It was as though he had been wrenched from a deep sleep, pulled into consciousness by a new nightmare. With every stride he took, he knew that time was short, the grimace cutting his lean face destined to strike terror in the next person he met. The park was deserted that time of night and he strode from the kitchen garden to wrench open the door of the servant’s entrance in record time. A cold sweat covered his body. He might be too late.
Despite the blazing lights, the house appeared deserted. He took the back stairs three at a time, fear he’d never known galvanizing his limbs, pushing open the door to the rooms he and Julia had last shared. The broad bed with its heavy velvet curtains was empty, the dressing room deserted. Dropping his head into his palms for only a moment, he felt the cold hand of dread before he gathered up his pistol from the wardrobe. Shoving the weapon into the waistband of his trousers, he ran, faster than he’d ever run before.
No servant stopped his passage when he hurled himself down the heavy main stairs into the hallway, the heavy chandeliers blazing with light, mocking his frenzy. Forcing himself not to call out Julia’s name, he launched himself into the dining room, the salon, each space gleaming with beeswax and a stark emptiness that only served to constrict the panic tight in his chest.
Something was not right. Eccles House was deserted, swept clean of its guests, as though readying itself—for what exactly? He began to understand. Montagu Faron was already on the premises, a man who refused to allow himself to be seen. Looking up, he saw the heavy mahogany entrance of the drawing room closed against him.
With no hesitation, he shouldered open the door, only to see Julia’s startled shock as her widening eyes took in his presence. She was alone, her image glittering in the gilt framed mirrors of the room. Ominously alone.
They did not exchange a word. He walked quietly toward her and leaned down, his long coat trailing dustily on the floor. It was only then he saw the tears that had dried on her cheeks. Her eyes raised to his slowly at the touch of his fingers on her cheek.
“I came back—” he whispered, his words meaning to soften the blow. But when her beautiful eyes looked at him in astonishment, he smiled at the face that had changed his life. “I came back,” he said, knowing that, with a tightening in his stomach, he had been allowed to escape for a reason.
“I tried not to worry, to believe in you…. Somehow I knew that you would survive…despite the explosions.” She reached out to touch his face, as though he had indeed returned from the underworld for her, and as though she needed to reassure herself that his physicality was real.
For a moment, no explanations were necessary and Strathmore opened his arms as Julia folded herself into his embrace, heedless of the dust, the blood, and his injured shoulder. He held her close, his mouth moving across her cheek in a brushing caress to breathe in her softness. “But we haven’t much time. You must go—now.”
“Nothing has changed, my love,” she said, the warmth of her gaze dissipating in the harsh glare of his commanding tone. “Lowther is here as well as Beaumarchais, promising that I shall meet with Faron—alone. It’s what I need to do.” Streaked with dust, she straightened against him. “I intend to kill him,” she said with stunning simplicity, staring up at him. “I am finished with hiding from Faron. He has taken so much from me already, and dares to rob me of even more. You, Rowena, Meredith. It is not to be borne.”
“You don’t know of what you speak, Julia. You intend to kill Faron with your bare hands?” Strathmore raked her form, the delicate shoulders arising from the frothy silk of her gown, slender, pale, and rigid with determination. “You have no idea what it is like to take a life. And we are wasting valuable time.” He stepped back but did not release her, his eyes scanning the room looking for means of escape. “I shall manage Faron.” As he had managed the inconceivable odds of escaping from collapsed underground tunnels. It was what he did best, he recognized, with barely contained cynicism. And somehow, Montagu Faron knew.
“You can’t kill him,” Julia said, in a pained whisper, her hands clutching his shoulders.
He examined her closely, attuned to the tension in every line of her body. “Isn’t that what you wish for? To have Faron eliminated from your life forever. To punish him for the fire that robbed you of your childhood, for taking away your sister, for tormenting your aunt? I don’t understand.”
Her fingers dug into the muscles of his arms. “There is something I have not told you. Something that has to do with the daguerreotype.” A shudder ran through the floor beneath their feet, a muffled turbulence following like distant thunder.
