The Darkest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “The wagon should be brought around shortly,” Rushford said. A chill swept through Rowena at his determined tone. She shifted as far back as she could on the small platform and into the shadows.

  “Already done,” Archer replied. The two men put their shoulders to a large wooden box, scraping it across the stone floor, their progress slow. “We should be in Calais by early morning, ready to catch the ship out before sunrise.”

  “The timing couldn’t have been better to have your sloop in port.”

  “I’ve informed the captain that you’re simply on your way to Paris for a fortnight of carousing. Entirely plausible, I thought.”

  “Always prepared to think the best of me,” Rushford replied, his teeth a flash of white in the dimness. “I shouldn’t wish to endanger your captain. I think I can manage the Brigand on my own.”

  “One should hope that ten years in the Royal Navy taught you something.”

  “I won’t lose her, don’t worry,” he said, glancing at the doorway and the walkway overhead. Rowena sucked in her breath. Then he turned back to Archer. “While I am in France, there is the matter of Miss Woolcott.”

  Archer, his hand on the crate, said, “She will be well looked after until your return. Never fear. Although I should hope you will have the courage to resolve the issue, Rush.”

  “Nothing to resolve,” he said. “Once I’ve determined all is well, she can return safely to Montfort.”

  “Without you?”

  “You’re as meddlesome as a granny,” Rushford said brusquely. “She will not need me to return to Montfort, and in the interim, the less she knows of this the better. Miss Woolcott is difficult enough to manage without her discovering her aunt’s life hangs in the balance should this exchange not come off.”

  Rowena bit her lip, hearing Archer swear softly. “Her aunt is involved? You intend to explain this added complication to me, I trust.”

  “Not now. There’s no time if I’m to meet the ship with the cargo at the appointed hour. Suffice it to say that Miss Woolcott’s concerns for her family will be relegated to the past. In exchange for the cargo, Faron will desist with his threats.”

  “How can you be certain?” Archer’s voice in the darkness was somber.

  Rushford shrugged and said, “Because I intend to kill him.”

  For what he did to Kate. Rowena’s blood ran cold. She pressed herself against the wall at her back, the air suddenly inky dark and thick with dust. She could feel the nightmare terrors nudging at her mind. Once before she’d lain in the dark, the walls pressing down on her, before water had filled her lungs. She imagined Rushford’s touch, his strong hands, pulling her back from the currents before she could lose herself in the nightmare again. She forced herself to calm. She watched Rushford closely and realized that he had, always at such moments, a perfect stillness that masked reservoirs of strength. His presence, when she heard the deep murmur of his voice, was like a lifeline unreeling through the darkness. She clung to the confidence of that voice, allowing herself to wonder why he was so necessary to her life.

  A sudden rush of blind panic. I love him, Rowena thought. At that instant, there was nothing else. The power of that fundamental admission shook her to her core, and for the moment, she was unable to absorb it, to envision how it changed everything and nothing at the same time. I love him. The words repeated in an endless loop, burning into her consciousness. He would not do anything to harm her family. The relief was like honey on her tongue. But to lose him now . . . She took a deep breath. Baron and his men would come upon them at any moment, their return ensuring that Rushford would deliver on his promise. She squeezed her eyes tight, withdrawing the revolver from the waistband of her trousers.

  Opening her eyes, she focused on Rushford, unwilling and unable to look away from the tall figure in the shadows. It was a moment suspended in time, forever written upon her frozen heart. He is the man I love. Even though it will all come to nothing, she thought, the silence in the vault stretching like a rope on the verge of snapping.

  It was a swinging lantern that first caught her eye. Before she could absorb the implication, a half dozen men catapulted in from the small doorway to effectively surround Archer and Rushford.

  The Baron strode into the center, his dark cloak swirling around him, an impresario come to do Faron’s work. “Well done, gentlemen,” the Baron said, clapping his gloved hands together in a show of applause. “No guards, no constabulary—this is truly marvelous.” He gestured to the wooden crate. “I wonder what you told Whitehall, Lord Archer, to have ordered the British Museum to oblige us in such a congenial manner?”

  Rushford interrupted. “Your questions are superfluous, Sebastian, when we have more important matters to discuss. We relinquish the prize to Faron himself, as we agreed.”

