Faron. The name pulsed silently through Strathmore’s mind. The assignment was relatively simple for a man who had crossed a desert on foot, had lived for six months with a tribe of Bedouins, and could recite the Lord’s Prayer in Sanskrit. More than anyone, Strathmore knew the random nature of life and death. He needed to distill his goal to its essentials. He parsed it out to himself. Ensure that Julia Woolcott met a spectacularly sordid end. Earn Faron’s trust and gain entry to his inner circle.
But he would not kill her.
There was no time to examine his motivations. “No doubt Wadsworth’s hostess for the evening chose your gown,” he said finally. Before she could protest further, he offered her his arm. She looked as enthusiastic as a cat approaching a tub of water.
“The hostess is not his wife, obviously,” she said. “I can’t be seen in public like this.”
“Then you’ve changed your mind.”
She slowly turned to face him, her arms covering her breasts. Her lips met in an unforgiving line. “I didn’t say that exactly. What I would require is at least a chemise. My own is soiled and would not fit beneath this garment.” He saw the problem—the sheath she was wearing was so tight it wouldn’t allow but the finest layer underneath.
In fewer than thirty minutes, it wouldn’t matter. Because she would be naked anyway. But Strathmore didn’t think it was the right time to apprise her of that eventuality. He recalled that Miss Woolcott could be surprisingly volatile. Keeping her calm and compliant would make his task all the easier. In a fluid motion and before she could dissent, he slipped off his evening jacket and placed it over her shoulders.
It enveloped her instantly and he bit back an expression of regret. He’d enjoyed the sight of those slender legs outlined in silk the color of midnight. He did not want to begin to imagine her breasts. It was a disturbing juxtaposition, the elegance of her face and the sumptuousness of her body.
Startled, Julia clutched the lapels of his jacket.
“Better?”
She nodded but her eyebrows rose cynically. “Of course. I’m feeling much more comfortable like this.”
“We can always say you are chilled,” he supplied.
She cleared her throat, her slender fingers whitening against the dark superfine of his coat. “Before we depart, perhaps you can enlighten me as to the evening’s…program.”
Perhaps the opiates would have been a better choice, he thought darkly. Instead, he said, “You strike me as an intelligent woman, Miss Woolcott, so surely you must surmise the tenor of the evening, judging from what you saw last evening.”
Her chin moved up a fraction. “We shall take dinner with the other guests…”
Except that they had already finished with the charade of food. Strathmore guessed they would be deep in their cups and ready for their play to begin. Miss Woolcott’s inquiries highlighted his dilemma now that he’d decided he would not kill her. As was his norm, he made a quick decision. “Indeed,” he lied crisply.
“Who are these guests, Alexander, this august circle of Wadsworth’s?” Dwarfed by his jacket, she said his name carefully. Her tone was light but her words flickered with tension, reminding him that he didn’t know her and couldn’t presume her mood or predict her actions. Hers was an unusual temperament, equal parts volatility and reticence. Why she was important to Faron, or more specifically, why her death was important to Faron, mattered little, he reminded himself. The story, like so many other stories, was ultimately insignificant.
The large four-poster bed with its heaped pillows loomed in the background. Strathmore had already dismissed the idea that Julia Woolcott was the Frenchman’s former lover. His instincts were infallible, and the woman had clearly known no man. That she would come to a sordid end disturbed him, and suddenly, he fought an overwhelming urge to quit the opulent room and the baroque plans awaiting Julia Woolcott at his hands.
Her low voice cut through his thoughts. “I have decided my wisest course will be to make the rounds, meet Sir Wadsworth’s guests, and then plead a headache as an excuse to bid a quick good night and make a hasty retreat.”
He glanced at her sharply, the back of his neck tightening. The ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantle seemed louder. “I shouldn’t have thought you interested in the identity of Wadsworth’s guests, Miss Woolcott.”
“Then you supposed incorrectly,” she said stiffly.
How utterly resolute she looked, despite her absolute fragility. He could crush her if he so chose. Swathed in his coat and barefoot, she seemed no older than a child and she exuded a ridiculous vulnerability that set his teeth on edge. It occurred to him she might be foolish enough to search for Faron among Wadsworth’s coterie. Why? He said carefully, “As I mentioned earlier, knowledge can be dangerous. At evenings such as this, discretion is highly advisable.”
