The Deepest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “I’m touched, Spencer,” Archer said dryly. “So what is this latest disaster you no doubt wish to regale me with?”

  Spencer lifted his gaze to Archer, eager to introduce the matter at hand, which they both knew to be urgent. “I should rather ask that question of you, my lord,” he countered with exaggerated formality.

  Archer let out an exasperated grunt. “Well?”

  “The Woolcott woman,” Spencer said, though he felt there should be no need to remind him.

  “What of her?”

  “I was expecting a report at the very least.”

  “There is nothing to report.”

  “I see,” Spencer said carefully, eyes neutrally surveying several portraits of estimable ancestors gracing the walls. “I had rather hoped differently,” he continued with delicacy, not wishing to allude directly to the fact that he had ascertained from his people that Archer and Lady Woolcott had disappeared for thirty-six hours to his estate in Essex.

  Archer rose to stand by the side of his desk, examining his mud-splattered boots. He was still wearing a riding coat and jodphurs. He came to the point with customary lack of ceremony. “There is nothing that I can tell you that you don’t know already, Spencer,” he said grimly. “As predicted, she is off to Cambridge with Hamilton. As soon as the bounder rises from his sickbed.”

  Spencer digested the news before turning to the sideboard. “May I?” he asked. A few moments later, he turned to Archer, a cut-glass decanter in hand. “Drink?”

  Archer took a glass. “It is what you wanted, is it not? Hamilton, as you pointed out during our last meeting, is indebted to Faron’s people, and as a result, is forced to do their bidding, including courting the fair Lady Woolcott. To what end I’d wager he doesn’t even know himself.” Having finishing his tightly wound delivery, he drank deeply of his brandy.

  Spencer leaned back in the wing chair and thoughtfully sipped from his own glass. “And you let her go, I take it.”

  Archer nodded, his eyes sharp with attention. “I believe we must run this thread to the ground. Lady Woolcott does not believe herself to be in danger from Faron. She believes him to be dead. Worse still, she believes I might have something to do with the events that have recently befallen her.”

  Spencer permitted himself a satisfied smile. “Of course, you haven’t told her the nature of your role in this situation.”

  Archer stood up and went to refill his glass. “I have not. But Lady Woolcott is far too intelligent and suspicious to think that my only interest in her is personal. She’s an unusual woman, clever, with wit and courage.”

  “No doubt,” Spencer murmured. “All the more reason you might wish to keep close to her and to Hamilton. This is far from over, I’m afraid.”

  Archer looked skeptical.

  Spencer leaned forward and kicked a fallen log back into the grate, adding absently, “I’m not accustomed to seeing you so indecisive, Archer. Dare I say you are not certain as to your next step?”

  He looked across at his now-silent companion.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “You appear uncharacteristically morose. One can’t help but wonder.”

  Raising his glass, Archer said. “This obsession of yours regarding my good humor or lack thereof is getting us nowhere.” He asked pointedly, “Any news regarding Giles Lowther? I thought you would have had your henchman run him down like the fox he is by now. I reviewed the dossier you sent over a fortnight ago. Interesting that he and Faron are almost of an age.”

  “Lowther has lived at Claire de Lune, alongside the Frenchman and his disciples, since the tender age of eighteen. He was quick to learn, formidably intelligent, which Faron has always appreciated and exploited. As discussed previously, he has been willing to undertake just about anything on Faron’s behalf, the more dastardly, it would appear, the better.” He paused. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing important.”

  Spencer examined Archer shrewdly. “Out with it.”

  Archer examined the inch of liquid left in his glass. “Just wondering if Lowther was at the chateau when Lady Woolcott and Montagu Faron were lovers.” The dates in the dossier, they both realized, answered the question. Neither could resist logic and fact.

  Spencer sat back, crossing his ankles, his eyes narrowing. “Does it matter?”

  “Everything matters in a case such as this.” Archer got to his feet again. “Although damned if I can put my finger on it.”

  “Your instincts are keen.” Spencer inclined his head. “You know your business best.”

