Strathmore looked unimpressed and pulled a heavy gold watch from his vest pocket. “You have precisely three minutes to leave, Madam.”
Lady Strathmore pursed her lips. “I have indulged your need for adventure, intrigue, or whatever it is that you do, biding my time in the hopes that you will one day outgrow such irresponsible fantasies and realize that your duty ultimately lies with the family. If it were not for that damned trust, giving you all manner of freedom, you might have found yourself more closely tethered.”
“Apt choice of words.” Strathmore again sought the windows and what little comfort the scene beyond provided.
“This is all entirely hopeless, as I imagined it would be.”
“I thought there had to be a reason for your coming here, aside from maternal obligation, of course.”
“You are ever so nasty, Alexander. Nothing has changed. Furthermore, if you won’t show me proper filial affection, then at the very least please explain these horrid rumors circulating,” she demanded in an acid tone. “I was not pleased to learn of the incident this morning.”
At that, Strathmore threw back his head and laughed, the sound hollow in the large room. “You never disappoint, madam. Now we come to the real reason for your visit.”
“It’s all very unsavory,” she said, the ostrich feathers on her hat trembling in agreement.
“Nothing to concern yourself over.”
“A small matter, in your opinion, no doubt. A small matter of a strumpet, your strumpet evidently, and at Eccles House amid the worst possible sort. And the whispers of intemperate behavior, suicide? You should have realized that set ran wild. Word spreads so quickly…no doubt why the Duchess of Whittaker penned me a quick note this very morning to warn me, like the good friend she is. Do you have any idea how difficult this is for me?”
“I hardly think you’re a stranger to indiscreet behavior, or sordid country house weekends. So spare both of us the outrage.”
“Good Lord, desist in attacking me, Alexander.” For several moments, the duchess convulsed beneath an onslaught of discreet coughs, which did nothing to temper the bite of her tongue. When she recovered, she asked, “You will never forgive me, will you?” Her gray eyes, identical to her son’s, were the color of a frozen lake. “You are many things, Alexander, but I never thought to call you a prig.”
Something compelled Julia to look away from the scene, to trace the black and white marble tiles lining the hallway where she stood. The mutual animosity burned so deeply it could not bear excavation.
When she looked up again, Strathmore was shaking his head. “I’ve been called far worse. And now you have two minutes to leave the premises.” The watch in his palm caught the sunlight and flashed a subtle green prism on the wainscoted wall.
In a show of distress, Lady Strathmore placed a lace-gloved hand at her throat, but her tone was both spiteful and assured. “Who is she? The dead girl. Some savage you picked up in one of those benighted regions of which you appear so enamored? By the way, I expect you to clean up after your own mess. I shan’t have unsavory gossip adhering itself to the family name.”
Strathmore’s eyes returned to the watch held in his large, steady palm. “One minute,” he said tonelessly to no one in particular. “A strange concern on your part, madam. I wonder how you plan to discount the fact that you killed your husband. My father. As far as scandal goes, that’s a piece of unsavory gossip that has clung to our family name these past two decades.”
Blood rushed to Lady Strathmore’s face, emotion eating away at her patina of arrogance. “You blame me?” Her slender fingers gripped the huge pearls at her neck. “Your father was a weak, hopeless excuse of a man—and you dare blame me?” Her voice rose an octave.
Strathmore snapped the watch shut and slid it into his pocket. “Your time is finished, Lady Strathmore. I can have Baxter, or if need be two footmen, escort you out.”
Julia turned away, frozen, her hand on her mouth. Repulsed by the bitterness scorching the drawing room, she framed the scene in her mind’s eye, so accustomed to capturing images on her copper plates. Strathmore and his mother were facing each other, their profiles a declaration of their shared blood. The delicacy of Lady Strathmore’s features was misleading, as was the strength of Strathmore’s jaw, the prominent nose.
And the eyes. The eyes were the same, Julia thought—gray, cold, and merciless.
She spun on her heels, the black and white tiled hallway offering the path of least resistance. Down two flights of stairs, past the unblinking stare of a footman, through the kitchen entrance, and out to the carriage house she flew. She couldn’t begin to assimilate what she had just heard, nor did she want to. Her mind leapt ahead in self-defense, focusing on her camera waiting for her amid her trunks and boxes. She would get to it first, before Strathmore, the undeveloped daguerreotype of Faron the only bargaining tool at her disposal.
She was loathe to admit it—but she needed Strathmore, the dark and complicated man that he was, to begin unwinding the twisting lies and secrets that lay behind the perfectly manicured lives that Meredith had created for her and Rowena.
The scent of horseflesh and hay were reassuringly familiar, natural light spilling in from two overhead skylights. Ten stalls were neatly divided over a slightly inclined floor covered in hard Dutch brick laid on edge. The door to the harness room gaped open, revealing a fireplace and boiler and a partition wall boarded for harnesses and several saddle trees.
Silence—save for the shifting of hooves and the occasional quiet nicker. She leaned over the stall to stroke the strong neck of a Belgian warm blood, its velvety nose nudging toward her. The large head lifted, its ears came up and its nostrils quivered in soft answering snorts. The heat coming off the animal was soothing, the balm she needed before contemplating the neatly stacked tower of trunk and boxes. Strathmore, busy with Lady Strathmore, had yet to note the arrival of her belongings.