“Discretion? In this instance, isn’t that the same thing as looking for a curate among a den of thieves? Since you are so reluctant to divulge the reason for my being here at Eccles House, I have little choice but to find answers on my own.”
Her gaze sharpened and he was suddenly beset by an image of her behind the camera’s lens. He had, of course, witnessed examples of the craft of daguerreotype, but his experience had not included encounters with women brandishing lenses, shutters, and related paraphernalia. With one hand still on the lapel of his evening coat, she continued to examine him with what he could only call a practiced eye, reflexively coiling her hair into a simple knot at the base of her neck. The woman was not in the least vain, he noted, and recalled his mother, whom he hadn’t given a thought in years. Outrageously beautiful, monstrously flighty, and monumentally empty-headed, Lady Alicia Broughton Strathmore had led his father in an evil dance.
Miss Woolcott fastened her hair with a final twist of her free hand, not bothering to look for a mirror. “You are, I take it, exceedingly comfortable with the mores of such events,” she said, “but then, of course, why else were you chosen to be my escort?” She huffed away from him, sweeping up a pair of slippers from a cushioned settee. Still clutching the lapels of his coat over her breasts, she slid her narrow feet into first one and then the other shoe.
Why indeed? Strathmore smiled tightly. He was beginning to believe she might prove more valuable to him alive than dead. Perhaps Julia Woolcott would lead him to Faron. The strategy held a strong appeal, suddenly.
“Let’s be done with this, shall we, Miss Woolcott?” He proffered his arm, his muscles tensing against the cool of her hand where it rested on the cambric of his evening shirt.
“And all will be well?” She turned her face to his, her skin as finely grained as silk, her wide eyes as shuttered as a camera’s lens.
“You have my word,” he lied smoothly. And judging by her small smile, they both knew it.
“Here you are at last,” boomed a surprisingly little man, almost as rotund as he was tall. “Keeping our Miss Woolcott to yourself, you devil. Now you know that is simply not permitted.”
Reluctantly, Strathmore handed Julia to Sir Simon Wadsworth, who proceeded to settle her into one of the salon’s deep chairs. Around them elegantly attired couples perched on sofas or chairs, some braced against the richly paneled walls, all sipping from delicate crystal flutes filled with champagne. To the last one they exuded a look of louche boredom, unimpressed, despite the lavish surroundings and the impeccably attired footmen catering to their every whim.
After several discreet introductions, Wadsworth fixed his eyes, underscored with heavy, purple pouches, upon Julia. “Now, my dear, I heard of the contretemps yesterday which, I take it, has been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. Unfortunate that you missed yesterday’s entertainments.”
She bowed her head slightly, feigning embarrassment. “Most assuredly,” she murmured. “I was overcome by the strain of travel,” she demurred then lifted her gaze to glance admiringly at her surroundings. Her gaze fixed on the hall’s enormous panels, each depicting a different scene from Greek mythology.
There was winsome Persephone, a beauteous Diana, spear raised. And in the far corner, Hera staring off angrily into the clouds.
Wadsworth chuckled meaningfully. “The strain of travel? I thought perhaps a little lovers’ quarrel? Adds spice, does it not?” he continued. “Regardless of the reason for your absence yesterday evening, I am pleased that you’re quite recovered, dear girl.”
“Miss Woolcott tends to high spirits at times,” added Strathmore and then for good measure, “It’s her penchant for drama that attracted me to her in the first instance, I believe.”
Wadsworth’s eyes bulged with anticipation. “A highly spirited filly, eh? Hot blooded? But clearly not an actress, what with that innocence about her. From the countryside, eh?” he speculated, clearly pleased. The countryside, in his experience, offered discreet but reliable entertainments. Governesses turned out on the doorstep because of an ill-advised affair with the scion of the family or even, he licked his lower lip in anticipation, fallen daughters of ministers, or young widows impoverished by hard times. This one had that look about her, a debauched innocence what with those lips and legs. “I encouraged everyone to find an escort with the proper, shall we say, temperament for our little soiree.” He leered enthusiastically, his short-sightedness an excuse to move in closer to Julia. “Well done, Strathmore.”
