The Deepest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  The cards dealt and the last bets placed, the two men each chose to draw. Hamilton won a short reprieve as he exposed his card, the jack of hearts.

  “You had to win sometime, Hamilton, I suppose,” Sir Chauncy Hunt murmured good-naturedly. “Will keep you in the game at least. Must have offered up your prayers to old Rugston.”

  Rugston pretended not to hear, as impartial a god as there ever was to importuning and petitions.

  “My fortune has turned,” Hamilton said, a slight slur to his voice. He could hold his liquor no better than his cards. “One more time, Rugston, but make certain you shuffle the pack.”

  Hunt admired the neat pyramid of winnings on his right, his pale hand fingering the chips lovingly. He narrowed his eyes, wondering along with the rest of the room’s occupants, if the evening’s end would be unpleasant. A man could lose his birthright, and many had within the confines of Crockford’s, but never his head. No overt signs of excessive emotion were tolerated. It wasn’t the done thing.

  After a cursory glance at the dealer, Hunt half turned in his chair before saying, “No need to go on, Hamilton. You’ve finished your hand. Time to return home.”

  Eyes bleary behind his spectacles, Hamilton turned up his palms in protest. “My luck has changed, I am confident of it, supremely so,” he managed. “Let’s play another hand. Tell me that you’re game, Chauncy,” he wheedled. Lord Hunt threw his head back in exasperation before inclining his chin and a moment later Rugston sent the cards skidding across the table.

  The march toward morning continued as the play deepened and Hamilton grew ever more reckless. A few of the watchers shrugged with the insouciance of the very wealthy and returned to their clubs, their mistresses or, less likely, wives, casually wondering how a nonentity such as Hamilton, the son of a vicar and a don at Cambridge, was filling his coffers. He should have been on the precipice of insolvency not once but at least a dozen times, but it seemed that nothing stayed his hand. Inhaling brandy, he was soon down three thousand pounds, but with optimism to spare. Brandishing a packet of banknotes, he waved to the footman to refill his glass.

  He was betting as though Providence itself was behind his every hand. Tipping up the corner of his card, he showed two eights to Hunt’s two tens. The card faceup on the table between them was the two of hearts. Even Rugston, face still impassive, wondered if Hamilton was on the road to ruin.

  “It appears as though your good fortune is on the wane, my man,” Hunt said generously. “It is close to four in the morning.”

  Hamilton slurred contemptuously. “Lady Fortune shines upon me. Contra felicem vix deus vires habet.”

  Hunt pushed back his chair and stood. “Bloody annoying. Latin at this hour.”

  Hamilton looked down the table, bleariness in his eyes. “ ‘Against a lucky man a god scarcely has power.’ ”

  “Perhaps your pockets are not as deep as the gods suggest,” Hunt said while a footman held out his freshly brushed jacket. Rugston had stepped away from the table, as silent as a monk, his hands behind his back.

  Hamilton’s hackles went up. He stumbled to his feet. “I wish to continue.” The few occupants left in the room shook their heads with the discomfiture of knowing that an exceedingly unwelcome confrontation would result. Rugston motioned to the footman, who laid a heavy hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. The drunk’s only response was to shove a pile of banknotes toward the center of the table.

  “I wish to play,” he slurred, nearly collapsing on the mahogany. “I need to play. Do you realize,” he said to no one in particular, “what I was asked to do, indeed, what I did, not a fortnight ago?” The last few occupants of the room tensed in a paroxysm of mortification, steeling themselves against Hamilton’s next words. The very least he could do was redeem himself with a tale of pistols at dawn. “My lady love,” he continued. “The beauteous Cressida Pettigrew.”

  There was a collective groan around the room. Dear God, not this. “Go home,” said Hunt for the benefit of Crockford’s reputation, despite the fact that he was already halfway out the door.

  “I was given no choice,” Hamilton said, voice trembling. “I am affianced ... was affianced. Broke off our engagement. And for what?” He pulled himself up on the edge of the table. “For filthy lucre,” he spat, nearly collapsing again.