  The Baron smiled. “I fear that I have had a change of heart, Lord Rushford. Crompton, Johnston”—he gestured to two men behind him—“remove the crate to the coach waiting outside.”

  “I don’t believe you heard me correctly, Sebastian,” Rushford continued calmly. “But then again, I think we had a similar misunderstanding at Alcestor Court.” His glance was dark and chill with open contempt.

  “You’ve faced worse in the ring, surely, Lord Rushford. My men are merely amateurs at this sort of thing,” the Baron said lightly, shrugging beneath his long, black cloak. “And of course your adventures with the Royal Navy, I have heard said, have prepared you well for challenging encounters of this ilk. Don’t stop now,” he said to Johnston and Crompton, pushing the crate toward the exit without turning around. “I should like to get on our way.”

  “I expected as much, Baron,” Archer said smoothly, reaching for the inside of his jacket. Almost immediately, four pistols rose in unison in the hands of the men standing behind the Baron. “You obviously didn’t anticipate soon enough,” the Baron countered. “And how unfortunate it will be for Whitehall to learn that Lord Rushford stole the Rosetta Stone in retaliation for Whitehall not doing enough to protect his duchess. And then another suicide—in a bid to join his departed lover. Always an odd one, that Lord Rushford.”

  “And what of our agreement regarding the Woolcotts,” Rushford asked, remaining calm despite the collection of weapons arrayed against him.

  The Baron’s sleek brows rose questioningly. “Entirely out of my hands. It would seem that Faron will see to the matter of Rowena Woolcott himself. Quite the turn of events, no?”

  “Unlike you, however, I do make good on my promises, Sebastian,” Rushford said smoothly. “I recall at Alcestor Court I made mention that once freed from the manacles you so cheerfully provided, I would kill you with my bare hands. And I do believe the time has come.”

  “The rumors are correct. You do have an unenviable temper, Lord Rushford,” the Baron continued, totally unconcerned at the chorus of triggers being pulled back behind him. “If you die in a volley of bullets, so be it. You will be a hero to Whitehall then, rather than a traitor.”

  Frantically, Rowena searched for a line of sight. The best she could do was create an unexpected melee, giving Rushford and Archer an opportunity to draw their own weapons. She raised her right hand, balancing it on her left, holding the revolver loosely in her fingers. There was no time left to think, only to react. She pulled the trigger.

  The sound of three bullets reverberated in the vault as she fired in quick succession. The Baron’s men immediately swung away from Rushford and Archer as she’d hoped, toward the platform where she crouched. She pressed closer to the wall as a ricochet of shots sped through the air around her. Huddling back in the shadows, she counted to sixty, knowing it was only a matter of time before she was discovered. There were grunts, the sound of cracking bone and flesh, and suddenly, the vault was plunged into darkness. The sconces had been extinguished. Taking a deep breath, thankful for even a moment’s reprieve, she tried to ignore a feeling of wet warmth on her shoulder.

  Silence. Her mind conjured one horror more frightening t
han the next. Rushford. Her mind would not go on . . . Meredith and Julia. She could not just cower in the darkness like a child. A rustle of movement, the acrid smell of a torch being lit. Rowena pulled herself up and held the pistol in both hands, the scene blurring before her swimming eyes.

  The Baron, alone. Rushford and Archer and the remaining men were nowhere to be seen. Peering into the space above him, the Baron raised a hand in salute.

  “This might be a good time to relinquish the pistol, Miss Woolcott. If you care for the well-being of your dear aunt Meredith.” The Baron’s tones were silky and measured, as though he had all the time in the world. “No need to fret. We have what we’ve come for,” he said, gesturing with a gloved hand to the wooden crate behind him. “Lord Rushford and Lord Archer have been taken care of by my men, who will return as soon as they dispose of the bodies. Yet more custom for our dear Mrs. Banks. So you see, my dear, your histrionics will do no good.”

  Rowena’s knees went weak. Rushford was dead. The muzzle of her revolver didn’t waver, but she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “Dare I say that it might have been your poor aim that sent those two to the next world? It only proves that women have no business brandishing pistols. Most unfeminine and unattractive.”