She relaxed for a moment, leaning toward the horse, then heard quiet footsteps behind her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Strathmore standing at the door, bringing with him an undercurrent of impatience. She pretended surprise, forcing the images of the drawing room and Lady Strathmore from her mind.
“My apologies,” she murmured. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”
He took a step toward her. “Damned right.”
She glanced over her shoulder and her heart tripped when her gaze met his. “You’re angry.” She couldn’t account for the honesty tumbling from her lips.
It was beginning to rain again and she stilled her hand against the horse’s neck, gentling him. She averted her eyes to the skylights overhead where fat raindrops splattered against the panes. A flash of white blue briefly illuminated the stables. A chorus of neighs followed.
Strathmore crossed his arms over his chest. “You constantly surprise me, Miss Woolcott. I didn’t expect that you were given to eavesdropping.”
Her head snapped around. He drew nearer, and she could see that his mouth was tight, his eyes calculating.
“I hadn’t intended to listen in,” she began, wondering how he’d known she was listening. “Not that there is any excuse for my lamentable behavior. Of course, I’m meant to be deceased, so it made no sense to make my presence known.”
Strathmore took a step closer, and her lungs drained of air, her limbs of strength.
The horse recognized him, stretching its long neck to greet his master. Strathmore reached out instinctively, rhythmically rubbing the animal’s nose. “I regret that you witnessed the exchange,” he said abruptly.
Julia said nothing, wondering what it was like to be Alexander Strathmore, long estranged from his family, judging by the cold hatred that had enveloped the drawing room like a shroud.
“Lady Strathmore is a difficult woman,” he said, filling in the silence that was punctuated only by the steadily increasing patter of rain overhead.
“I cannot really imagine it,” said Julia honestly. “I cannot imagine
my life without Meredith and Rowena. They mean everything to me.”
“Then you are among the fortunate few, Miss Woolcott.”
The admission was startling—coming from him. Strathmore continued caressing the animal and Julia was spellbound by his hands, large but beautifully made. Those same hands had…she stopped herself cold.
To halt her wayward thoughts, she rubbed her palms over her upper arms. “Family relations oftentimes can be strained,” she said. She didn’t remember her own mother or father, her past a blank slate, her whole world a cocoon circumscribed by Meredith and Rowena. She had never wanted anything more. Until now. And only because their lives were imperiled.
Lightning flashed in a staccato outburst. Strathmore could take her closer to that threat. She knew little enough about what lay beneath the surface of his façade of explorer and adventurer extraordinaire, but she had just gotten a glimpse in the drawing room. She didn’t want to ask the question bubbling beneath the surface, whether it was true that Lady Strathmore had murdered her husband. The very possibility was horrendous. Julia would rather test nature’s fury than question Strathmore on the matter.
The rain filled the silence that stretched like a rope on the verge of snapping.
“Are you an equestrienne, Miss Woolcott?” Strathmore said finally, startling her with an abrupt change in subject.
The tension momentarily dispelled, she let her eyes drift admiringly over the glossy coat of the Belgian. “Actually, no. I love horses, or at least my pony, Squire, who is as safe and comfortable as a rocking chair, but it is my sister who is the amazon in our family,” she admitted honestly. “She is an excellent horsewoman while I, if you have not already noticed, am almost entirely without grace, continually tripping over my own feet.”
“How is your wound healing?”
She flushed. “All is well, thank you. Baxter’s poultice is helping immeasurably. Another example of my clumsiness, your point is well taken. Rowena is chiding me about it constantly, exhorting me to join her riding or in her explorations of the outdoors. But these pursuits are hardly my forte.” Nervousness was causing her to chatter on.
“Your sister is important to you.” It was a statement, not a question. Strathmore studied her over the ears of the horse. “Yours are other talents, I gather. The study of literature, history, botany, photography…”
“The latter rather than the former,” she confessed, pleased to have the conversation steered onto more even ground. “Botany is readily available as subject matter for photography although I must confess to an interest in landscapes and portraiture as well. There is as much to be learned in the lines of a sunset or in the set of a brow as in the folds of a flower or leaf.”
Strathmore listened carefully, as though mining her words for subtext. “How did you become immersed in daguerreotypy, Miss Woolcott?”
His tall frame seemed taller in the shadowed room, his presence perilous to her shaky resolve. She wondered for a moment whether to answer truthfully, or if it would help to qualify her response.
“Come now. You can tell me,” his voice was quiet and without inflection, as he continued stroking the horse. “It’s only fair that I should know something of you.” After what I heard eavesdropping, she silently finished.
The Belgian snorted in agreement. Julia hesitated. “I was a rather peculiar, awkward child. Quite withdrawn, and not interested in the usual childhood pastimes and games.”
Another clap of thunder was followed by a slice of lightning. The horses stomped their disapproval.
“Go on,” said Strathmore, leaning against the stall door.
