Having left Cairo, she had returned to London to throw herself into her work, reviewing the knowledge she had collected whilst in Egypt, collating her notes, consulting her dictionaries and reference books to refine her lecture. A few forays to the Victoria and Albert and the British Museum had been her only excursions. Meredith now looked around the front hallway of the town house, slowing her thoughts by breathing in the calming aroma of beeswax and lemon oil.
Leased by her London solicitor on her behalf, the Belgravia town house was of respectable size, made of creamy stone, its narrow rooms accompanied by a suitably aloof butler and staff, the former in the habit of regarding her with a mask of well-practiced hauteur. Broton was accustomed to serving a much more demanding and fashionable master and made his disaffection known. How entirely different he was from the perennially irascible Angus McLean, Montfort’s groundskeeper and the closest thing to a butler Meredith had ever known. If a superior butler were her only problem, Meredith thought dryly, turning to the side table to quickly sort through her mail. She rifled through a small hillock of invitations, and set them to one side. There were several letters from various friends at Montfort, but none from Rowena or Julia, who, she knew despite a small fret of concern, were deliriously in love with their new husbands and traveling the Continent. All was well. There was no need for the anxiety burning in her throat.
Halfway through removing her leather gloves, she realized she did not wish to be shut up in her study for the evening with little more than her rampant imagination and a dinner tray before the fire for company. Having spent most of the morning and afternoon at the British Library, finalizing the last words of her lecture to be delivered tomorrow evening at Burlington House, there was little left to do. She would not be able to settle anything, other than making a few desultory notes about what she might do to add to her lecture. It was truly too late for anything more.
Throwing her wrap over the balustrade, she checked her watch, fiddling with the chain, which had developed a small kink. She should go riding instead to soothe her jangled nerves. Cowering in the confines of this tall, narrow house would do her little good.
One hour later, Meredith folded up the collar of her greatcoat, pleased that she had remembered to pack it in her trunk when she’d traveled south from Montfort. At the entrance to Rotten Row, deserted now because of the weather, the mist was beginning to turn to snow once again. Flakes melted against her skin, sending icy rivers down her neck. Nodding to the groom from the Bathurst Stables who held out the stirrup for her, she swung up into the saddle and took a firm grip on the reins.
The gelding danced across the stones, iron-shod hooves sinking into the softening earth. Reveling in the bite of the weather, Meredith snapped the reins, focusing on the horse that pranced and cross-stepped with high energy beneath her. She smiled behind her collar, grateful for the distraction as the sleet flew past her in flurries. It stuck to her coat, soaked into the exposed wool of her riding skirt and numbed her toes.
Urging the gelding forward into a trot and then into a canter, she soon left the groom behind. Time passed in perfect rhythm, the distinct jangle of harness the only sound on the deserted path, abandoned by fashionable London because of the inclement weather. Meredith gave herself over to simple, physical exertion, the perfect tonic to days spent indoors and at the library completing her work. The tension that had enveloped her like a shroud was beginning to dissipate, along with the memories of Archer that had haunted her every day since her return.
Mercifully, he had remained true to his word, and had delayed his departure from Cairo, allowing her the peace and privacy she required on her return to London. Quite deliberately, she had exorcised any trace of Archer from her thoughts and emotions, focusing instead on the challenge that lay ahead of her.
Mentally recalling the focus of her lecture, she reviewed her notes in her mind, envisioning the three parallel inscriptions on the stone. The major breakthrough had come from a British physicist, a friend of her father’s who had advanced the idea that hieroglyphic characters could have phonetic value. It had been commonly believed that in hieroglyphic writing, elliptical figures called cartouches represented royal names. It was only later that Champollion had concluded that the ancient Egyptian language had three forms. Using only fourteen incomplete lines on the Rosetta stone, he had deciphered the alphabet of ancient Egypt.
She was suddenly reminded of a night long ago, in one of the six libraries at Claire de Lune. In front of them sat the sketches of Dominique Vivan Denon, who had rendered everything he had seen as a scholar with Napoleon’s army, marching past the coastline and up the Nile River. The Faron family with its unimaginable riches had purchased the drawings like so many glittering baubles. The smell of vellum, leather and paper mingled with the scent of lavender oil and the snap and sizzle of the coal in the great fireplace.
