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.
Meredith jerked awake, sat bolt upright and thrashed at the blanket covering her body, as though it were suffocating the life from her. Her heart hammered, her palms sweated and the wool crumpled in her fists.
“You’re awake,” Lord Archer said from somewhere nearby.
She slowly set the blanket aside as consciousness seeped in, strong sunlight tracing patterns against her eyelids. This was not Montfort, nor was it Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo. She pushed her hands through her hair and blinked in the direction of the voice, her thoughts struggling to catch up with her senses. The past several hours had been populated by dreams she had hoped never to have again. She’d been back at Montfort, watching the seasons change from the windows of the drawing room, the clouds streaking against a changing sky. Dusk had hung about the salon like a heavy mantle, the ghosts of Rowena and Julia’s childhood lingering, their laughter mingling with dust motes in the air. The tendrils of the dream clung, along with the horrific sensation that Rowena and Julia both lay dead, beyond her reach and her help. Even now Meredith’s chest still clenched at the guilt that she had not done enough to shelter them from the evil she had had a hand in creating. But they were alive. She breathed the words with relief. And Faron was dead.
She opened her eyes to blazing sunlight. Early morning in the desert.
“We need to leave now, Meredith.”
She sat up. Archer. Lord Richard Archer. His physical presence was jarring, even more so now in the glare of the desert sun. He looked as though he’d been up for hours while she’d been sleeping, wrestling with her dreams, on the floor of the abandoned fort. He was smiling faintly, his eyes watching her closely.
She pushed aside the blanket and rose too quickly, anything to avoid remembering what had transpired the night before. She felt myriad twinges everywhere in her body, and she stretched to loosen them before catching sight of the perfect imprint of two bodies on the fine sand beneath her. She blanched, mortified, then quickly shuffled her booted feet over the pattern, hoping to make the evidence disappear.
A horrifying thought crossed her mind. She glanced down quickly to determine that her riding jacket and trousers were still in place and that she had indeed slept in her clothes undisturbed. Silly woman, she thought, as though she were a maiden at risk of being ravished. There were benefits to being a certain age, a matron. The tumultuous events of the day and last evening were simply an aberration. It was best to pretend that nothing untoward had happened, save a few moments of weakness on her part. Archer would most likely be as eager to forget the incident as she was.
“Of course, we should be on our way,” she said. “You might have wakened me sooner, Lord Archer.”
He handed her the silver flask, which miraculously still contained some water. “Have you had your fill?” she asked.
Waving away her concerns, he reached down for his linen jacket, which she had used as a pillow during the night. The image of his placing the bundle under her head sometime in the early hours was disturbing. He paused to swiftly load her pistol and then his, tapping the powder down the barrel, pressing in the ball before returning it to his waistband. Meredith felt she was still in a dream, despite the glare of the morning sun, watching this man with whom she had spent the night loading firearms.
Smoothing her hair and tugging her sleeves over her wrists from long habit, she noted that Archer hadn’t said a word in some time. She wondered how he’d passed the night. Sleeping fitfully and watching her twist and turn on the hard ground, wrestling with her dreams? Or thinking about someone in his own past, or present, a woman who was important to him?
Whom had Rowena mentioned? Of course, the young and lovely Countess of Blenheim. Meredith pictured her with soft blue eyes, tipped-up nose and rosebud mouth. She had an amenable disposition and no challenging thoughts in her blond head beyond flirtation. In short, a lovely young widow, her husband conveniently dead. Of course, Archer would find the Countess attractive. Annoyed by her wayward thoughts, Meredith glanced down at Archer’s hands, large, capable and elegant at the same time, working deftly. They had touched her last night, overriding whatever little judgment she had left.
She picked up her pistol and secured it in her pocket, the familiar heft reassuring. “We are on our way then,” she said, her voice still husky from sleep.
“If you are agreeable and as long as you are feeling up to it.” He squinted up at another hard blue sky, and she found herself studying him again. His hair was dark brown, almost black with a few threads of silver, and it waved loosely about his temples and ears. And although his jaw was heavily shadowed with whiskers, he looked as though he’d spent the night on a four-poster bed rather than on the unforgiving ground.
“Of course,” she said briskly. “Why risk our good fortune?” The yolk of the sun poured through the jagged remains of the fort. She didn’t want to imagine those men returning, or think of the man she had killed.
Her thoughts were a collision of images and high emotion, far from any semblance of coherence. She’d taken a life and a short time later all but offered herself to a near stranger on the bare desert ground, and in moments had been aroused to an adolescent breathlessness. Archer’s nearness in the harsh light of day was a shocking reminder of her lack of judgment. For the next minute, his boots scrabbling over the hard ground was the only sound, as he picked up the blanket, shook it out before bundling it into the leather bag. Her wandering thoughts wouldn’t stop and she considered whether he’d been entirely unmoved, recalling the heat of his breath over her throat, the hardness of his arms under her hands. Examining the incident with a cooler head told her that the exchange was entirely mortifying and she hoped it would sift away like the sand beneath their feet.
The heat was already beginning to build and she shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand. They should soon be on their way back to the relative civilization of Cairo, where in th
e elegance of the hotel they could say cordial farewells over a glass of sherry, formalities reestablished and the unfortunate incident forever unmentioned and forgotten.
“I am ready whenever you are, Lord Archer.” She glanced beyond the low wall to their left. “We have your horse, mercifully,” she said.
“It will have to do for both of us. If we leave now we should arrive back in Rashid by noon.”
And yet they stood there, pausing so long it seemed that Meredith had forgotten how to begin and end a sentence. She gave herself another shake, looking at him directly for the first time that morning. “After we arrive in Rashid, there is no need to accompany me further. Despite your promises to Lord Rushford.”
“And despite the fact you were attacked by three men last evening.” His expression tightened. “You expect me to walk away and leave you unprotected.”
Meredith held her head higher and then made a noncommittal sound which won her a sideways look and an upraised brow.
“I don’t require heroics, Archer.”
“I’m well aware,” he returned. “I simply wonder how you expect the dead man’s body to disappear.”
The man she’d murdered. Meredith swallowed hard. “I shall take care of it. I shall alert the British Office to send someone to collect the remains.”
“And tell them what, precisely?”
“That I was attacked and I acted in self-defense. Entirely true.” Misgivings formed in the back of her mind.
“They will ask questions which you know you will refuse to answer. Aren’t you in the least suspicious as to why and how your guide was chosen?”
“Are you intimating that the British Office had something to do with Murad’s betrayal?”
“I don’t know. But I wonder if you can afford to raise the questions.”
Meredith eyed him warily. “And you can make all of this go away, if I surmise correctly.” She paused. “And what do you wish in return?”
“Nothing. Consider it a favor to my old friend Rushford.” She responded with silence. “Why you don’t trust me?” He paused. “Or is it all men?” Or one man, he might as well have asked.
The Deepest Sin Page 5