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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Deepest Sin
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“My situation frightens you.” It was a startling admission.
“What else can I say to convince you?” For the first time the words were without arrogance.
“I have given you every chance to explain yourself, to prove to me that you are not somehow behind the events that have been befalling me with alarming regularity. The kaleidoscope is disturbing. But it does not definitively point to Faron's hand.”
“After what you told me tonight, how can you say that? Who else could possibly know the import of such a highly personal article that you last saw in your wards' childish hands?”
“I can't explain it.”
“Everyone else who would have known of its import is gone, no?” he continued undeterred. “Your father, Jerome. Faron's parents, we know, passed away shortly after you left France. Frankly, that leaves you and Faron.”
Meredith took a deep breath and eyed him speculatively. “You are so passionate about this entire affair, Archer, and I have to wonder why. It makes one suspicious. You have given me so little to go on.” She paused, fingers at her throat. “And neither of us is a romantic fool, so don't let us make too much of what happened these past hours. There is something else that you are reluctant to reveal.”
His smile was cynical. “You will have to take it on blind faith.”
She looked up at him, a world of weariness in her eyes. “I have given you the truth. Perhaps you could do me the same courtesy. We have shared incredible physical intimacy, my lord, but I still am no closer to learning the truth from you than I was at the outset of our meeting a day and a half ago. And I sense that is not about to change. So either you send for a carriage, or I shall make my way in the dark up to the main house and secure one for myself. And don't believe for a moment that I will not make good upon my word. Remember who I am, sir, and what I have done.”
“I don't think so,” he said, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “You will stay the night here, or if you choose, remain at the main house until morning.” His voice was low and perfectly level.
Meredith's heart stopped at the finality of his statement, as though there was no other alternative than to respond as calmly as he'd spoken. She was desperately tired and confused. How could someone so open, so gloriously profligate in his desire and responsive to her needs, be dangerous? And how could she lose all sense of that danger when he was inside her, when she was part of him and he of her? With sheer willpower, she kept her voice from rising. “Very well, Lord Archer. Until morning, then. But I shall sleep in this chair. You may take the bed.”
She turned away from him, the light from the candles flickering across the portholes. This interlude had gone on long enough. Faron had been the one great love of her life, a doomed love that did not bear repeating. What she'd had with Lord Richard Archer was passion, lust, escape—or perhaps far worse.
Chapter 10
“
I
don't fully understand.” The man behind the screen paced in the library at Claire de Lune, a perturbed frown disturbing his expression. “Lady Woolcott is with Lord Archer. How did that happen without my knowing?”
“I'm not sure,” said Crompton, with more than his usual patience. He was leaning against the mantelshelf, awareness in his small eyes as he sensed the man's agitation. It was never comfortable to have one's judgment questioned, particularly by a powerful superior.
“Are they lovers? I have a suspicious mind, Crompton. Entirely useful, I've found. I advise you to cultivate the same.”
“It appears that Archer swept her away after the incident outside Burlington House,” Crompton said, with a brusque gesture that set the amber liquid in his crystal glass sloshing against his wrist. He had never quite mastered the manners of a gentleman.
The man behind the screen sighed extravagantly. “Not what I'd intended. The goal, as you will recall, was to have Lady Woolcott find herself enamored of Hamilton.” He raised an eyebrow in reproach.
Crompton stared, incredulous. “You've met the man. Hardly a charmer.” He drained his glass in one gulp and thumped it on the table, reaching for the ornate snuffbox. It was an affectation he wished to cultivate.
The man behind the screen said nothing, watching as Crompton took a hefty pinch of snuff only to succumb to a fit of sneezing and coughing. When the spasms had subsided, the man said calmly, “It is never a good idea to rise too far beyond one's station. You would do well to remember that.”
Crompton blew his nose vigorously, patting his embroidered vest in vain for an extra handkerchief. The admonition was hardly welcome. Eager to restore confidence in his usefulness, he said, “If we're smart, we may be able to use Archer.”
“You mean the way you were able to use Rushford?” the man asked, derision in his voice. “Archer is a man to be reckoned with, if you'll recall. I believe you found yourself roundly beaten to a bloody pulp outside the British Museum. If you're fortunate, he won't recognize your face when he sees you next.”
“It was bloody dark down in the damned crypt.”
“It was not a damned crypt. It was the bloody museum.”
“We were close, so very close. If it had not been for the baron ...”