The young Faron had smiled at her, pulling the silk scarf from around his neck with one swift tug and tossing it on a chair. “Exciting, isn’t it? That we have these in our possession to study, Meredith?” He walked over to her and bent to kiss her gently on the cheek. “These must have been astonishing remnants of the Egyptian culture with thousands of mysterious symbols that nobody could understand, but only dream about.” His breath was warm at her cheek, his voice simultaneously teasing and exciting her. Straightening, he looked down at her with a boyish grin.
“You are making it difficult to concentrate.” Meredith smiled up at him.
Faron’s glance was cheerful as he took a few steps back to lounge on a corner of the desk, one long leg swaying idly. “Perhaps that is the idea, ma chère.”
Meredith’s raised eyebrows brought forth a laugh. “There is too much for us to work through,” she demurred in the suggestive tone she knew he adored. Gesturing to the notes littering the parquet floor, she was the picture of consternation.
“I think we can take our respite with a bottle of champagne in front of a roaring fire,” Faron proposed. And then he pushed himself away from the desk to hold her tight, tossing her notes in the air until they showered down upon them like snowflakes.
The December snow of London now scalded Meredith’s cheeks. Memories always caught her off guard, as unexpected as a knife twisting between her ribs. They were no longer clear as they once were, the words and images having slipped away, hushed by a thousand exhortations in her mind. Only the scars remained, the physical reality of their time together, pulsing on the skin beneath the long sleeves of her garments.
She urged her mount forward, riding into the fog at a smart trot, lost in her thoughts as much as the fog. Startled, she suddenly noticed a lone rider rounding the corner and materializing in the mist, coming toward her.
He slowed at her approach, clearly waiting for her, and she drew up short, cursing herself for having left her groom behind. Her mount’s breath mingled with the cold as it stamped impatiently, shaking its head. She straightened in her saddle, gripping her small pistol in the confines of her greatcoat, her crop in the other hand. The horse snorted and raised its head, ears cocked attentively. Meredith tensed beneath her coat, hands and feet cold but every nerve alive. She glanced down the track to see it was utterly deserted. There was not so much as the distant tread of another rider to indicate that they weren’t entirely alone.
Heart fluttering in her throat, she clenched the pistol. Across from her, the shadow of a man and horse danced in front of her, blocking her way. She could dart into the bushes lining the path, but sensed the rider would only follow her into the underbrush where they would be totally out of sight. The moment seemed an eternity as Meredith struggled to see beyond the hat pulled low over the rider’s eyes.
“Let me pass.” Her voice was low but her intention firm. The man who sat across from her was in for a gruesome surprise if he did not move. Anger bubbled up, cutting off reason and fear. She was prepared to take aim and fire, to inhale the familiar scent of sulfur layering the air. There would be no hesitation. Rowena and Julia
—the names were all she needed, drawing upon all the years when her life was filled with just one issue—protecting her two wards. She envisioned the man pinned beneath her horse’s hooves, either dead or limp with terror.
Wrath welled up within her, filling her to her fingertips, as perversely reassuring as a battalion at her back. The horseman sat straighter, still as a statue, seeming to stare through her, daring her to what? Her mind whirled with possibilities, one more ghastly than the next. Her finger curled around the trigger of her pistol, the sound of her movement muffled even in the dead quiet of the late afternoon, severed only by the unmistakable tempo of another rider coming her way.
This could be good or bad, she told herself, swallowing hard. Suddenly, the rider blocking her path spun his horse round and sped past her, greatcoat flapping behind him. A gust of cold wind kicked up, its dance gathering the dried twigs and leaves of autumn in its wake.
“Are you quite all right, madam?” a pleasant but concerned voice inquired. A man in a brown wool muffler, blond hair plastered to his head from the damp, reined in his mount.