“It can wait,” he said, moving them toward the ground floor windows, a less noticeable escape route than the main hallway and front doors. “The explosions in the corridors earlier might be causing some instability in this part of the house,” he added tersely.
“No, it can’t wait.” Julia looked up at him and into his eyes, her gaze strong and unfaltering. “You cannot kill Montagu Faron.” Another distant rumble of thunder sounded, the mirrors shivering in their gilt frames.
“And why ever not?” The voice, at once strange and familiar, struck sparks off the high, expansive ceiling with its serene depiction of Helen resisting the lure of Paris, her smile secretive and aloof.
The man stood tall in the entrance of the drawing room, his reflection multiplied in the ornate mirrors. The height, breadth, and lean grace were too familiar to Julia. The candlelight threw shadows on the face hidden behind a black leather mask, she wished, despite the hatred congealing in her chest, that she would never have to confront.
The hair was silver and not raven’s wing black, and his eyes, a dark fathomless pitch rather than the gray she knew so well. Julia met his unyielding scrutiny with a sharp twist of her head, only to absorb the many reflections in the coldly glittering glass encircling the drawing room. Montagu Faron and Alexander Francis Strathmore stared back at her—seemingly one and the same.
“I apologize for having interrupted what is obviously an intense discussion, and at such a delicate juncture.” Even the voice was an echo of the one Julia loved so well—low, with a gravel pitch, the only difference a slight French inflection. “Please finish what you were about to say, mademoiselle, exactly why it is that Lord Strathmore should resist the entirely natural urge to give in to his murderous impulses.”
Strathmore was rooted to the spot, his steady gaze chill and dark, but open with contempt. With his black hair streaked white with chalk dust, he acknowledged the man who stood with equal arrogance several feet away from him. Strathmore was the younger and the stronger, despite his recent injuries, but Julia could not fail to notice the gleaming pistol that Faron carried casually in his right hand. Dressed with dramatic simplicity, his midnight blue evening coat and blindingly white cravat, Faron carried himself with a brutal arrogance that was all too familiar.
“You come alone, Faron. Unwilling to show your face to the outside world,” Strathmore said levelly, casually moving in front of Julia so his body shielded hers. “I shouldn’t wonder given the nature of your activities these past few decades. Setting a nursery afire is hardly the act of a courageous man. Nor is sending a young woman to a watery death.”
Faron smiled easily, taking another few steps to stand in the center of the drawing room. “I had my reasons,” he said, not attempting to defend himself.
“What did you do to Meredith Woolcott those many years ago?” Strathmore asked the question for Julia’s sake.
“The question should be rephrased. What did Meredith do to me?” said Faron. His eyes were obsidian behind the mask. “I do not wear this mask without reason.”
“Disfigurement. I shouldn’t have judged you as a man of vanity.”
“Your thinking is so shallow for a man of your discernment, Strathmore. There are wounds that go far beyond the superficialities of the skin.”
Julia watched the exchange with disbelief.
She stepped from behind Strathmore, despite the restraining han
d around her waist. “You fiend,” she said, endeavoring to keep her voice equally cool but knowing it quavered with emotion. “I shall hate you into hell and beyond. You have no idea of the pain you have caused.”
Faron’s voice rose in surprise. “But I must disagree! Indeed I do. There’s nothing that gives me more pleasure at the moment than causing pain to your dear aunt Meredith. Through you, your sister, and of course…” He let the sentence trail off deliberately knowing Julia would not rest until she learned what he’d left unsaid.
Julia swallowed hard, the reference to Rowena a knife to her heart, an emptiness that would never leave her as long as she lived. “I don’t expect that you will tell us what lies behind your evil machinations.”
“You never know, mademoiselle, it might do you good to learn the reasons behind what happened that night so long ago in the nursery where you and your sister slept.” He paused to look over her head to Strathmore, a small smile playing on his lips, before meeting her glaring gaze. “I understand that you suffer from certain episodes, shall we say, stemming from the shock of the fire. It seems that we share something in common, mademoiselle.”