  From the depths of the room, a deep voice emerged. “I shall see Mr. Hamilton to a hansom.” Lord Richard Buckingham Archer moved out of the shadows, a study in nonchalance, the picture of boredom, his expression of amused disregard familiar to the habitués of Crockford’s. He had removed himself from the game hours ago but had lingered in the room watching the drama play out. Hector Hamilton remained in his crosshairs.

  “You’re a better fellow than I am, Archer,” Hunt murmured over his shoulder as he departed with a shrug.

  Hamilton cocked a bleary eye, coming to life like a desiccated plant after the rain. “I don’t require your assistance, Lord ... whatever your name is ... I forget, although we were introduced earlier, if I recall.”

  The footman backed away and Archer tried to hide his annoyance, unfortunately sober enough to find the current situation bloody irritating. “Let’s not make this more complicated than it need be, Hamilton.”

  “You delay the game,” Hamilton said, looking genuinely confused, watching as the footman and Rugston departed, leaving him alone with a formidable-looking man, several inches taller and broader than was reasonable. Wreathed in the swirls of lingering cigar smoke, Lord Archer appeared a messenger from the abyss.

  “I need another drink. Allow me that at least.”

  “Not entirely wise.” Archer stilled Hamilton’s flailing arms. He patted his cravat back in place. “It may dull your pain now, but will do nothing for you in the morning. Which,” he said, gesturing to the sashed windows, which hinted at the start of day, “has already arrived.”

  Hamilton looked at the heavy velveteen curtains which blocked out the nascent sun, genuinely confused. He collapsed back into his seat. “I cannot believe what I’ve done.”

  Leaning a hip against the table, Archer cut Hamilton a sidelong glance. “Confession is good for the soul.”

  “And won’t help me now. What’s done is done.”

  “But worthwhile, in certain instances, one must suppose.”

  Hamilton sprawled hopelessly in his chair before lifting his gaze. “My darling Cressida. I should have left this game early on and met the scoundrel at dawn to clear my name and my conscience.” There was little indication that he was any better at pistols than he was at the gaming table. Besides which, the last duel had taken place in London over two decades ago. Rubbing a hand over his rumpled waistcoat, Hamilton stared into the smoky air as though looking for redemption that would never come.

  “Cressida—your fiancée. That we know. And who might the scoundrel be? Do tell.” Archer crossed his arms over his chest. Patience, he counseled himself, seized by the sudden impulse to simply leave Hamilton in a crumpled heap and walk out. With a cursory glance at the cards left on the table, he let his gaze drift around the shadowy depths of the room, more familiar to him than the corridors of his own London town house, which he had endeavored to avoid these past several years. Ever since his return from Egypt, his constant companion, ennui, was laced with an extra uncharacteristic restlessness, causing him to pace the floors of the vast, empty place until his unease would send him into the world again.

  The crystal decanter beckoned and he studied its brandied depths. He had intended to shut the door on Egypt only to find that London had become once again his prison, but this time his jailer was none other than a woman. He could easily have let Lady Meredith Woolcott go, he told himself, should have let her go, save for the unremitting demands of Whitehall and an infuriating disinclination to admit defeat. There was no reason that it should be so. Willing women were everywhere, he’d learned long ago. Adventurous widows and bored wives, they had filled his days and nights for decades.

  Since his retur
n from Cairo, he had not even bothered to visit Camille. The lighthearted blonde with the quick wit and generous spirit had been the perfect casual companion these past few years. Temperate, easy and available, Countess Blenheim had been left unfashionably bereft, a widow who mourned her husband as only Archer could understand. Theirs was a comfortable alliance, simultaneously as empty and filling as an overly sweet meringue. The appetite had waned and somehow Camille’s lilting laugh and her easy physicality no longer held appeal. There would be no awkward moments, no scenes, since they had both kept the stakes deliberately low. Archer mentally prepared to have his secretary send the countess a choker in the emeralds she preferred.