  Shaking, her shoulder throbbing, Rowena dared herself to speak. “I was not intending to hit a target last time, Baron, but my aim this instance will be true.”

  The Baron looked downcast. “And what of our agreement, Miss Woolcott?”

  “Made under duress and in the poorest of faith.”

  “Faron will not be pleased when he learns that you have reneged on your promise. I shudder to think of his disappointment and the prospects regarding your dear aunt.”

  “I shall take that risk once you are dead, Baron.” Her right arm and shoulder screaming with pain, she somehow managed to keep hold of the pistol. “I intend to confront Montagu Faron at Claire de Lune myself.”

  The Baron took a careful step toward her, cocking his head. “And with what will you bargain, my dear? You have precisely nothing, now that we are in possession of the Rosetta Stone. Further, you don’t even have the dubious loyalty of Lord Rushford.” Rowena’s heart refused to contemplate the reality of his words. She could not imagine Rushford lying dead, his body already being carried away by the currents of the Thames. She would not.

  “You appear positively devastated, my dear Miss Woolcott. I should hope not over the demise of Lord Rushford, when he has only been using you from the start. And not simply in the carnal sense, I might add.”

  Rowena leveled her pistol, but she felt a sickening desire to hear what the Baron had to say.

  “Do you not wonder why he was close by Birdoswald the night he happened to find you in the river? Serendipity, you believe? Hardly, my dear, naïve girl. Lord Rushford, your hero”—he sneered the last word—“was willing to do anything to get closer to Faron in order to avenge the death of the poor Duchess. We made certain to alert him to Faron’s impending visit to Eccles House and environs, you see. We knew it would take little to inveigle Rushford in our plans to wreak havoc on your family—if it meant he would find himself closer to Faron. Now do you not feel relieved that the man is dead and gone?”

  Rowena could feel the blood trickling from her shoulder through her cloak. Dots danced before her eyes, and a dull nausea settled into the pit of her stomach. “I don’t care in the least,” she said, her voice strong. “But I do care to resolve this issue once and for all. I shall count to ten before I let go the hammer.”

  “What are you waiting for, dear girl? You do not have the courage to shoot me, nor do you wish to take the risk that your aunt will pay the price for your impulsiveness.” He clucked his tongue against his teeth. “Such a willful girl.”

  In response, she moved from the shadows toward the center of the small platform. The Baron’s face was bloodless in the dim light of the single torch, his eyes dark holes in his pale complexion.

  Rowena almost expected him to reach for his silver cigar case. Instead, his right hand extracted a black revolver. “I grow weary, Miss Woolcott,” he said, aiming it up at her perch. “And I do believe I shall save Faron the tedium of meeting with you. You are meant to be dead, after all. This time I will take direct responsibility for your demise.”

  It was true what they said, Rowena thought, about the moments before death. Montfort rose before her eyes, the figures of her aunt and sister on the distant horizon. And Rushford, she thought, this time with only love in her heart.

  She raised her pistol, steeling herself for one last effort before she died, wondering frantically how many shells remained and whether she would have the courage to release the hammer. And then, behind the Baron, Rushford. Silhouetted in the torchlight. He was back from the dead to finish what he had started. Taking her last breath, Rowena memorized for eternity all the rage and love she saw in his eyes.

  Chapter 17

  He would always think of this summer as one of the most glorious he had ever known. The nighttime scent of lime blossoms lining the estate of Claire de Lune held a dangerous sweetness, recalling a summer many years ago.

  Montagu Faron looked away from the opened French doors and the moonlit parterre with its plane trees and disciplined shrubs, and instead paced the length of one of his five laboratories, the aroma of astringent and formaldehyde pinching his nostrils. Two rectangular tables lined the room, topped by rows of microscopes, the instruments adjusted to illuminate a series of prepared specimens. He swept a hand along the table, forcing himself not to look at the blistered flesh on his long fingers, and strong but elegant wrists. The work of Julia Woolcott, he reminded himself. The flames still crackled and licked his flesh, delivering phantom pain from which there was no escape, a memento from their meeting at Eccles House over a year ago.

  He stared at a butterfly, its wings pinned back, sacrificed on the altar of his research. The bright yellows and blues mocked him, the colors brilliant against the cold glass upon which they rested. It was all that was left to him now. Knowledge and power.

