The Deepest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “I can see here that this hymn of praise to Osiris mentions two important features of the deceased,” Meredith murmured.

  “Indeed, the Egyptians believed a person was comprised of five different elements, all of them coming into separate existence only after death,” Hamilton said, hands clasped behind his back.

  Their two heads were bowed over the case. “My understanding is that they were almost encyclopedic in their concern with various parts of the body,” Meredith said, “catalogued by priests who drew up lists of every body part that would be needed in the next world and then created a spell to protect it.” Her gloved hand hovered over the glass. “I suppose that’s hardly surprising given that The Book of the Dead was considered essential to anyone seeking immortality. This belief continued well into the period of Greek occupation of Egypt.”

  “The texts themselves remained virtually unchanged for more than a thousand years.”

  The silence in the room was that of a cathedral. As though aware for the first time that they were alone, Hamilton looked over his shoulder before returning his gaze to the glass case in front of them. He extracted a key from his vest pocket and before Meredith knew what he was doing, had lifted the glass cover, exposing the papyrus directly to her gaze.

  “Do not look startled, Lady Woolcott. It’s quite all right. I have access to the collection because of my position here at the Fitzwilliam.”

  “Dear God, it’s impossibly delicate,” Meredith breathed.

  When she looked up at Hamilton, she saw him not focused on the artifact exposed to the air but studying her with a look of almost sadness in his eyes. Flushing under his gaze, she blocked out the memory of their chaste kiss, regretting her impulse, along with the suspicion that all was not well. There was something amiss, something she could no longer deny, as she had confessed to herself and to Archer late last evening. She could still see him, standing in her bedchamber, large, powerful, so handsome in her eyes, his dark hair damp with melting snow. And he’d melted her.

  For now it was enough. She had struck the bargain that she would sever the ties that bound her to the past, take heed of Archer’s warnings. But it was something she would do on her own, ending what she had started by fleeing Claire de Lune so many years ago. It was the only way, not to hide or to cower, but to take action as she had that afternoon in Rashid, aiming her pistol, putting the past in her crosshairs once and for all. It was an affirmation, taking Archer into her bed, allowing herself to feel once again the stabbing pleasure and mutual, unrestricted giving that had returned her from the netherworld and placed her once more among the living.

  She returned her focus to the open case, noticing that Hamilton was still regarding her with that peculiar sadness in his eyes. He caught her glance and cleared his throat. “Lady Woolcott—I am keen to have my uncle see this wonderful artifact and yet he has somehow left us behind. Probably bored already, but one can only hope that the opportunity to cast his eyes upon such a marvel might just help win him over to the delights of history,” he said with a small smile. “Might I ask you to step outside in the hall and see if you can find him?”

  It was a peculiar request, but one Meredith found herself unwilling to refuse. In short order and with a quick backward glance at Hamilton still standing by the opened case, she found herself in the large atrium, where knots of visitors milled about the great expanse. The museum housed over one hundred paintings and a hundred and thirty medieval manuscripts, none of which would appeal to Lord Blythe, Meredith thought. Blythe had expressed a love of cigars last evening and it would not be surprising to find him smoking in some corner of the building. Skirting the perimeter of the atrium, she tried to deny her growing sense of unease, a knot expanding in her chest. It seemed that every step she took was somehow preordained.

  She heard the sound of muffled voices, at the end of what appeared to be a corridor. Meredith stopped, looking around to ensure she remained unobserved, her head tilting toward the barely audible words.

  “Although it would seem that you have an interest of your own, having feigned a tendresse for the woman. Marvelous piece of acting, which causes one to wonder the reason behind the drama.”

  Meredith tensed, moving closer to the opening, recognizing Lord Blythe’s voice.

  “I’m amazed at your perceptiveness.” It was Archer, his tone lethally soft.

  “Lady Woolcott was more than eager for your blandishments.” Blythe’s appreciative chuckle. “But why the subterfuge, Lord Archer? Perhaps Whitehall is as interested in Lady Woolcott’s expertise, as you put it, as we are.”