  “When it comes to Lady Woolcott, believe me I do,” Archer said curtly, putting down his glass. He gestured to the snowdrift of papers on his desk. “To that end I have been studying Hamilton’s obsession, The Egyptian Book of the Dead. One thing we do know about Faron, living or dead, he was an avid collector, or should I say thief, of antiquities. Egyptian in particular. The Book of the Dead is a composite of ancient Egypt’s oldest and most important religious texts, magic spells, hymns and rituals, written by the priests of Egypt over its long history.”

  “Astounding actually,” Spencer murmured. “Four thousand years old at the time of Christ.”

  “My understanding is that the scribes filled the papyrus rolls with spells for protection as well as instructions on how to render the body workable in the next world. In other words, how to protect the body in the tomb, how to make the journey to the netherworld, how to pass the judgment of the gods and how to exist in the next world, after having been accepted by the gods.”

  “You have done your homework.”

  “Why is Faron interested is the question. How does this relate to the Rosetta stone? To this point I’ve gleaned that the two hundred or so different spells or chapters that appear in The Book of the Dead do not appear in a fixed order. The actual title might be translated as the ‘going forth by day,’ which might refer to the deceased going forth to the netherworld. The Egyptians were fearful of the night and it would have been considered advantageous to make the journey during the day.” He frowned. “I’m going round and round.”

  “Have you thought to ask Lady Woolcott?”

  Archer sat back down behind his desk, rifling through the papers on his blotter. “Didn’t believe that wise. The less she knows, the less danger she’s in. Although it is rather obvious, isn’t it?”

  “What is?” Spencer asked, trying to keep up.

  “It’s about a translation somehow. Lady Woolcott possibly has the key.” He threw his booted feet upon the desk. “It can’t be a coincidence that Hamilton, ridiculously pathetic bastard that he is, was chosen. It must have been specifically for his entrée at the Fitzwilliam.”

  Spencer was disinclined to interrupt a second time, realizing that Archer had set the wheels in motion whether he liked it or not. In his experience, he had never seen the man quite so at loose ends, his usually relaxed demeanor nowhere in evidence. Suddenly ill at ease with the transformation, he was compelled to interrupt. “It would be unwise, Archer, to become overly invested in the outcome.”

  Blue eyes shot daggers from across the desk. “What are you implying, Spencer? That my usual cool head is somehow compromised when it comes to Lady Woolcott?”

  Spencer held up his palms in a gesture of contrition. “No offense intended.” Archer scowled at the rolls of documents covering his desk. “What is it that you intend to do next, then?” Spencer asked with all the innocence he could muster, staring at the dregs of brandy in his glass.

  “Sod it,” Archer said mildly. “You know how much I loathe interference from Whitehall. I shall proceed however I please.”

  It had worked in the past, Spencer thought silently, his face brightening. He had received the report he needed, albeit by a circuitous route. “I shouldn’t expect otherwise,” he said with a satisfied smile.

  Chapter 11

  Meredith stared down at her breakfast with a marked lack of interest. The porridge and kippers, and even the ar
tful scones with their flaky crust that she had taken from the sideboard, held no appeal. With little appetite since having returned from The Brigand two days earlier, she pushed the dishes aside and proceeded to do nothing more than brood in her room and the library for the rest of the day, listening to the unrelenting sleet on the windowpanes and the coal fire in the grate. The unseasonably cold London weather resulted in her drinking pots of tea and pacing about in her dressing gown.

  Most of all, she thought of the girls, missing them with an ache that was physical, a part deep down inside always afraid for them. Throughout the town house, there were deliberate reminders of her wards, mementos she had brought with her from Montfort. Her eyes fell upon Julia’s favorite daguerreotype of the three of them, taken in front of the south garden of Montfort when it was in full bloom. Rowena appeared lit from within, careless and carefree, no doubt having just returned from a ride. Then Julia, her beautiful eyes shadowed and all too aware for a young girl. And finally, Meredith, her arms around both of them, protective, watchful.