  He knew what he had lost because he thought of Meredith every day, a relentless torture that invaded both his waking and sleeping hours. His life was a palimpsest, layers of bitterness and regret that fueled his appetite for living and now focused on the two wards who were closest to Meredith’s heart. The younger, Rowena, was a rebellious and willful creature quite different from her more subdued sister. Julia had brought him to the portals of death from which he’d only been saved by blind luck and the quick action of his acolytes nearby. He didn’t believe in fate or God but only his own driving thirst for knowledge and revenge. The first had made him one of the greatest minds in Europe, but the latter was increasingly beyond his grasp. His breath whistled behind the finely wrought leather mask as he reluctantly took stock.

  The Rosetta Stone belonged to him. He had not murdered Champollion all those years earlier to have the Egyptian tablets remain in England. The professor had been in his employ and yet saw fit to share his knowledge with the greater world when his work was but the beginning, a mere prelude to the greater oeuvre Faron could achieve. His was the more powerful intellect, as focused as a beam of light when he remained free of the facial tremors that overtook him with unexpected viciousness. He had not had an episode since his return from Eccles House. The irony was cruel. He grimaced behind the mask and looked out the French doors to the ordered park outside, which had been designed by Le Notre, esteemed landscaper to Louis the Sun King himself. The roots of the Faron family in France ran deep, their association with the Renaissance and the Enlightenment forged in blood and wealth. The ancient Egyptian artifact was by rights his, a symbol for intellectual breakthrough, not unlike Archimedes’s bath or Newton’s apple.

  Mysteries surrounding the Stone remained, beckoning him in a Faustian bargain. Faron felt it in his bones. Each study was like speaking with the dead, and the dialogue had scarcely begun. A sensation not unlike a deep thirst overtook him.
The trip to the coast would not require any length of time. His men were already arrayed along the quay like so many knights on a chessboard to greet the freight when it arrived.

  His library was prepared, a glass niche assembled that would house the tablets in security and safety. Time was of no concern as he had a lifetime to unlock the mysteries the ancient texts would hold. In the shorter term, he would dispatch the Woolcott girl and Rushford like two of his specimens that no longer served any use. That the Englishman had slipped through their grasp not once but twice was unforgivable. As a scientist, he knew the rigors of examining his errors closely. It seemed whenever the Woolcotts were involved, he was doomed to failure.

  Without closing his eyes, he saw the past, and his old room in the northeast wing of the chateau. The unforgotten feel of his bed, the elusive scent. Meredith Woolcott’s scent. He remembered the days after the accident when the act of opening his eyes was torture, the pounding in his head razor sharp. He had forced his lids open and looked around at the light of dawn softening the fleur-de-lis patterns on the silk hangings, the heavy mahogany furniture, the bed curtains pulled back. A tapestry hung on the wall, its unicorn and frolicking maidens all distantly familiar, like a dream. For weeks, he had not been able to think clearly, breaking out in cold sweats, the first of a series of convulsions racking his body. He never learned how long he had drifted in and out of his fevered state of alternating pain and awareness.

  But Faron did remember the last time he saw her. Meredith . He had been waiting for her on the road to Blois in the gathering light of dawn. He had stiffened his resolve, even as his heart slammed in his chest at the sound of the clattering hooves. She was on a stolen horse, galloping like the wind, her cloak flowing behind her, the masses of titian hair escaping from her hood. He kicked his horse onto the road so she would have to stop, if only for a moment. He drew rein and pivoted his mount to stop her. Her horse, whipped to a frenzy only moments before, tossed its mane and danced impatiently, poised to disappear into the horizon. Meredith cast a quick glance over her shoulder and then met his gaze, her eyes a deep green. Like emeralds. Like the waters of the Loire. At that moment, she was everything he had ever loved her for in the beginning. Then her expression shuttered. The sounds of pursuit were closer now. He moved his horse nearer and took her chin in his hand, her warmth flowing through him. Twenty years later, he still wondered whether she had seen in the flash of his eyes the intensity of feeling he carried for her in his heart. Then she was gone, leaving behind a shower of mud down the road.