“Just a few more moments’ walk. I feel the need for air. I suppose with all the excitement ...” Hamilton nodded, his eyes behind his spectacles concerned, and Meredith sensed that he was somehow uneasy. She looked to her left, where the wide alley of Albermarle Street stretched to the north toward the Thames. She pictured the river with its sluggish, dark water carrying odd bits of debris. She shivered, remembering how she’d thought they’d lost Rowena forever to the currents of the Irthing. The wind moaned through the gaps between the bridge’s balustrades, the pale stone gaze of the Southbank Lion just out of sight. Puddles marred the street, dimpled under the light rain. A familiar prickle skittered down her spine, the awareness of being followed or watched, bringing with it a world of horrendous possibilities: a blow to the head, someone strangling her from behind, a watery grave in the Thames. She shivered in the dampness.
It had been ever thus, looking over her shoulder. Until the moment that Rushford and Rowena had told her Faron lay dead, drowned in the swirling tides of the Channel. Her heart had twisted, shocking her with the ferocity of the pain. A man she had once loved and who had tormented her for too many years was now gone.
Hamilton was saying something, but Meredith heard very little. Each step she took carried her deeper into her thoughts. She knew that she was neither a weak nor emotional woman and had done her best for her wards for many years. Inheriting Montfort upon her father’s death, after he’d been predeceased by an older brother, she had come into the means that allowed her to shelter her young charges from the evil she had had a hand in creating. When she’d thought Julia missing and Rowena dead, she had spent what seemed like days scanning the expansive grounds of Montfort, expecting to see Rowena on her horse Dragon, or Julia setting up her photographic apparatus by the gazebo. Desperate to have the girls returned to her, hoping for a miraculous gift, she only saw a horizon that was an unforgiving gunmetal gray. They could not be taken away from her, her conscious mind had cried, even though cruel logic had dictated that she must give up hope and give in to her grief.
Then the gift came. Her girls brought back to life. Back to Montfort.
The tightness in Meredith’s chest eased. Barlow Place stretched out before her, the cobblestone road slick with damp, reflecting the dull glow of gaslight. There was nothing left to fear. Meredith turned to Hamilton, whom she’d all but forgotten. He kept pace with her long strides, respectful of her need for silence. “Thank you, dear Mr. Hamilton, for your company,” she blurted out, suddenly, unaccountably grateful. The man demanded nothing of her save her presence.
He gripped his umbrella more tightly beneath his arm. “For what, my dear Lady Woolcott?” he asked. “This has been a most enjoyable evening.” He took stock of her weariness. “Although you must be both entirely exhausted and exhilarated so I shall insist that we stop here. I shall see to our getting a hansom.”
Without waiting for her agreement, he pulled her back to the corner where Charles Street intersected with a narrow alley. They both looked reflexively up and down the road, willing a conveyance to make an appearance. Instead, out of the mist, two men approached, the first with an unkempt beard, and a few yards behind him, a taller man wearing a top hat. Meredith tensed, watching the bearded man walk by without acknowledging their presence. She glanced over her shoulder as he passed. When she turned back, the man in the top hat stood before her, his right arm raised, and sharp, polished nickel gleaming in the rain.
Meredith made a sound low in her throat, but before the cry faded, Hamilton had placed himself in front of her. A sickeningly soft sound rent the air and Hamilton fell back, propelling them both to the ground. The world tilted, the cobblestones biting into the back of her head. Instinctively, Meredith thrust an elbow into a rib cage, hearing a howl of agony. The arm holding her went limp for an instant. Then came the sound of running feet, fading in the distance.
Breathing heavily, Meredith struggled to rise, Hamilton atop her, far heavier than he seemed. Every bone in her body protesting, she turned onto her stomach, propping herself on her elbows. A few feet away sat Hamilton’s discarded umbrella. Stretching out an arm, she gripped the handle, using it to push herself up from beneath him. On her knees, swallowing nausea, she looked up and down the deserted alley before her gaze returned to Hamilton. He lay on his back, eyes open and fixed on the sky.