Meredith released the hammer of her pistol. Dear God, had she imagined it all? Danger where none existed? “Yes, quite all right, sir. Thank you.” Her voice surprised her with its steadiness when she felt as though she was slowly going mad. “Nothing untoward has occurred,” she reassured him, forcing her pulse to slow.
“My intent was not to interfere, and if I did, my heartfelt apologies.” Drawing up before her, he extended his hand. A smile lit the eyes in a thin, ascetic face. “Allow me the pleasure of an introduction. Hector Hamilton, humbly at your service.”
“Lady Woolcott.” Meredith took his hand. “How kind you are, Mr. Hamilton, to have stopped to ensure that all was well.”
Behind his spectacles, his eyes were uneasy, looking up the path where the rider had disappeared. “Absolutely no thanks necessary. A pleasure, Lady Woolcott. But to be out on an afternoon such as this. You are an intrepid equestrian, to be sure.”
“As are you, Mr. Hamilton,” Meredith said unsteadily as she pushed back her hood to give it a good shake, sending small rivers of moisture to the ground.
Mr. Hamilton’s thin cheeks flushed. “Certainly not. I must confess my pursuits rarely take me out of doors. I merely sought to clear my head, having been imprisoned far too long in my study.” When she looked enquiringly, he added, “I am down from Cambridge, you see, but alas never far from my work.”
“Cambridge—my father’s alma mater. A professor, then. So what brings you to London, sir?” she asked. “The museums and such?” The sleet had ceased for a time and overhead the heavy gray clouds thinned to allow a thin, watery light. Meredith forced herself to concentrate on the normalcy of their conversation.
“Your father attended Cambridge. How splendid, Lady Woolcott. And you are quite right. The city of London has much to offer and although I confess I seldom tire of my rus-tications in the countryside, it does one well to venture beyond the confines of one’s modest existence from time to time.” Looking up at the sky, he opened his arms in an expansive gesture. “A reprieve, Lady Woolcott, it would seem.”
The tension easing from her body, Meredith loosened her hold on the reins.
“If I might be so bold, might I accompany you farther, Lady Woolcott?” he asked.
Detecting nothing but kindness in his voice and manner, Meredith studied the gentleman, in truth looking less for company than escape from the dangerous and unstable nature of her thoughts. “But of course, Mr. Hamilton,” she forced herself to respond brightly. “I would be pleased to have you accompany me. Perhaps you may tell me of your studies.”
“Excellent,” he said, offering a small bow from atop his horse. “In return, perhaps you can give me a tour of Rotten Row whilst we meander.”
Meredith found herself spending the next hour with Hector Hamilton, who was an amiable and diverting companion. Despite his self-effacing appearance, he was passionate in describing his work. As they ambled slowly on their mounts through the cool afternoon, he told her of his recent appointment as don and his work at the Fitzwilliam Museum. Meredith had never visited Cambridge, but had heard of the Fitzwilliam with its collection of ancient manuscripts, coins, medals and antiquities from Egypt, Greece, Rome and Cyprus. Mr. Hamilton spoke about the extraordinarily fine series of papyrus with decoration from The Egyptian Book of the Dead, explaining every detail of each panel’s history. His enthusiasm for his subject was contagious and for the first time in over a fortnight, Meredith felt herself begin to relax.
“ ‘I did no evil in that land in the Hall of the two truths, because I know the names of the gods who exist there.... I am pure.... My purity is the purification of the phoenix.’ ” Mr. Hector translated fluidly. “You understand, Lady Woolcott, that Inpehufnakht is dead. But the words that surround him and those contained within the shrine emerge from a series of spells designed to assist the soul of the deceased through the underworld, toward a paradiselike end.”
“I am assuming that the papyrus containing these words would have been placed in or near the coffin of Inpehufnakht, along with other objects intended to ease his soul’s passage into the life beyond.”
Mr. Hamilton stared at her admiringly from behind his spectacles. “Indeed, Lady Woolcott. You obviously have some knowledge of the subject.” Their mounts walked in perfect tandem. “I am certain that you would be eager to see the papyrus of which I speak. You would see Amun-Re, king of the gods, as he raises his hands toward a shrine with an open door.”