  Perhaps old Spencer was correct—life came too easily to him. He had never really belonged anywhere, reluctant to put down roots, either in London or at the estate. Nor did he long for the brace of heirs, the appropriate consort, to make his life complete. He had stopped wondering at the source of his indifference long ago. It had been years since importuning matrons pushed their plump princesses in front of his gaze, having learned the hard way that his insistent bachelorhood was an impregnable fortress. Better still, his cousins had done him the unbelievable favor of producing several perfectly serviceable heirs to continue the family name without inconveniencing him in the least.

  Resisting the urge to fill his glass, he forced himself to refocus on the man before him who was endeavoring to drown the devils that chased him. Not an unfamiliar sight, in his experience. Hamilton appeared no closer to leaving, his spectacles fogged with the fumes of spirit and despair. Well, it was high time to break through the gloom, Archer calculated. Little patience remained.

  “Who is providing you with the means that allow you such extended play here at Crockford’s, Mr. Hamilton?” He recalled the last dozen hands in which the play had risen to a fevered pitch, Hamilton playing like a madman, running a desperate finger around his collar as though it was about to choke him. In response to the question, Hamilton belched and glanced down at his hands sprawled on the table.

  “Perhaps I can help you,” Archer prodded, amazed at the hours he’d lost watching Hector Hamilton from the sidelines. All for a cause, he supposed, although he wondered why he had made it his. He considered not for the first time whether Whitehall and Lord Spencer had gotten it wrong. Spencer’s canny gaze had never wavered when he’d relayed the information in the hushed confines of his offices in Whitehall, just a week after Archer’s return from Egypt. Almost as though he relished the turn of events, damn the man. It was bloody near impossible to believe that Hamilton was the person chosen to inveigle Meredith back into Faron’s path.

  “I shall never be able to return to Cambridge... .”

  “Where you are a don? Is that not correct?” No, not precisely. Hamilton was a professor of ancient languages, a piece of knowledge that Spencer had relayed with his usual coolness.

  “Bugger all,” Hamilton sputtered, resolve, if not sobriety, washing over him.

  “Bugger whom?”

  “I’m not sure. That is the rub.” He swallowed hard. “And why are you so interested, Lord ...”

  So he did not know who was making him dance like a marionette controlled by strings. Archer sat down and braced both hands on the table, leaning into them. “Hamilton. If you are looking for an out, I may be of assistance.”

  Hamilton looked startled. “Assistance? Why would you assist me, Lord ... when I cannot even hang on to your name?”

  “I can lend you funds, if you require,” Archer said, glancing back over his shoulder to ensure no one should overhear. A remaining servant had slipped into the room to refresh the drinks, but was waved off by Archer’s upraised hand. The footman retreated, yanked open the door and disappeared. “Your next wager, with me, will prove undeniably tempting.”

  Hamilton’s eyes flared wide. “Are you quite mad? Do you know whom you cross?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Archer’s expression shifted.

  “I don’t know if I should,” Hamilton said, suddenly deflated, pushing away his brandy.

  “You should,” Archer said lightly. “Hear what I offer, Hamilton.” He was all business now. “You have three thousand pounds on the table.”

  “What of it?”

  “You wish to play. I will match that amount. If you win, you shall double your money. If you lose, you tell me of your travails.”

  Hamilton rallied, sitting up straight for the first time in three hours. “Why would you do that?” he countered.

  “I’m bored, Hamilton. Like everyone else in this place. I will do anything to pass the time.” The words were not entirely false. Hamilton looked back and forth between Archer and the stain on the faded wallpaper across from him. He was not an unintelligent man, sensing that something was amiss, or hidden at least. Archer pasted a benign smile on his face, although he truly wanted to walk out, tell Hamilton to go bugger himself. And Spencer too.

