The Deepest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “You are my life and my love,” he murmured, his dark eyes turning toward her. “My best friend. My intellectual equal, lest I forget, and also,” he whispered, lightly brushing her cheek with his lips, “my passion.”

  She smiled at him tremulously. “And your chess partner.”

  “And a colleague whose interests match my own. I could never have translated that last stanza of The Bacchae without you,” he said, love in his voice and eyes. “Although I should add that you also cause my heart rate to accelerate when I see you in that beautiful gown you wore at the Comte de Polignac’s dinner a fortnight ago.”

  Lifting her head from his shoulder, Meredith dropped a quick kiss on his mouth. “Enough of this flattery. Father is convinced that it will go to my head and I shall lose my focus on my studies.”

  Faron shook his head, taking her pale hand and placing it against his chest. “Impossible. You have both—blazing beauty and intellect. And I am the most fortunate man in the world to have you by my side. Will you marry me?” he asked her with a brilliant smile that she knew she would never tire of for as long as she lived.

  Beside her on the bed, Archer pushed the hair back from her face, his expression shuttered. “You said yes, of course.”

  “I never had the chance.”

  “His parents wouldn’t allow it. The daughter of a tutor who was only a minor English nobleman.”

  She shook her head. “I literally never had the chance.” Then she told him. After they had made love, Faron had left the cottage, in the early evening. On his way back to the chateau, he was viciously attacked by his cousin Jerome, a deeply disturbed young man who had always been bitterly jealous of Faron. He was left for dead, with a grievous wound to his head. He barely survived and the injury left him with a lifetime of seizures and a diminished intellect. Jerome committed suicide, but not before leaving a note, swearing that Meredith was the cause of his jealousy and the reason for his heinous act.

  “The young man I knew was not the same,” Meredith continued. “Plagued with wild mood swings which he hid behind a leather mask, as his formerly handsome features were beset with wild tremors beyond his control.”

  “He blamed you.”

  She shrugged helplessly, recalling the weeks he had spent recovering in the northeast wing of the chateau. The act of opening his eyes had been torture, the pounding in his head like an anvil. Meredith had sat by his bed, memorizing the fleur-de-lis patterns on the rich silk hanging, the heavy mahogany furniture, the bed curtains pulled back. A tapestry hung on the wall, its unicorn and frolicking maidens all distantly familiar. For weeks, she had watched as he broke out into cold sweats, the first of a series of convulsions racking his body. He had drifted in and out of his fevered state of alternating pain and awareness.

  “He was never the same,” she repeated. “And poisoned against me. He believed that because of me, he was left a carapace of a man, imprisoned behind a leather mask, with scarred flesh and a scarred mind. I had no choice but to flee after the fire with Rowena and Julia.”

  She remembered the last time she’d seen Faron. She was on a stolen horse, galloping like the wind, her cloak flowing behind her, her hair escaping from her hood. Faron had somehow known where she was, and intercepted her on the road outside Blois where she had managed to secrete the children. He drew rein and pivoted his mount to stop her. Her horse, whipped to a frenzy only moments before, tossed its mane and danced impatiently, poised to disappear over the horizon. She met his gaze for what would be the last time, his eyes obsidian behind the mask. At that moment, he was still everything that she had ever loved him for in the beginning. Then her heart closed forever, before it could shatter.

  “Do you see why I am so concerned for you?” Archer held her closer, breaking through the memory. “Say that you understand.”

  He could tell that it took all her strength to keep her tears from spilling over. “You are the one who needs to understand, Archer. I have said it once before. I know in my heart that he is dead, as Rushford and Rowena attest. There is no possible way that the toy from the nursery came from Faron.”

  She moved from his arms and sat up, pulling the fur rug around her shoulders.

  Fascinating choice of words, Archer thought, startled by the bitterness of his thoughts. “You are a woman of intellect and you pride yourself on your logic. Your feelings about the matter should not signify.”

  She rose from the bed, pulling a sheet around her, although it was far too late for modesty. “I do not have to explain everything. Surely I have explained enough.” She was exhausted, enervated, but becoming increasingly out of temper at Archer’s damnable presumption. Marching from the alcove, she threw herself on a chair by a porthole, drumming her fingers restlessly on the chair arms, looking out into the black night.

  When he joined her moments later, she looked away, trying to visualize where their strange alliance would lead next, cursing herself for having revealed more than she should have in a moment’s weakness. It had begun to rain, she noticed distractedly, more sleet than rain, really. When the small clock on the mantel chimed some time later, she looked away from the porthole and was startled to see how late the hour had become. How long had she been here with Lord Richard Archer, in this hothouse fantasy of desire and excess?

  Why, she thought indignantly, was she sitting here like some fearful child? She was a grown woman, long since able to face reality and its demands. “I believe it is time that I leave,” she began, finally turning her head in the dimly lit interior, her gaze drawn to Archer’s powerful form seated across from her. He was whipcord lean, full of constrained energy; the strong, stark lines of his face did not bode well.

  “Of course, you’re free to go. But I should advise waiting until morning. The roads to London will be more hospitable.” His intense scrutiny belied his casual sprawl; his feet bare, he was clad only in his breeches. “Before you leave, tell me at least that you will not resume your relationship with Hamilton.”