The man's lips thinned. “The baron is dead. He has paid for his folly. Clearly, close was not good enough. So I would ask you to reassure me that the plans for the trip to Cambridge are proceeding apace. Have we the proper reconnaissance at the Fitzwilliam?”
“We do indeed.”
“You know what I want. And how I wish it to be delivered.”
Crompton grinned reluctantly. “Ingenious on your part, if I might say so.”
“I didn't ask for your opinion.” The acerbity in the voice behind the screen made it clear his employer bristled at the familiarity in Crompton's tone
. Well, sod him
. Crompton reveled in the secret knowledge that he was not the only one who sought a station that just might have exceeded his grasp. He leaned over to refill his glass from the decanter on the side table and then sat back, cradling the goblet between his hands.
“I suppose you are looking for a new addition to your collection.”
“Your job is not to wonder why, Crompton. Only assure me that all will be well and go according to plan.”
Of course, the man was right. Every precaution was essential. They could not afford a repeat of the British Museum debacle.
It was an exhaustive session, but the two men parted company in the early hours of the morning, Crompton having satisfied his superior that he had covered every contingency. He was confident that Archer was theirs to use, particularly if he was already sniffing the fine skirts of the Woolcott woman. All that remained was to fling open the doors of Warthaven Park and assume the mantle of Hamilton's uncle, welcoming the scholar and his lady friend to his estate in the countryside outside Cambridge.
He was rather looking forward to it, playing the role of country squire. For a man who hailed from the bitterest London stews, breathing in the fragrance of fresh lime blossoms on the grounds of a venerable French estate was quite a change. It was not long ago that he had inhaled the smells of garbage and damp stone from the Thames flowing sluggishly through his East End neighborhood.
How quickly things changed.
 
Lord Hubert Spencer was thinking much the same, as his horses drew to a halt in front of an imposing mansion off Montrose Place. He disembarked, looking up at the double-fronted façade of the Earl of Covington's London home. Not that he expected to find Archer in residence, but even he did not dare to visit him at his country estate on the Channel. That pile of stones, as Archer referred to it, had been part of Essex county for close to four hundred years.
The door opened before he reached it and a dour butler bowed and swept him within. Spencer relinquished his hat and noted the highly polished banister, the gleaming marble beneath his feet, the sparkling chandelier. A few moments later, he was ushered into the library behind an enormous gilt-edged door.
With a frown, Archer looked up from his desk, a snowdrift of papers spread before him. “To what do I owe the pleasure this time, Lord Spencer?” he asked without preamble.
“I apologize for arriving unannounced. Truth be told, I did not expect you to be in residence.”
Archer waved away the platitudes impatiently. Spencer unclasped his hands behind his back before taking a chair. “I realize that we don't stand upon ceremony,” he said conversationally, his gray hair agleam in the cold-blue afternoon sunlight, “so you won't take offense when I tell you that you look like the devil himself. Actually worse than after the three weeks you'd spent on that Spanish island, the guest of Colonel Estavez.”
“He was not the most hospitable host, as I recall.” Archer did not elaborate for they both knew the unwelcome sojourn had netted Whitehall the information they needed to make inroads with negotiations with the Spanish. Never an easy lot to deal with, Spencer thought, but Archer had survived handily. Spencer was an avid student of human nature, as was customary in his line of endeavor, and as such he discerned that something was amiss with the earl. He had known Archer to possess an impenetrable shell of reserve, even in the most potentially explosive situations. He hid ably behind a laconic façade, a patina of boredom that obscured what lay beneath. But a thin crack had suddenly appeared on the smooth surface.
“I take it that you did not appear at my doorstep to make observations regarding my health.”
“One can't blame a man for being concerned.” Spencer glanced absently at the carpet beneath his feet.
“I'm touched, Spencer,” Archer said dryly. “So what is this latest disaster you no doubt wish to regale me with?”
Spencer lifted his gaze to Archer, eager to introduce the matter at hand, which they both knew to be urgent. “I should rather ask that question of you, my lord,” he countered with exaggerated formality.
Archer let out an exasperated grunt. “Well?”
“The Woolcott woman,” Spencer said, though he felt there should be no need to remind him.
“What of her?”
“I was expecting a report at the very least.”
“There is nothing to report.”
“I see,” Spencer said carefully, eyes neutrally surveying several portraits of estimable ancestors gracing the walls. “I had rather hoped differently,” he continued with delicacy, not wishing to allude directly to the fact that he had ascertained from his people that Archer and Lady Woolcott had disappeared for thirty-six hours to his estate in Essex.