  And yet he was loath to leave. Because he knew Hamilton’s drunken bacchanal had everything to do with Meredith Woolcott. Damn his memories, so recent that they flayed his very flesh. He was fleetingly drawn to the memory of the smoky gray pools of Meredith Woolcott’s eyes, so vulnerable and proud at the same. She had swept from the library at Shepheard’s as if she knew what lay ahead and meant to soldier through it. With her shoulders set stiffly back, she had walked through the library doors and without a backward glance had left him standing alone, with his cock practically in hand. All of which had necessitated several lies—to himself.

  A chill ran through him. Unfamiliar and disturbing. When it came to Meredith Woolcott, he was a stranger to himself. Good God, he was no hero. Never had been. Why was he pursuing this travesty? Why had he returned to report to Spencer, ready to pursue the cause of Meredith Woolcott at all? He’d turned his back on Whitehall before. He chose his exploits for sheer amusement, for challenge, for the bloody hell of it, to pass the time. If there was another reason, it cut deep and several ways. He cursed Hamilton under his breath.

  “Let’s make this interesting, then,” he said gruffly, sweeping up the previous hands in one smooth motion round the table.

  Hamilton narrowed his eyes. “Will we now?”

  “In return for what you know,” Archer said smoothly, convinced that Hamilton knew very little indeed.

  “I have money on the table.”

  “You need not repay it.”

  Hamilton sank lower into his chair, glowering. “You know me well and yet know me not at all, Lord Archer,” he said, finally remembering the name.

  “Very few of us are original.” Archer paused. “May I?” He didn’t wait for an answer but began shuffling the deck.

  Hamilton nodded desultorily, scooping up his hand and then tipping the corner of his cards. In that instant, Archer made his move, aware that he was taking full advantage.

  “Do you stand, Hamilton?” he asked perfunctorily.

  There was nothing but silence and then Hamilton tapped the table with his knuckle and Archer slid him one more card. Archer then turned and said, “Will you draw?”

  “Yes.”

  Archer mentally shook his head. Then, with one flick of his fingertip, he turned his cards faceup. “Look what we have here,” he said into the quiet of the room. “Vingt-et-un.”

  If he could have turned paler than he already was, Hamilton would have blanched. Instead, he dropped his head forward on the mahogany table. His words were muffled. “I can’t tell you whom,” he moaned in a defeated voice.

  No surprise there. “Then tell me what it is you have been asked to do,” said Archer helpfully, recalling the last time he had been part of an interrogation, in Marseille, with a man much more robust than Mr. Hamilton. “Trust me. I can help. You have already cut the ties that bind. With Miss Cressida,” he added helpfully.

  Hamilton raised his head, fists supporting his drooping jaw. “You are right. All is lost and I am a fool if I do not follow through with this,” he said on a shaking breath, as though comi
ng to a decision. “Tomorrow I am to make the acquaintance of a lady.”

  Archer paused. “Hardly earth-shattering.”

  Hamilton was endeavoring to be coherent for the first time that evening. “I am not adept at such things. You understand, Miss Cressida has been the only woman I have ever courted. And now she is lost to me.” His head thumped against the tabletop, upsetting his tumbler of brandy. The brown liquid spilled over his fists.

  “So you have been telling us all evening, Hamilton.” The sun was leaking through the velveteen drapes, only serving to bring into sharp relief the scratches in the table, the stains on the wallpaper and the fingerprints on the abandoned brandy tumblers. Crockford’s was not meant for the light of day.

  “Who might this lady be? And why is she important to the scoundrel who has put you in such a position?” There was only so much time before even Hamilton would sober up. With any luck, he would not remember enough of the conversation to make sense of it.

  “Some old, crabbed creature. I’m certain of it,” he mumbled into the new brandy that Archer thrust in his hand. He took a deep draught. “What else could she be, spending her time with her head in books, difficult translations, no place for a lady.” He rambled on, disconsolate. “And I am to pay her court ... the old wizened thing. What kind of female could she be? Giving a paper at Burlington House in two days. I didn’t even know that sort of thing was permitted.”

  Archer smiled tightly, then walked over to the window, thrust back the curtains and opened the sash. Cold morning air rushed into the fetid warmth of the room.