  “Good Lord, Archer. Not that again! I don’t believe you have any right to dictate with whom I spend my time,” she snapped.

  “I think we have determined that you are in danger,” he said quietly.

  “I shall not have him threatened,” she said heatedly, incensed by the way he commanded the space with his presence. “He is a lovely man who has only shown himself to be a loyal friend. It would behoove you not to forget how he came to my assistance, not once but twice.”

  “Precisely.” His voice was flat, his response simple. “I have not forgotten. And there’s the rub.”

  “Why do you not like Hamilton?” she asked, angrily, then reconsidered his neutral expression. “What do you know that you are not telling me?” she asked in a hushed, hesitant voice, her nerves on edge.

  “Just call it instinct.” Rubbing his head with both hands, he raked his fingers through the thickness of his hair to smooth the disheveled roughness.

  “That’s no reason to ask me to avoid a man. You can’t do this,” Meredith declared, “every time I make a new acquaintance.”

  Leaning back in the carved chair, Archer rested his head wearily against the teak wainscoting. “I realize that,” he murmured with a faint grimace. A moment later, he rose from the chair, pushing it aside with a harsh gesture. He strode away from her to look into the blackness of the porthole.

  “I should leave now,” she said quietly. Before the situation deteriorated.

  He shrugged, his powerful shoulders in his hastily donned shirt outlined against the dark glass. “Not until I have your word that you will not visit with Hamilton in Cambridge. At least not without me at your side.” He stood motionless before the porthole, looking out as though there was something to see beyond the pitch black.

  “At my side. Are you mad? I don’t understand you at all. What is it that you want?” Meredith rested her hands on the arms of the chair, hoping to steady them. Her heart was beating rapidly, like the young girl she no longer was.

  “Clearl
y what I can’t have,” he muttered into the black night. Turning, he faced her, in shadow still, his expression shuttered. He took a step forward and the glow of the brazier fire threw into sharp relief the stamp of weariness on his face. There was a flat silence and then he said softly, “It frightens me.”

  “My situation frightens you.” It was a startling admission.

  “What else can I say to convince you?” For the first time the words were without arrogance.

  “I have given you every chance to explain yourself, to prove to me that you are not somehow behind the events that have been befalling me with alarming regularity. The kaleidoscope is disturbing. But it does not definitively point to Faron’s hand.”

  “After what you told me tonight, how can you say that? Who else could possibly know the import of such a highly personal article that you last saw in your wards’ childish hands?”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “Everyone else who would have known of its import is gone, no?” he continued undeterred. “Your father, Jerome. Faron’s parents, we know, passed away shortly after you left France. Frankly, that leaves you and Faron.”

  Meredith took a deep breath and eyed him speculatively. “You are so passionate about this entire affair, Archer, and I have to wonder why. It makes one suspicious. You have given me so little to go on.” She paused, fingers at her throat. “And neither of us is a romantic fool, so don’t let us make too much of what happened these past hours. There is something else that you are reluctant to reveal.”

  His smile was cynical. “You will have to take it on blind faith.”

  She looked up at him, a world of weariness in her eyes. “I have given you the truth. Perhaps you could do me the same courtesy. We have shared incredible physical intimacy, my lord, but I still am no closer to learning the truth from you than I was at the outset of our meeting a day and a half ago. And I sense that is not about to change. So either you send for a carriage, or I shall make my way in the dark up to the main house and secure one for myself. And don’t believe for a moment that I will not make good upon my word. Remember who I am, sir, and what I have done.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “You will stay the night here, or if you choose, remain at the main house until morning.” His voice was low and perfectly level.

  Meredith’s heart stopped at the finality of his statement, as though there was no other alternative than to respond as calmly as he’d spoken. She was desperately tired and confused. How could someone so open, so gloriously profligate in his desire and responsive to her needs, be dangerous? And how could she lose all sense of that danger when he was inside her, when she was part of him and he of her? With sheer willpower, she kept her voice from rising. “Very well, Lord Archer. Until morning, then. But I shall sleep in this chair. You may take the bed.”

  She turned away from him, the light from the candles flickering across the portholes. This interlude had gone on long enough. Faron had been the one great love of her life, a doomed love that did not bear repeating. What she’d had with Lord Richard Archer was passion, lust, escape—or perhaps far worse.

  Chapter 10

  “I don’t fully understand.” The man behind the screen paced in the library at Claire de Lune, a perturbed frown disturbing his expression. “Lady Woolcott is with Lord Archer. How did that happen without my knowing?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Crompton, with more than his usual patience. He was leaning against the mantelshelf, awareness in his small eyes as he sensed the man’s agitation. It was never comfortable to have one’s judgment questioned, particularly by a powerful superior.

  “Are they lovers? I have a suspicious mind, Crompton. Entirely useful, I’ve found. I advise you to cultivate the same.”

  “It appears that Archer swept her away after the incident outside Burlington House,” Crompton said, with a brusque gesture that set the amber liquid in his crystal glass sloshing against his wrist. He had never quite mastered the manners of a gentleman.