  Meredith looked away and continued her pacing in the small salon at the front of the town house. Her eyes shifted to the elegant side table, where her hand strayed to Rowena’s pen, a gift for her thirteenth birthday, nestled in its ebony box, sitting alongside a copy of Wordsworth’s poems. Sentimental fool, she told herself, knowing that she also kept the girls’ baby slippers somewhere in a trunk upstairs. The girls were women now, married, happy and safe. She wiped her eyes with her hand, pulling herself up straighter and gathering her cashmere scarf more closely over her shoulders.

  This was no time to let down her guard, no time for vulnerability. She had been managing on her own for years and it was only recent events that caused her to call her decisions into question. The child’s kaleidoscope rose in her mind’s eye. She had taken it with her upon her departure from The Brigand, a painful reminder burning beneath her pelisse, but one she could not leave behind. Standing at the window overlooking Belgravia Square, she tried to cope with the implications of that time spent with Archer.

  She blew out a breath and shut her eyes for a moment, drawing upon what sliver of good sense remained to her. It was entirely unhelpful remembering awakening in the bed they’d shared only to find him watching her, an inscrutable expression on his face. She knew that look. And distrusted it. What had she done? She had never envisioned being with a man again. It was not the specter of fire and brimstone or bromides concerning chastity that had ensured she did not seek out masculine company. Her fall from grace the first time had been enough to shut down the stirrings of her body and her heart. Until Archer.

  Determinedly, she pulled the brocade curtain closed, obliterating the gray outlines of the street below wreathed in cold winter weather. What did she wish for most desperately in her life? A sense of normalcy, a return to a quiet, undisturbed existence where she could pursue her studies and revel in the satisfaction that Rowena and Julia were safe at last. The past was better left dead and buried—if only she could. Damn Archer and the toy from the nursery at Claire de Lune, so innocent and yet so vile a reminder of that which was better left undisturbed. Lord Archer seemed to have that effect upon her, exacerbating her moments of vulnerability with catastrophic results. It was her fault entirely, her failing and her panicked need that had led them to cross a boundary from which she desperately hoped she could return. She wasn’t going to open herself up to the possibility of love again. Not after Faron. The path from love to corrosive hatred was not a journey she would risk again.

  She huddled into the richness of the cashmere around her shoulders, convinced that she could put both Archer and the temptation he represented behind her. She had fallen asleep in the chair on The Brigand, as promised, but had awakened in the bed, alone, with Archer nowhere in sight. A carriage waited for her and had taken her back to London with only the sharp cold and even sharper regrets for company. She had been dealing with the specter of danger for years—and she could do so again. Without Lord Richard Archer. It was time to resume living. It was better to be going off to Cambridge to spend a few days exploring the university town and the Fitzwilliam collection with Hamilton. That Archer had no use for the Cambridge don made the prospect all the more enticing.

  Shortly after dawn the following morning, Meredith shook off her melancholy. Energized by a goodly dose of guilt, she sent Broton personally to fetch Dr. Codger from Harley Street to Mr. Hamilton’s lodgings. Having forwarded a note to the inn expressing her wish to visit later that morning, she berated herself for not having inquired as to his convalescence. Stingingly aware of what she owed the man, she pulled herself together and set out for Charing Cross.

  The rain and sleet had left deep puddles on the cobblestone street; the sky overhead was the color of gravel. Waiting for Dr. Codger at the entranceway as he alit from his carriage in front of the modest inn, Meredith introduced herself, reminding the doctor of their meeting several years before when Julia had had a bout with scarlet fever during their stay in London.

  The doctor cocked his head and squinted at Meredith, rummaging through his recollections. “Of course, of course, my dear lady, I recall very well. Such a sweet child.” After the brief exchange, they passed the taciturn innkeeper sitting behind a polished desk in the entranceway, who diffidently waved them upstairs.

  The physician took his time climbing the narrow stairs to Mr. Hamilton’s rooms, somewhat winded, but at last he arrived, clutching his worn leather satchel in one hand. He was close to seventy and stout, with disorderly white hair and a threadbare suit coat. Meredith stood tentatively behind him as he knocked on the door to Hamilton’s rooms.

  Not waiting for a reply, the doctor turned the knob with Meredith hovering on the threshold. “Mr. Hamilton,” she called out, averting her eyes. “It is Lady Woolcott and Dr. Codger. So pleased that you are able to entertain us upon such short notice.”