Julia’s shoulders stiffened. Whether from first hearing his family name from his unflattering description of her temperament, or from Wadsworth’s proximity, Strathmore wasn’t sure. But he did know, instinctively, that it was his opportunity to set the groundwork for what was to come. Word would get back to Faron that Julia Woolcott was given to fits of pique, perhaps even possessed of an ungovernable temper.
Julia lowered her lashes, hiding a blaze of awareness. Strathmore. The name meant something to her as it did to most of England. Although it was most likely his older brother who came readily to mind, not the younger scion who had decamped for exotic climes over a decade ago.
“I much appreciated the invitation from Lord Strathmore,” she said, coolly addressing Wadsworth. “It does one good to get out and about, does it not? Rather than rusticating in the countryside as is my tendency. Please do tell me a little about Eccles House and your guests.”
Julia did not know what she was asking. Wadsworth launched enthusiastically into a lascivious tale about the estate, which had hosted, not quite one hundred years earlier, a colorful array of rakes, libertines, courtesans, and adventurers who had enjoyed despoiling the manor house with alarming regularity. “Indeed yes, my great grandfather’s guests raced through the dark forests of the countryside for frenzied couplings or libidinous meetings in ruined abbeys, erotic gardens, and underground tunnels. I should be pleased to be your host at any time, my dear, should you care to see some of the more interesting follies.”
Julia remained amazingly composed. “What an interesting family, sir. I do recall hearing of your great grandfather who, it has been written, fornicated his way across Europe on two Grand Tours, causing scandals from St. Petersburg to Constantinople.” She added serenely, “As I understand it, he was also a member of Parliament.”
“We do try to keep up the tradition,” chortled Wadsworth, whose family continued to hold the seat though he never bothered to attend Parliament. “Why, I recall old Edgar, as we in the family call him, would use Eccles house for all manner of carnal misbehavior.” He warmed to his subject. “From what we know, he would gather his guests for twice weekly bacchanals and my goodness, there are stories of aristocratic women traveling from London to join the frolics dressed as nuns. Comely local nymphs were enticed, so it is told, to lie quite bare on the altar of lust.” His jowls trembling, he continued heartily. “And of course there were the caves.”
Julia tilted her head to one side inquiringly. “The caves? I do recall hearing of abandoned chalk mines in the area.”
Wadsworth, thought Strathmore with a twinge of irritation, was more than pleased to oblige his captive audience with an excruciatingly detailed explanation. “You are quite the scholar, my dear,” sighed Wadsworth admiringly, his cheeks ruddy with enthusiasm. “My great grandfather had ordered the caves built in the 1750s, converting a chalk mine into elaborate tunnels and grottoes going down over three hundred feet. He was very imaginative, I must say, with a bridge built over a subterranean river which they christened the Styx, naturally, and an elaborate entrance with a façade to evoke the nave of a church. Quite an exemplary effort, and as I offered earlier, I should be delighted to be your escort should you choose to experience some of our unique sights first hand, my dear.”
“Most kind of you to offer, sir. But I do believe the evening’s entertainments hold enough excitement for the moment, as do your guests with whom I should like to become better acquainted.”
Strathmore experienced an unexpected flare of temper. Julia Woolcott was indeed looking for someone. Faron. Dangerous for her, of course, but easier for him. He tamped down his inexplicable irritation.
“Indeed yes, my dear, I should be more than pleased to make introductions. As I am certain Lord Strathmore has informed you, we hew to a certain protocol that requests we do not divulge names once we leave the estate. We endeavor to keep our diversions private. To protect the innocent.” With that last statement, Wadsworth let out a bark of laughter.
Strathmore tensed, watching Julia survey the room. Faron had chosen her for a reason—and she, no doubt, knew it.
“That includes you as well, Strathmore, despite the reputation that precedes you,” said Wadsworth, continuing with a bonhomie that made Strathmore think of a snake charmer he’d once met in the Sindi province of India. “You’ve been outside the country for a time. Up to all manner of interesting diversions, no doubt.”