“Dear God.” The words came out on a sob. The subtle rise and fall of his chest told her he was breathing. She would get help. But before she could rise, Hamilton had grabbed her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “Don’t leave me ... please.”
She shook her head, hair tumbling around her. “I won’t leave you.” She smoothed a palm over his brow, righting his spectacles, which remained miraculously in one piece. Desperately, she surveyed his body. The gaslight illuminated the dark glisten of blood on his right thigh. It appeared to be a knife wound. Realization swept over her—he had protected her from attack, possibly saving her life.
“I won’t leave you,” she repeated, all the while wondering how she would get help or the attention of a hansom. Biting her lip, she gently put Hamilton’s head on her lap, realizing that he had yet to release her wrist. “Can you sit up?” she asked gently. “When you’re ready.”
Gradually, with a hand supporting his back, he raised his torso, swaying like a puppet for a moment, before taking a steadying breath. “I think it’s simply a gash in my leg,” he said, turning a bilious green underneath the glare of the gaslight.
It began raining in earnest and it seemed an eternity that they remained splayed on the cobblestones like two abandoned creatures. Finally a charwoman, returning from her evening duties, came muttering to herself down the alley toward them. Meredith handed her most of the contents of her reticule, promising her the remainder if she procured a conveyance.
An hour later, they were in her Belgravia town house. Hastily discarding her sodden cashmere wrap on the pristine parquet floor, she watched Broton support a limping Hamilton into the library, where a fire burned brightly. She stayed back in the hall to compose herself, studying her too pale face in the oval mirror, mud on one cheek and hair in disarray, before sinking into an occasional chair. Slowly, she bent forward, lowering her forehead onto her arm, forcing herself to draw in deep draughts of air. The hall was blessedly cool, unlike the library, and the blood slowly returned to her head.
Bitterness closed her throat as a warm tear slid down her nose. Shamed by her lack of control, Meredith jerked up her head to dash away the tear. There was no time for useless ruminations and dark speculations. She stood, shook out her skirts, and returned to the library, where she saw Broton arranging Hamilton on the divan. Recognizing what needed to be done, she quietly asked him to summon a doctor and rouse the housekeeper from her sleep to procure linens and salve. Sniffing his disapproval, Broton obeyed, his silence remonstration for having to witness such irregularity.
“We will have you set to rights in no time,” Meredith said brightly to Hamilton, whose color was returning. Anxiety and guilt tinged her words, born of a reluctance to examine too closely what had occurred. What should have been a triumphant evening had become a nightmare. Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the silk throw and bundled it around Hamilton.
He smiled wanly. “All this fussing is entirely unnecessary, Lady Woolcott. There is very little blood, simply a minor injury. I could have returned to my rooms and summoned the doctor in the morning.”
“Nonsense.” She dropped to her knees on the rug, beside Hamilton’s legs. “I shall let you roll up your trouser so I may have a look.”
Hamilton froze when Meredith slowly tipped her head back. “Let’s have a look. We do not wish the wound to fester.” She felt guilty enough as it was. “When Rowena and Julia were in the schoolroom, they were forever coming to me with their scrapes and bruises. Rowena adored climbing things, the gazebo or the lofts in the stables, with predictable results. So there’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said, welcoming the task
at hand as a means to banish dark thoughts. When Hamilton still didn’t move, looking rather like a child hiding under a blanket, she placed a hand gently upon his pant leg. He tensed against her touch. “Once we have this resolved, I promise I shall put you in a hansom to return to your rooms. Please—it is the least I can do.”
“None of this is your fault, Meredith,” Hamilton began, but when he met her steely gaze, he shifted on the divan, his hands diving beneath the throw. Meredith waited, not wishing to embarrass him further. Hamilton inhaled, then sighed out a breath, rolling his trouser leg up to his lower thigh. Reluctantly, he extended his leg to her and she expertly tugged until the boot released its hold. He sat stiffly and stared at the watercolor over the mantel, a flush high on his pale face.