  Abruptly, the conversation stopped, only a thin piece of wood separating Meredith from an abyss. Whitehall? A fault line ran through her mind, a jarring and ugly reality hurtling to the surface.

  “I suppose you’d like to know the answer to your question before you put a bullet in my head,” Archer said quietly.

  “Now I’m the one amazed at your perceptiveness,” Blythe said.

  Meredith froze. Dread sliced through her.

  “Whitehall will stop at nothing to get to Faron,” Blythe continued. “He has been a thorn in their side for years, as you well know. And Lady Woolcott just happens to be the ideal conduit, as you also understand.”

  Pain was replaced with a cold clarity of purpose, more ruthless and infinitely more dangerous than the previous hot surge of rage. Tucking a gloved hand that was surprisingly steady in the pocket of the jacket under her pelisse, Meredith took a deep breath. Every muscle suddenly jolting, she lunged forward, turning the corner and rushing to the end of the corridor to reach a stairwell.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said coolly, her pistol nestling into Lord Blythe’s well-padded back. “You should be more careful as to where you decide to hide. You never know who might come looking for you.”

  Archer, Blythe and two unidentified men stood paralyzed by her sudden appearance. “Now, anyone moving without my express request will cause my finger to release the trigger of my pistol. Lord Blythe here, or whatever his name happens to be, will be dead in an instant. Because I never miss, as Lord Archer can attest, and certainly not at such close range.”

  Blythe’s normally ruddy complexion paled, and the two men standing on the lower level of the stairwell let their mouths gape open.

  “Lady Woolcott,” Archer said quietly. Meredith ignored him, unable to trust herself to meet his eyes. Each breath she took was a dagger in her throat when she thought of how he had used her.

  “Now, Blythe,” she continued, “throw your pistol onto the floor. And I suggest your men do the same. I shall count to three.” She tried to look disdainful as her eyes swept over the outraged men glowering at her.

  “You are making a mistake, Lady Woolcott. Betting on the wrong man.” But Blythe slowly lowered his pistol from Archer’s head and threw it on the floor. The two men followed suit. He added lightly, “Faron will not be pleased.”

  Meredith managed to keep hold of the pistol, riding it up along Blythe’s spine. “I intend to confront Faron at Claire de Lune myself, and I suggest you do not worry yourself on that score.” Dots danced before her eyes at the prospect and a dull nausea settled into the pit of her stomach.

  Blythe kept his hands raised. “Perhaps you might like to hear what Lord Archer has to say about the matter.”

  Archer’s glance was dark and chill with open contempt. “Give me the pistol, Meredith. And we shall discuss this later.”

  Her voice was a cold whisper, driven by a sickening desire to hear what Blythe had to say. “Remain silent, Lord Archer. I shan’t ask again.”

  Blythe cocked his head over his shoulder, his gaze assessing. “Do you not wonder at the reason behind his interest in you, Lady Woolcott? Of course, you do, I can see it in your eyes. Lord Richard Buckingham Archer is not what he seems. And I would dare guess that his ambitions are directly allied with Whitehall’s. As you are no doubt aware, Whitehall has had a long-standing disagreement, if that is not too strong a word, wit
h Faron’s territorial possessiveness. Perhaps you care to elaborate, Lord Archer.”

  “I shouldn’t bother, Lord Archer, as I don’t care in the least,” she said, warning in her voice.

  “Then why are you hesitating? After the matter at Fort St. Julien, I know you have the courage, Lady Woolcott. Shoot me,” Blythe prodded. “Perhaps you hesitate because you realize that I tell the truth, which you will see for yourself once you cross the Channel to reunite with your one true love”—his voice was mocking—“who awaits you at Claire de Lune after all these years.”

  With the slowness of a nightmare, Meredith raised her eyes over Blythe’s stocky shoulders, her gaze finally meeting Archer’s fearlessly. She refused to look away at the new intelligence staring out through his eyes, knowing, cold and fierce. And then before she could fire her pistol, Archer had the two men standing at his side doubling over, a series of blows to the backs of their necks causing them to wilt to the floor.