“Where a ribbon and a perfume cone decorate his head,” Meredith finished smoothly, her grip light on the reins. She was familiar with the different spells from the Ptolemic Book of the Dead published by a German scholar some ten years earlier.
Looking at her sharply, his brows leaping in surprise, Hamilton interrupted her. “You have seen the papyrus!”
Ahead the Marble Arch was visible, the white Carrara marble monument based on the triumphal arch of Constantine of Rome. Meredith shook her head. “I have not. But my late father had, as a student at the university many decades ago now.”
“Why, of course.” Mr. Hamilton nodded vigorously and then adjusted his scarf against the damp. “Then you will indulge me while I tell you what happens next—unless, of course, you already know.”
“I should like to hear more,” she said with a smile, pausing to lean forward and pat the neck of her mount, who snorted approvingly.
“You are indeed accommodating, Lady Woolcott,” Hamilton acceded, responding with a smile of his own. “In the next section of the spell, the deceased addresses each of the deities in turn, denying any wrongdoing in his life. ‘I have done no falsehood. O, Fire-Embracer, who came forth from Kheraha, I have not robbed. O, Dangerous One, who came forth from Rosetjau, I have not killed men... .’ ”
The watery sun was beginning to lose what little strength it had, dipping behind the clouds and ushering in early evening. Suddenly cold, Meredith shuddered within her coat. “The soul is being asked to be judged righteous,” she said, “whereas the corrupt soul faces utter annihilation.”
“Indeed, the demon Ammut is often shown lurking by the scales, a cross between a lion, a crocodile and a hippopotamus, prepared to devour the soul of the wicked.” Mr. Hamilton looked at her sharply. “I am boring you, I fear.”
“Not at all, Mr. Hamilton.” Abruptly, she forced a smile, well aware that it would never occur to a man that a woman might have scholarly knowledge to call her own. “I have some slight interest in the subject. One of the most intriguing scrolls to my knowledge is the one containing a scene showing the heart of a dead person being weighed against divine order, and a recitation of his sins.”
“But of course.” His smile lit his serious face. “You studied at your father’s knee.”
“And for a lifetime afterwards.” She smoothed the leather of her gloves, her hands tightening instinctively on the reins. “I speak five languages fluently, as well as having a kn
owledge of Greek, Latin, Arabic and Coptic. And as my own scholarly interests encompass ancient languages, I have a peripheral understanding of The Book of the Dead.”
Hamilton’s eyebrows arched again in apparent surprise. “Well done! Astounding. You have my admiration, Lady Woolcott.” He brought his palms together in a show of appreciation, and then slowed his mount to a halt.
Suddenly embarrassed, Meredith followed suit, reining in the gelding, wishing to return to Belgravia Square and the warmth of a roaring fire. She proffered her hand across the pommel of her saddle. “Sir, I thank you for your entertaining company. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“You are cold. And here I’ve been keeping you.” Hamilton took her hand and then, oddly, pressed his other hand atop hers. “Lady Woolcott ...” he said, a bit unsteadily. “I thank you for your company.”
The late afternoon had once again turned cloudy and a chilly wind sailed up from the Serpentine River. Meredith pulled her hand away, ostensibly to draw her hood over her head, taken aback by his gesture and the odd intensity of his expression. Suddenly, she found their proximity disconcerting. But how ridiculously fanciful, again. She was allowing her nerves to vex her when Mr. Hamilton was merely making overtures to further their acquaintance, after learning of their common interests. Briskly rubbing her hands together, Meredith forced herself to feel generously disposed toward the entreaty in his tone. “It is I who should thank you for coming to my aid, ensuring that all was well, Mr. Hamilton.”
The wind seemed to change direction, whistling with renewed vigor. For a moment, neither of them spoke, until at last, Mr. Hamilton shifted away, his horse taking several steps back. “A nasty day, inclement weather and a chance encounter,” he said rather wistfully, his eyes drifting over a low stone wall.
The Deepest Sin Page 11