“I shudder to think that we share the same air.”
He gave her a sly look from behind the mask, and her stomach clenched at the knowledge that he was enjoying her pain. “You and Meredith miss Rowena, I’m sure. Must be troublesome for you, in particular, living with the knowledge that her death should have been yours.”
Julia refused to close her eyes against unshed tears watching as Faron’s gaze locked upon hers. It was a test, or simply another form of torment Faron believed was his to unleash. Trying to read his twisted mind, Julia was suddenly thrown back to the moment at Birdoswald, desperate at the river’s edge, and felt a part of herself die once again. Despite all her hopes, her fantasies, she knew that Rowena was gone.
Strathmore’s hand tightened around Julia’s waist. “We don’t need to hear this, Faron. I shall ask Julia to leave so we may conclude our business as I had requested. Nothing has changed.”
“I don’t believe Mademoiselle Woolcott wishes to leave. Do you?” Without waiting for her reply, Faron continued. “I’m sure she’s eager to hear what you intend to offer in exchange for the Ptolemy maps.” The Frenchman turned to walk toward the largest of the drawing room’s fireplaces, his back to the flames limning his tall figure in red. Physically jarring, the resemblance was remarkable. She watched the two men circle each other as though they were handling dynamite, neither willing to state the obvious for fear of setting off an explosion. As if to punctuate her thoughts, Julia again felt the marble shudder beneath her feet.
Faron failed to notice. “You have acquitted yourself well, Strathmore. That business with the actress, the tunnel explosions, all child’s play in your hands, as I expected, having watched your exploits for some years now.”
“Keep your damned maps, Faron.” Strathmore’s voice was insolent. The two men’s eyes met over Julia’s head. Both were aware the stakes had just been pushed higher.
Faron’s voice was sincerely troubled. “Unfortunate, and entirely unexpected, Strathmore. I should not have anticipated you would throw away the opportunity to have within your grasp the Great Prize.”
“You will just have to live with the disappointment.” Strathmore’s gaze slid over the pistol in Faron’s large hand. Julia tensed as he moved toward the fireplace, a strong arm pulling her to stand behind him.
No. Don’t do it. But Julia could not say the words. Faron had killed her sister. Had tormented her aunt and would continue to do so if she did not have the courage to end the nightmare. When she looked up to meet his dark eyes, it was as though he already knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Why the hesitation, mademoiselle? There is no room for morality in this drama. Simply take the pistol from my hand and do what you will with it.” He held out the weapon as casually as though he were offering her a flute of champagne. “I had actually anticipated asking Strathmore to do the honors. To give him the opportunity to—.”
“You can’t. You won’t. I shan’t allow it.” The words left Julia in a rush. She could hold back no longer, the truth ringing not only in her head but aloud, her voice echoing in the high-ceilinged drawing room, hoarse, desperate and altogether too real. “Because you are his father. Strathmore’s father.”
There was a sickening silence. Then Faron casually lifted a hand to release the mask covering his face and revealed a broad forehead, strong nose, and a wide mouth—so very like Strathmore’s—turned down in a frown. Grasping Strathmore’s arm, her gown a flurry of chalk dust and silk, Julia turned to him beseechingly, prepared to confess to a litany of sins, one darker than the next, the worst of which was keeping from him the knowledge that had been revealed to her in the daguerreotype. “You can’t kill your own father, Strathmore. I know that you would do it for me. For Rowena. But I can’t allow it.”
Strathmore’s eyes remained steadily fixed on Faron, a mockery of a smile playing on his lips. No evidence of shock, no tightening of his jaw, just a calm, neutral expression that lit a flame in Julia’s horrified mind. With the slowness of a dream, she grasped the realization that he had known all along.
The flames burned higher, encircling Faron in a glow of red light. “Surely, mademoiselle, you didn’t believe that I would evince such sustained interest in a man who was not my son?”