It occurred to her that they were very alone and, suddenly, his virility struck her like a blow, his muscled arms and broad chest filling her vision. She followed the lean, hard outlines of his torso with her gaze, words flowing to cover her painfully acute awareness. “I was a peculiar child,” she repeated. “I always stood back, watching, observing, with very little interest in joining the play of the other children in the village, or even with my sister. Either my head was buried in a book or I elected to spend inordinate amounts of time alone.”
She focused on the memories, anything to dilute the intensity of being so close to Strathmore. It was to be expected, her reaction to his presence, after the incidents at Eccles House, their enforced intimacy. The rain pounded on the skylights overhead, keeping time with her pulse. “As a result,” she forced herself to continue, “my aunt retained many tutors for me, encouraging my studies. It was one of the last of these, a Mr. Masters, who had worked originally with Daguerre and Niepce in Paris a decade earlier, who introduced me to the process. He taught me everything I know about photography and it has been a passion ever since,” she declared with a truthfulness that startled her.
“Your aunt is not only a wise but also an unusual woman.”
Meredith was that and more. Julia’s throat closed with emotion and she could only nod.
“To have taken on two wards was quite a responsibility. What was her relation to you and Rowena?” he asked evenly.
If only Julia knew the answer to that question. Not that he would believe her if she told him her life before Meredith did not exist. They were back on uneven ground. The thunder was a rumble in the distance, the rhythm of raindrops a background murmur.
“You have an enquiring mind, sir,” she said lightly, “although that is to be expected from a man who spends his time in exploration of foreign shores.”
He gave her a faint, hard smile, ignoring her reference to his own particular obsession. “I merely thought I could be of greater use to you in locating Faron if I had some prior knowledge of your family’s relationship to him.”
“You believe Meredith knows him.” As did Julia, but she was unwilling to say so.
“Obviously—she gave you the daguerreotype. We can only wonder why it remains undeveloped, Faron’s visage hidden from view. He clearly believes in remaining mysterious.”
“Meredith counseled me to develop the plate only if necessary. We don’t even know if the image will come through after the time that has elapsed,” she confessed. “My aunt clearly suspected Faron was behind the invitation to Eccles House. Although how she could have known?”
“Only you can answer that question. If you’re willing to try.”
The carriage house was silent, the raindrops gradually ceasing their rhythm, the horses settling down with the cessation of the storm. “I would ask of your interest in Faron before I would be willing to disclose information about my situation.”
“I’ve already said that he has something I want.”
“Then you must know more about the man than you are willing to relate.”
“That may be so, but there is little to gain in sharing the information with you. Other than placing you in grave danger—yet again.”
Desperation warred with impatience. “I do not need protection, sir. Perhaps if we were to put our heads together—”
“What would you have done had I followed through—decided to kill you?” he asked abruptly. “There would have been little you could do to protect yourself.”
“Then why didn’t you?” The challenge slipped out before she knew it. “Kill me and be done with it. Gain Faron’s trust—for whatever it is you want so desperately.”
He didn’t hesitate. “When I make up my mind, I do so quickly.”
“So what changed it?”
Something flickered in the dark gray of his eyes. “The realization that I could get away with it—the double cross, as it were. Besides which, I relish a challenge, preferring to take a fork in a road rather than the direct way in.”
Was he referring to her or Faron? Julia wasn’t precisely certain. “Getting away with it, as you put it, requires that I remain dead and out of sight. And whilst I do that, how do you intend to proceed?”
He shook his head. “No need to involve you any further, Miss Woolcott. The image of Faron that you have in your possession might possibly be helpful enough.�
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“And if I refuse to disclose the whereabouts of the plate?” Julia did not know whence her courage came, other than a fierce determination to protect Meredith and Rowena.
“Then I believe that’s what one calls an impasse,” he said straightening away from the stall door, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Generally unhelpful.”
“I’m surprised you have yet to ransack my belongings,” she said, feeling unaccountably belligerent, her eyes on her trunk and boxes piled near the tack room.
“You need me, Miss Woolcott,” he said bluntly, “more than I need you, daguerreotype or not.” He dismissed her trunk with a glance. “You admitted it yourself, several times.”
She jerked her chin, unwilling to admit even to herself that his very physicality, his obvious intelligence and penchant for arrogance, were precisely what she needed if she was to eliminate the danger to her family. Alexander Strathmore had crossed deserts, scaled mountains, exchanged words with long-lost primitives. For his own reasons, he wanted to locate Faron. He was one of the few men equipped to do so.
“That may be so, sir,” she said, taking a step back and standing straight, attempting to intimidate him with her resolve.
The weather was clearing and watery light slanted through the skylights. She was struck anew by his stark power, the gleam of his black hair, his hard profile etched against the milky light. Again she thought of those searing moments at Eccles House, while a radiating heat bloomed in her chest.
Alexander Strathmore was a compelling man who surely had scores of women falling at his feet. She remembered the scorching looks that Felicity Clarence had cast his way. It had very possibly stretched Strathmore’s own acting abilities, having to feign passion for an arguably plain woman, awkward and unversed in the arts of…well, the arts of Felicity, for want of a better description. Julia felt mortified all over again.
The Deadliest Sin Page 9