  In the next instant, Archer wrenched the pistol from her grip. As Meredith watched, heart pounding and heat blasting through her veins, Blythe was caught in the chest with a crashing fist. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he crumpled to the ground.

  Meredith felt her face go white as she looked from Blythe to the men and back again. She tried to back out the door, but Archer caught her elbow, their bodies just inches apart. “For the last time, you’re going nowhere without me.”

  Her expression froze. “I don’t intend to ever speak to you again.” Her coldness was like a slap in the face. On a stab of anger, Archer yanked her hard against him. “You believe Blythe’s lies?” His boot rested by the man’s still body.

  Meredith tried to wrench away, but he tightened his grip. “Would you have killed me if you had the chance?” The question was a whisper. His hand tightened on her elbow.

  “I still may have the chance,” she said, her voice strong.

  His hard smile taunted her. “It all meant nothing to you, didn’t it? All those protestations of trust last night, blown to the winds, and on the basis of a few words from a man whose true name and identity you don’t even know.”

  Meredith’s eyes glittered dangerously. “I dare you to deny those words, Lord Archer, or your involvement on behalf of Whitehall.” She turned her face from his. “I don’t know how I could have ignored the obvious.” Shame coursed through her. “Please just go, do what you bloody well need to do but finally, leave me alone.”

  “The least you can do is hear me out, damn it!” He seized her chin and jerked her eyes back to his. She wrenched herself from his grasp, but before she could back out the door, he overtook her and scooped her up into his arms.

  Her eyes flared. “You have gone too far, you bastard. You can’t abduct me.”

  “For an intelligent woman, you can be amazingly obtuse.”

  She wanted to slap him so hard that he would feel the blow all the way down his spine, but she feared it would only make her appear all the more vulnerable, further out of control. Descending the stairs, he took two steps at a time. “Damn you, for the last time, put me down.” She opened her mouth to scream, only to find her cry stifled as a hand came down over her lips. Reaching another stairwell and a door, he leaned into it before pushing it open. Suddenly arching her back, she kicked out violently, trying to break free. Ignoring her struggles, he simply gripped her more firmly and opened the door. A blast of cold air swept over them.

  Anticipating the need of a quick escape, Archer had left a horse with a groom in the adjacent courtyard. He broke into a run, his hand still over Meredith’s mouth, convinced that for the first time in her life, she was actually going to scream. As arranged, the groom and his mount were rounding the corner. In short order, he was quickly mounted, settling Meredith on his lap with only minor difficulty, while throwing the stable boy sufficient coins to assure his cooperation and indifference to the fact that he’d held a struggling woman in his arms. Wrapping his greatcoat around her, he pinned her arms to her sides as he spurred his horse forward. Resisting the urge to launch into a full gallop, he kept his hand over her mouth, guiding his mount toward the back of the museum in a bid to avoid Trumpington Street. He nodded at the guards at the back of the arcade, taking the precaution of holding Meredith’s face hard against his shoulder. It was only when they reached Huffington Road and an open stretch that he urged his mount into a gallop and relaxed his hold. She had ceased her struggles, but he did not trust her. His mount stretched out into a pounding gallop, its huge strides lengthening, gathering speed. Traveling east, the journey to The Brigand and the Channel would not be long.

  Even once they’d arrived on the yacht, she refused to speak to him, struggling in his arms, threatening to escape with every movement she made. Archer held his breath on a wild surge of fury that for a moment knew no bounds. What the hell did she think she was doing—accusing him of betrayal when all he could think of was how she had so easily thrown away her trust in him with both hands?

  “I will not hesitate to use constraints if you continue this way,” he threatened, afraid to let her go. She struggled violently, as he pulled her onto the bench in the corner of the stateroom. She twisted her body, trying to get leverage with one hip to throw him off. He threw a leg across her thighs, her feet drumming on the floor. It didn’t seem to matter that she knew it was Archer who held her, that she should believe in her soul that he wouldn’t hurt her. She continued to fight with a primal panic and with a horrifying awareness of her own weakness.