Keeping up a low chatter about the evening that had just passed, Lord Lyttleton’s questions about the positioning of the stela, Cavendish’s chilly reception, and Faraday’s revelations regarding magnetization, she rolled his stocking down with impersonal efficiency. Thin ankles emerged with barely thicker calves covered by a fine down of hair. The door to the library opened quietly as Broton, unsuccessful in rousing the housekeeper, placed a tray of arnica salve and strips of linen on the floor at her side.
The butler arranged a decanter of brandy and two glasses by the divan before straightening. “Shall I stay, madam?” The tone of his voice told her it was the last thing he wanted to do.
“You may go. As long as the doctor is on his way.”
“Indeed, madam. I asked him to proceed immediately to Mr. Hamilton’s rooms at Watlings near Charing Cross.”
Hamilton looked down at her guiltily. “I made the request of Broton, although he wished to defer to your wishes.”
“You may go, Broton,” Meredith said wearily, without looking up. In moments, the library door clicked quietly behind him.
Hector was appraising her with concern in his eyes. His expression told her that he’d expected her to faint, perhaps, or at least reach for her smelling salts, not that she had any at hand. “I have asked far too much of you, Lady Woolcott. You, too, have had quite a shock. And all you have been doing is looking after me, whilst I should have inquired about your well-being earlier.”
Meredith smiled, forcing her quaking nerves to quiet. “I’ve taken worse spills from a horse, Mr. Hamilton. This was merely a tumble thanks to your blessed intervention. In return, the least I can do is make quick work of this wound so you may be on your way safely to meet the doctor at your rooms.”
Pulling the top from the tin of arnica, she focused on the small gash in an attempt to spare Hamilton any more embarrassment. Her fingers were steady as she dipped into the salve. He made a sharp sound through his teeth when the ointment touched his skin.
She clenched her jaw. “So sorry this hurts. But the salve will help until the doctor can see to the stitching.” And with the other hand, she fished out a snowy square of linen, spreading it open. He remained utterly still, only his breathing betraying his tension. His skin was hot beneath her touch as she continued to coat the wound, which had stopped bleeding. Glancing up, she was surprised to find his eyes closed, his spectacles in his right hand. The flush still on his pale cheeks, he gripped the spectacles as though hanging on for dear life.
The situation was awkward, not that she ever gave a thought to appearances. Hamilton was a veritable stranger, in her house in the dead of night. However, she was a woman of independent means, of a certain age, who did as she wished. Continuing to apply the salve, she listened to Hamilton’s uneven breathing, wondering briefly what he was thinking about, perhaps imagining another woman laying her hands upon him. It made her aware of how little she knew about the man, other than their fortuitous meeting in Hyde Park and his scholarly pursuits at Cambridge. The fact remained that he had intervened twice in her life, saving her from what exactly? The dark thoughts threatened to return, and she steadied her hand. The danger that afternoon on Rotten Row with the unknown rider was nothing but a product of her feverish imaginings, to be sure, and this evening they had found themselves the victims of footpads, nothing more. Regardless, she thought, she owed the man a debt of gratitude.
Too many debts in her life, of late. She pushed the image of Lord Archer from her mind, taking hold of a strip of linen and wrapping it around Hamilton’s thigh softly, then tightening the ends securely.
He let out a breath of relief, donning his spectacles. Before she could protest, he leaned forward to roll down the trouser leg. “You have done enough, truly,” he said, a flush of embarrassment on his pale cheeks. “I thank you.” He sounded subdued and tired, but there was a questioning in his eyes as he looked down at her, kneeling on the floor.
“It is I who should thank you. Had you not placed yourself in front of me to deflect the knife—” she began, rocking forward on her knees.
“I wasn’t thinking at all. In truth, it all occurred so quickly that it was the only response that came readily to mind. So I cannot take credit for any heroics.” The flush had left his thin cheeks, but the taut line of his mouth indicated tension. It seemed as though a combination of shame and guilt held him in its grip. “None of this would have happened had I not suggested that we walk. A hansom would have been much wiser,” he concluded with some bitterness.