  “Do please come in, Lady Woolcott. It lifted my spirits to read your earlier missive. What a welcome tonic!” Paler than his white nightshirt but clearly prepared for her visit in a green dressing gown, Hamilton was wreathed in smiles. He rose stiffly from a chair by the window of the small sitting room. A cache of books listed in the corner by a grate steadily giving off warmth. A pot of tea sat in readiness on a table covered by a worn lace cloth. Stiflingly warm with the aroma of camphor about it, the overall atmosphere was of a sickroom.

  “Please do sit down,” Meredith entreated, taking a step inside. Hamilton eased himself gingerly onto the bed, still favoring his leg. “I brought Dr. Codger along to ensure all is well and, quite frankly, to assuage my guilty conscience,” she said lightly, aware that the physician also served as chaperone for those concerned about propriety.

  Hamilton’s eyes sparked behind his spectacles. “I do so wish you would do away with the apologies, my dear. Entirely unnecessary. Now come and sit here by me so I do not feel entirely unlike a gentleman.”

  Meredith demurred. “Not until Dr. Codger has had some time with you, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “May I take your coat, at the very least?”

  “I can manage quite well.” Meredith slipped her pelisse from her shoulders, happy to remove it in the crushing heat.

  Hamilton watched as the doctor set down his tattered satchel. “Doctor, I assure you this visit is entirely unnecessary. Your earlier ministrations have done me a world of good. Although the tincture is foul tasting indeed.”

  “It has no potency unless it tastes foul, Mr. Hamilton.” The doctor cocked his head and looked back at Meredith. “We can’t be too careful, so let’s have another look. Would you not agree, Lady Woolcott? Mr. Hamilton here is still favoring his leg. Shouldn’t wish sepsis to set in.” He threw back the buckles of his bag. “Now let me see to these dressings.”

  Meredith shrugged helplessly, the closeness of the room enervating. Smiling encouragingly at Hamilton, she sensed he would give in.

  “Is there still pain at the site of the wound?” Codger asked.

&nbs
p; “At times,” Hamilton said, wincing when the doctor’s hands hovered over his thigh. Muttering to himself, Codger turned back to his satchel to begin extracting a number of medical implements from within. Once or twice, the patient glanced at Meredith as if expecting her to excuse herself rather than hovering on the threshold. Instead, she shut the door quietly behind her, aware of Hamilton’s gaze upon her.

  “Not that it is any of my business,” the doctor muttered, looking into the recesses of his bag, “but are the two of you by any chance affianced?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Meredith said.

  “Whatever made you think that?” Hamilton echoed.

  The doctor looked between them and shrugged. “It is unusual for a woman to visit a man in his sickroom unless they are relations or ...” He trailed off. “Never mind. Now kindly extend your leg for me,” he said to Hamilton, who was observing the doctor with a dubious eye, made clearly uncomfortable by the physician’s blunt question. Nonetheless, he submitted to the doctor’s ministrations. Dr. Codger spent the next quarter hour asking him all manner of questions while prodding and poking him from his neck to his chest to his abdomen and finally ending with his leg.

  A gnarled hand bore Hamilton back down onto the bed as the interrogation continued. “Does it hurt when I do this? Have you experienced any fevers?”

  “Truly, I am fine, Dr. Codger. Perhaps just a change of the dressing.”

  With a small smile, Codger turned around and motioned to Meredith. “He’s a stubborn one, but then all men are when it comes to illness.” He turned back to his patient and pressed his ear to Hamilton’s chest. “The heart is strong,” he announced, listening. He straightened and finally opened his patient’s dressing gown and began unwinding the bandages while Meredith spent her time studying the dusty tower of books teetering at the edge of the doorway.

  “We are quite finished now, Lady Woolcott,” the physician announced some time later. When she turned around, he motioned her to a chair opposite Hamilton. He too sat down, rubbing his hands on his knees. “You will live, Mr. Hamilton,” he proclaimed with a sigh, beginning to throw an assortment of instruments back into his bag.