  “It is December and the Channel crossing will be challenging,” he said. “I have no choice.” She opened her mouth on a sobbing breath, a moment before she was pressed to the floor, her hands jerked behind her, her wrists bound with swift efficiency. It was only a matter of seconds before she sat trussed on the hard bench. Her eyes flashed awareness, recognizing the strength in his frame, the dark competency of his movements, the ruthlessness of it all.

  “I do not know who you are, Lord Archer,” she said, hoarsely. “And I never did.” She had made an unforgivable mistake, forgetting a particular reality in an onslaught of passion that was nothing more than a terrible weakness.

  Archer looked down at her. “Of course, you know who I am, although you refuse to admit it,” he said with soft ferocity. His expression was less than encouraging, his blue eyes hard stones.

  “What I refused to admit,” she said as harshly as before, watching as he stood with hands on hips, “is what I sensed from the beginning, from that first afternoon at Fort St. Julien. You were not following me on behalf of Rushford, you were following me on behalf of your own masters at Whitehall.” She yearned to run the back of her hand over her dry lips, and tried to moisten them with her tongue. She sat up even straighter, refusing to be intimidated by his arrogance.

  “Why?” he demanded. “Why do you believe Blythe and not me?”

  “Because I wanted you and was willing to overlook the obvious.” Meredith spoke the truth because there was no lie that would be as convincing. “And I believed that you wanted me too. How feeble an explanation is that? There is no other reason for our relationship except your own hidden agenda. And that is why I believe Blythe or whatever his name is.” She shook her head, berating herself. “I should have known. I did know. But I refused to admit it to myself.” Her anger seemed to have exhausted itself and the reality of the grimness of the situation was made plain. Her pelisse had fallen back from her shoulders, and her hair had escaped from its chignon. “What about Hamilton?” she asked tonelessly.

  “Gambling debts,” he said briefly. “Someone was filling his coffers and in return he was asked to pursue you.”

  Poor Cressida, Meredith thought. “Do we know by whom? And why?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and she hated herself anew. She could still feel the heat of his hands on her body as she’d fought him, the hardness of his muscles, the smell of soap on his skin. He excited her in a way she wished she didn’t understand. His eyes held hers. “F
aron’s people.”

  “Meeting him in Hyde Park was no accident,” she murmured, nor was the invitation to Cambridge and the Fitzwilliam.

  There was a soft knock on the stateroom door. Impatiently, Archer went to the threshold and after a brief exchange of words, returned with a small package in his hand. Recoiling on instinct, Meredith watched in horror as a scrap of red silk drifted to the ground and he withdrew the kaleidoscope.

  Archer cursed darkly. “Another warning, delivered anonymously.”

  Faron’s people knew where she was and, worse still, where she was going. Fighting the nausea rising in her throat, Meredith tensed her shoulders. She could not bear to see the reminder of the nursery at Claire de Lune. “Put it away, please,” she whispered. She watched him lift the lid of a trunk at the end of the bed in the alcove. The bed, where they had spent so many blindly blissful hours. She looked away.

  He pushed a hand through his hair, disheveled as always. “I warned you about Hamilton.”

  “The Rosetta stone and The Book of the Dead—even I determined there was a connection,” she said wearily. The image of Hamilton, standing by the open glass case holding the papyrus, rose in her mind. “I stand defeated, Archer.”

  “Turn around.” She obeyed, and to her inexpressible relief he unfastened the belt that bound her wrists. “You still wish to return to France?”

  She rubbed her hands together, the circulation returning. The kaleidoscope. It was a message somehow. “I must. I should have done it years ago.”

  “And yet you believe Faron is dead.”

  She repeated the same words to him that she’d shared that long-ago day at Fort St. Julien. “I know he is gone.” She raised her eyes and looked at him, her expression swept clear of all emotion. There were no other explanations or excuses, and Meredith would not offer them.

  “Very well,” he said. Meredith shivered as though unable to absorb the warmth glowing from the small brazier. Despite the bleakness in his eyes, there was a recognition that matched her own, that all was at an end between them. “Dead or alive, do you still love him?” The question was stark. “You owe me that answer at least.”