. The coach lurched to a start and her mind drifted along with the miles that sped by, shutting out her memories of Rowena. The pain was too much, a knife where her heart had once lodged.

  There were other more pressing matters to consider. Every time she closed her eyes, she replayed the moments in her studio, watching again and with renewed horror, as the image of Montagu Faron flared to life in front of her. What did it signify, the shadows and lines that coalesced into a definable shape, head, shoulders, and all-too-familiar features? Her pulse gathered speed. It was impossible. He was and he wasn’t Strathmore.

  The back of Julia’s eyes burned hot. She blinked furiously and pressed trembling fingers to her throat. She could no longer afford to be the naïvely gullible pawn in the game that Strathmore played, clinging to the remnants of some romantic delusion. She had been irreparably scarred by his betrayal and her own refusal to recognize the truth from the first moment he had confronted her in that cork-lined room. Since her sister’s death, not a morning dawned that she didn’t awaken with a bleak ache in what was left of her soul and no amount of foolish delusion would ever erase that grief.

  But Strathmore had at least left her one shred that made her life worth living. Revenge. It was all that remained, a dry crust for her to gnaw upon. Despite Strathmore’s words to the contrary, Julia recognized her own demons well enough to take on the last challenge that would ever matter to her.