They had both known. Julia felt as though she was emerging from a dark tunnel, burdened by guilt, haunted by loss, feeling hope die. A metaphor for her life, she was the woman behind the camera obscura, refusing to emerge from the darkness and into the light.
Strathmore’s low voice was full of mockery. “Forgive me if I choose not to call you father.” He shook his head slowly, his thick black hair drifting chalk dust over the travertine floor. “And would I evince such sustained interest in a man who was not my sire?” In the blankness of the room, Julia heard the emptiness in Strathmore’s soul.
They felt another shudder beneath their feet and, as if in response, the flames in the hearth shot higher. They seemed to kiss the hem of Faron’s jacket. Images flickered to life, dancing amid the flames—first Meredith’s face and then Rowena’s. Julia blotted out the pain. She had lied both to herself and to Meredith when she first set out to Eccles House those many weeks ago. Honesty compelled her to admit that she had wanted to confront the past the Woolcotts could no longer afford to deny. How strange that she should be the one to finally banish the threat.
“I don’t even care anymore about your explanations of what occurred between you and Meredith years ago,” she whispered above the spitting of the flames. “There is nothing you can say that will make any difference to me. You tried to kill two innocent children in their nursery—nothing excuses such a heinous act.”
“Are you sure, mademoiselle?” His black eyes, mercifully unlike Strathmore’s, challenged her. “You choose not to hear how your dear aunt robbed me of what I value most in life?”
“You robbed me of my sister,” Julia said, hoarsely. “Nothing, nothing else matters.” It was then she moved from behind Strathmore, arms outstretched, charging the Frenchman. The pistol, held casually in his hand, fell to the floor as Julia felt her fists strike his chest, driving Faron into the hearth. Another jolt of thunder shook the ground beneath their feet, and the mirror atop the fireplace mantel snapped to the floor, bursting into lethal shards the size of china plates.
“Get out. Now,” snarled Strathmore behind her. “The explosions underground have done damage to the foundation of the house.” But Julia wasn’t listening, watching flames eating their way up Faron’s coat, the desperation in his black eyes widening in incomprehension, as he attempted to wheel backward to put out the flames while encountering sharp shards of glass with every movement he made. Muted blasts of noise hammered in Julia’s ears, indistinguishable from the roar of the fire and the thunder shaking the house. She refused to move, mesmerized as Faron’s dark eyes flashed with life, his m
outh a rictus of horror, unable to scream. He sucked in massive gulps of air, and one hand flew to his chest as though to stop his heart before the flames could do their work.
Strathmore lifted Julia into his arms, and she imagined Faron’s scream of desolation cleaving the air, stretching toward infinity, toward hell. Her hands flew up to cover her ears, but the screaming didn’t stop, merging instead with the grief and fear festering so long in her heart.
Then she felt only cold, damp air. Silence. And Alexander Strathmore holding her, looking into her face, as though she had flown away from him, as though the past had swallowed her. Behind them, the windows of the drawing room at Eccles House glowed red, but Strathmore’s long strides took them rapidly away from the estate.
“Julia. Speak to me.” Those were the last words she heard as consciousness deserted her.
Epilogue
Three months later
“Hold still, Strathmore. Perfectly still. Did I say you could move?”
“I am merely impatient for my wife to join me in rather more exciting pursuits.”
“This is exciting, my love,” said Julia, glancing at the watch pinned to her bodice and away from the man, resplendently and unapologetically nude, seated before her camera obscura. “I estimate only two more minutes and we should be finished here.” A rare, hot summer had blessed London, casting the former drawing room of Strathmore’s town house in a warm glow. Converted into a studio for Julia’s pleasure, the tall windows allowed in a cascade of light.
She smiled at the sight of her husband, the most beautiful man she knew, watching her with those gray eyes lit in a combination of amusement and passion. And a certain vigilance, as though he was loathe to let her out of his sight for more than a few moments. It had worked in her favor, Julia conceded. They had become inseparable since their marriage three months ago in the small chapel at Montfort.
The Deadliest Sin Page 28