Meredith admitted lightly. “I am equally responsible, if not more so, Mr. Hamilton. Clearly, neither of us is accustomed to the dangers of London. I had just read in the broadsheets this morning about the terrible poverty in certain sections of the city, no doubt giving rise to thieves, pickpockets and worse. When people are desperate, they are driven to desperate measures.” She replaced the lid on the arnica salve. “We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she added, trying to convince herself of the fact. The two men seemingly waiting for them not far from Burlington House had nothing to do with her situation, nothing at all. She was allowing that damned Archer’s baseless warnings to eat away at her nerves and fuel her anxious imaginings. “Rest awhile and no more talk of guilt. These types of encounters are random, nothing more.” She glanced up at him. “Your normal color is returning. I will have Broton call a carriage to take you to your rooms at Charing Cross.”
Hamilton appeared doubtful, smoothing the fine silk of the throw over his lap. “I still feel responsible, terribly responsible. I promised to take you safely home and I failed in my responsibilities.”
“There is nothing you could have done differently. I beg you to stop punishing yourself when, in reality, you acquitted yourself admirably. I would not be here before you, unharmed, had you not put yourself before me. Both literally and figuratively.”
“Even still.”
Waving away his apologies, she rose from her knees. “Entirely unnecessary.” She sat opposite him in a wing-backed chair, oblivious to the stains her soiled jacket would leave on the brocade. Broton would not be pleased, she thought dryly, summoning the butler with the bellpull. She had offered earlier, but felt the need to fill the awkward silence, and gestured to the brandy and glasses. “Are you certain I can’t find you some refreshment?”
He seemed not to hear her. “I do not wish to see you harmed, Lady Woolcott,” he said suddenly, uttering the non sequitur out of the blue. And quietly, as though he thought it necessary to say the words aloud. She answered with silence, twisting a piece of linen between her hands.
“It is the last thing that I should wish.” His voice had acquired a plaintive tone.
“Of course,” she murmured. It was shock speaking. The man was injured, had lost blood. “You will feel much better once the doctor does his work. Perhaps he will give you a tincture to help with your discomfort.” Broton appeared at the doorway, interpreting her nod with a glance before disappearing to summon the hansom.
“It is a small gash, hardly fatal. I am not at all concerned. But there is another matter which has been preying upon my mind.” He cleared his throat. “May I ask a question, of a personal nature?”
A flicker of pressure lit
in her chest. “It depends, of course.”
“I do not wish to pry... .” Then don’t, thought Meredith, tensing.
“Lord Archer,” he began tentatively.
Meredith dropped the linen strip, hands up to ward off questions. “I believe I mentioned a tenuous familial connection. That is all. Lord Archer is no more than an acquaintance.”
He persisted. “I am relieved to hear of it. There is something rather alarming about the man.”
“Alarming?”
“If you might permit me to say, there is an intensity about him that strikes one as rather unseemly.” He paused delicately. “When he is around you in particular, Lady Woolcott.”
Meredith smoothed the linen on her lap. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Hamilton, but Lord Archer is merely rather forward. Regrettable behavior perhaps, but hardly sinister.” She could not believe that she was defending the man.
“Of course, I understand and I do not wish to pry, but I do admire you immensely, Lady Woolcott, and should not wish to see you in any way ... compromised ...” He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. “As I indicated to you earlier this evening at Burlington House, Lord Archer and I have met before. Briefly.”
Suddenly, Meredith was bone tired, the last of her reserves draining from her body. She did not wish to think about Lord Archer, ever again. And she didn’t want Hector Hamilton to think that Lord Archer had any role in her life at all.
“And in that brief meeting, I came away with the impression that Lord Archer could be ... dangerous to have as an acquaintance.” He shook his head in disbelief. “There now. I have said it.”
“Dangerous,” she said lightly. “I think that is a trifle melodramatic.”
“It is not my place, of course, to pass judgment,” he relented. In front of her was a man who had saved her from footpads this evening. The least she could do was listen to his concerns. Even if it meant bringing the specter of Lord Archer to life in her library. Hamilton paused for a further moment, giving her a chance to ask him to desist or to leave. Which she couldn’t. Instead, she sat back in the chair and waited.
The Deepest Sin Page 14