“I’ve been away some years,” Strathmore said, accepting a glass of claret from a passing footman who glided by as discreetly as a ghost. He preferred brandy but finished the claret in one mouthful. It had been some time since spirits had warmed his belly.
Wadsworth chuckled. “Indeed, indeed. I’ve been keeping abreast of your explorations, young man. Is there any truth to the rumor that you infiltrated the walled city of Ethiopia, Harar to be exact, a land forbidden to foreigners? That would make you the first white man to enter and leave alive.”
Strathmore nodded. He didn’t add that he and his followers had been hunted through the desert back to the safety of the coast, barely surviving the trek. If Miss Woolcott was surprised at the revelation, she let on with only a slight tightening of her full lips, which curved in seeming appreciation of Wadsworth’s prattle.
The older man, flushed with brandy and anticipation, continued. “More specifically, we’ve heard tittle-tattle about your latest project, the news of which has already made the rounds in select circles. Although I should suppose the Royal Society won’t be quick to invite you to discuss it publicly.” Wadsworth stroked his belly, tautly encased in blue velvet. Then he turned to the elegant blonde who had appeared behind him. Her delicate fingers clasped around her flute, she sipped slowly, all the while keeping her gaze glued on Strathmore with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Quite a rousing read what, Felicity?” continued Wadsworth, with a wink toward the blonde before turning back to Strathmore. “Is it any wonder I saw fit to invite Strathmore to my little gathering?”
“You have found me out,” said Strathmore smoothly, assuming the characteristic air of a man who took without asking, a man as at home in luxury as he was in a bedouin tent. He knew his size and demeanor alone commanded the attention of the room, precisely what Faron had intended. Two other gentlemen drifted into their circle, scenting new prey, their gaze all but pinning Julia to her seat. She almost looked relieved, her eyes darting around the room as if to reassure herself the evening was proceeding along rather pedestrian lines. No one had yet divested themselves of clothing or flung themselves buck naked on one of the overstuffed divans lining the wall.
A narrow-faced, balding man, who introduced himself only as
Robertson, gave Julia a lingering nod before lifting his flute high as if to toast the revelries to come. “I have not read it myself although I have heard that your translation captures the flavor of the original brilliantly, Strathmore,” said Robertson, snagging another flute of champagne from a passing footman and offering it to Julia with a familiarity that bespoke intimacy. She released the grip on Strathmore’s evening coat to accept the drink.
Wadsworth’s smirk widened. “Expect you’ll be able to show us a thing or two, eh Strathmore? Living with savages does have its benefits, I should say.” Like an orchestra’s conductor, Wadsworth lowered his numerous chins to cue laughter all around. Strathmore didn’t have to confirm that Julia had paled beside him, her eyes glowing with an abnormal intensity.
She took a sip of the champagne and then said, “Clearly, the younger son of the Earl of Dunedin is a talented man.”
“You pay me a great compliment,” Strathmore murmured, acknowledging to himself that she knew very well his family provenance. “You’ll have me blushing any moment now.” She stole a sharp glance. Their eyes met and he had the distinct feeling she had been awaiting the opportunity to glare at him. “Of course you know of my illustrious family,” he murmured with hushed intimacy meant to send a shiver through her. His fingers closed over hers on the arm of her chair.
That she knew his identity was of little import. Even he had difficulty attaching himself to his family name. From a young age, he’d thought himself a foundling, tall and dark while his older brother was slight and fair. He had little in common with his father, the absent-minded wraith, who frittered away his time on gentlemanly pursuits, forever unable to capture and hold the attention, or the fidelity of his beautiful wife.
The blonde hanging over Wadsworth’s rounded shoulders sighed with admiration. “Do tell us more about the translation of this exceptional compendium,” said Felicity Clarence slowly, a strange half-smile twisting her thin red lips. Her sloe eyes narrowed on Strathmore. “From what I understand, there are several chapters on the stimulation of desire, types of embraces, caresses, kisses, marking with nails, biting, slapping by hand and”—she paused with the drama familiar to an actress—“on copulation.” She leaned over to present the full thrust of her smile and heavy bosom. “Or better still, you could demonstrate.” Her eyes glittered like diamonds. “Later.”
The Deadliest Sin Page 4