Archer rose to stand by the side of his desk, examining his mud-splattered boots. He was still wearing a riding coat and jodphurs. He came to the point with customary lack of ceremony. “There is nothing that I can tell you that you don't know already, Spencer,” he said grimly. “As predicted, she is off to Cambridge with Hamilton. As soon as the bounder rises from his sickbed.”
Spencer digested the news before turning to the sideboard. “May I?” he asked. A few moments later, he turned to Archer, a cut-glass decanter in hand. “Drink?”
Archer took a glass. “It is what you wanted, is it not? Hamilton, as you pointed out during our last meeting, is indebted to Faron's people, and as a result, is forced to do their bidding, including courting the fair Lady Woolcott. To what end I'd wager he doesn't even know himself.” Having finishing his tightly wound delivery, he drank deeply of his brandy.
Spencer leaned back in the wing chair and thoughtfully sipped from his own glass. “And you let her go, I take it.”
Archer nodded, his eyes sharp with attention. “I believe we must run this thread to the ground. Lady Woolcott does not believe herself to be in danger from Faron. She believes him to be dead. Worse still, she believes I might have something to do with the events that have recently befallen her.”
Spencer permitted himself a satisfied smile. “Of course, you haven't told her the nature of your role in this situation.”
Archer stood up and went to refill his glass. “I have not. But Lady Woolcott is far too intelligent and suspicious to think that my only interest in her is personal. She's an unusual woman, clever, with wit and courage.”
“No doubt,” Spencer murmured. “All the more reason you might wish to keep close to her and to Hamilton. This is far from over, I'm afraid.”
Archer looked skeptical.
Spencer leaned forward and kicked a fallen log back into the grate, adding absently, “I'm not accustomed to seeing you so indecisive, Archer. Dare I say you are not certain as to your next step?”
He looked across at his now-silent companion.
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You appear uncharacteristically morose. One can't help but wonder.”
Raising his glass, Archer said. “This obsession of yours regarding my good humor or lack thereof is getting us nowhere.” He asked pointedly, “Any news regarding Giles Lowther? I thought you would have had your henchman run him down like the fox he is by now. I reviewed the dossier you sent over a fortnight ago. Interesting that he and Faron are almost of an age.”
“Lowther has lived at Claire de Lune, alongside the Frenchman and his disciples, since the tender age of eighteen. He was quick to learn, formidably intelligent, which Faron has always appreciated and exploited. As discussed previously, he has been willing to undertake just about anything on Faron's behalf, the more dastardly, it would appear, the better.” He paused. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing important.”
Spencer examined Archer shrewdly. “Out with it.”
Archer examined the inch of liquid left in his glass. “Just wondering if Lowther was at the chateau when Lady Woolcott and Montagu Faron were lovers.” The dates in the dossier, they both realized, answered the question. Neither could resist logic and fact.
Spencer sat back, crossing his ankles, his eyes narrowing. “Does it matter?”
“Everything matters in a case such as this.” Archer got to his feet again. “Although damned if I can put my finger on it.”
“Your instincts are keen.” Spencer inclined his head. “You know your business best.”
“When it comes to Lady Woolcott, believe me I do,” Archer said curtly, putting down his glass. He gestured to the snowdrift of papers on his desk. “To that end I have been studying Hamilton's obsession,
The Egyptian Book of the Dead
. One thing we do know about Faron, living or dead, he was an avid collector, or should I say thief, of antiquities. Egyptian in particular.
The Book of the Dead
is a composite of ancient Egypt's oldest and most important religious texts, magic spells, hymns and rituals, written by the priests of Egypt over its long history.”
“Astounding actually,” Spencer murmured. “Four thousand years old at the time of Christ.”
“My understanding is that the scribes filled the papyrus rolls with spells for protection as well as instructions on how to render the body workable in the next world. In other words, how to protect the body in the tomb, how to make the journey to the netherworld, how to pass the judgment of the gods and how to exist in the next world, after having been accepted by the gods.”
“You have done your homework.”
“Why is Faron interested is the question. How does this relate to the Rosetta stone? To this point I've gleaned that the two hundred or so different spells or chapters that appear in
The Book of the Dead
do not appear in a fixed order. The actual title might be translated as the ‘going forth by day,
'
which might refer to the deceased going forth to the netherworld. The Egyptians were fearful of the night and it would have been considered advantageous to make the journey during the day.” He frowned. “I'm going round and round.”

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