  The man behind the screen sighed extravagantly. “Not what I’d intended. The goal, as you will recall, was to have Lady Woolcott find herself enamored of Hamilton.” He raised an eyebrow in reproach.

  Crompton stared, incredulous. “You’ve met the man. Hardly a charmer.” He drained his glass in one gulp and thumped it on the table, reaching for the ornate snuffbox. It was an affectation he wished to cultivate.

  The man behind the screen said nothing, watching as Crompton took a hefty pinch of snuff only to succumb to a fit of sneezing and coughing. When the spasms had subsided, the man said calmly, “It is never a good idea to rise too far beyond one’s station. You would do well to remember that.”

  Crompton blew his nose vigorously, patting his embroidered vest in vain for an extra handkerchief. The admonition was hardly welcome. Eager to restore confidence in his usefulness, he said, “If we’re smart, we may be able to use Archer.”

  “You mean the way you were able to use Rushford?” the man asked, derision in his voice. “Archer is a man to be reckoned with, if you’ll recall. I believe you found yourself roundly beaten to a bloody pulp outside the British Museum. If you’re fortunate, he won’t recognize your face when he sees you next.”

  “It was bloody dark down in the damned crypt.”

  “It was not a damned crypt. It was the bloody museum.”

  “We were close, so very close. If it had not been for the baron ...”

  The man’s lips thinned. “The baron is dead. He has paid for his folly. Clearly, close was not good enough. So I would ask you to reassure me that the plans for the trip to Cambridge are proceeding apace. Have we the proper reconnaissance at the Fitzwilliam?”

  “We do indeed.”

  “You know what I want. And how I wish it to be delivered.”

  Crompton grinned reluctantly. “Ingenious on your part, if I might say so.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.” The acerbity in the voice behind the screen made it clear his employer bristled at the familiarity in Crompton’s tone. Well, sod him. Crompton reveled in the secret knowledge that he was not the only one who sought a station that just might have exceeded his grasp. He leaned over to refill his glass from the decanter on the side table and then sat back, cradling the goblet between his hands.

  “I suppose you are looking for a new addition to your collection.”

  “Your job is not to wonder why, Crompton. Only assure me that all will be well and go according to plan.”

  Of course, the man was right. Every precaution was essential. They could not afford a repeat of the British Museum debacle.

  It was an exhaustive session, but the two men parted company in the early hours of the morning, Crompton having satisfied his superior that he had covered every contingency. He was confident that Archer was theirs to use, particularly if he was already sniffing the fine skirts of the Woolcott woman. All that remained was to fling open the doors of Warthaven Park and assume the mantle of Hamilton’s uncle, welcoming the scholar and his lady friend to his estate in the countryside outside Cambridge.

  He was rather looking forward to it, playing the role of country squire. For a man who hailed from the bitterest London stews, breathing in the fragrance of fresh lime blossoms on the grounds of a venerable French estate was quite a change. It was not long ago that he had inhaled the smells of garbage and damp stone from the Thames flowing sluggishly through his East End neighborhood.

  How quickly things changed.

  Lord Hubert Spencer was thinking much the same, as his horses drew to a halt in front of an imposing mansion off Montrose Place. He disembarked, looking up at the double-fronted façade of the Earl of Covington’s London home. Not that he expected to find Archer in residence, but even he did not dare to visit him at his country estate on the Channel. That pile of stones, as Archer referred to it, had been part of Essex county for close to four hundred years.

  The door opened before he reached it and a dour butler
bowed and swept him within. Spencer relinquished his hat and noted the highly polished banister, the gleaming marble beneath his feet, the sparkling chandelier. A few moments later, he was ushered into the library behind an enormous gilt-edged door.

  With a frown, Archer looked up from his desk, a snowdrift of papers spread before him. “To what do I owe the pleasure this time, Lord Spencer?” he asked without preamble.

  “I apologize for arriving unannounced. Truth be told, I did not expect you to be in residence.”

  Archer waved away the platitudes impatiently. Spencer unclasped his hands behind his back before taking a chair. “I realize that we don’t stand upon ceremony,” he said conversationally, his gray hair agleam in the cold-blue afternoon sunlight, “so you won’t take offense when I tell you that you look like the devil himself. Actually worse than after the three weeks you’d spent on that Spanish island, the guest of Colonel Estavez.”

  “He was not the most hospitable host, as I recall.” Archer did not elaborate for they both knew the unwelcome sojourn had netted Whitehall the information they needed to make inroads with negotiations with the Spanish. Never an easy lot to deal with, Spencer thought, but Archer had survived handily. Spencer was an avid student of human nature, as was customary in his line of endeavor, and as such he discerned that something was amiss with the earl. He had known Archer to possess an impenetrable shell of reserve, even in the most potentially explosive situations. He hid ably behind a laconic façade, a patina of boredom that obscured what lay beneath. But a thin crack had suddenly appeared on the smooth surface.

  “I take it that you did not appear at my doorstep to make observations regarding my health.”

  “One can’t blame a man for being concerned.” Spencer glanced absently at the carpet beneath his feet.