Suddenly Lady Meredith Woolcott was as fragile as spun glass. Archer held back, the hiss of the gaslight the only sound in the room. He didn't know what he wanted. He wanted her to believe him, wanted her to trust him, even though he didn't trust himself with this woman. Frustration and lust spiked through him. She stepped back, her eyes blazing, fragility falling away. “I don't know what you wish of me, Lord Archer,” she said, “when all I wish is to say good-bye.”
“You have a strange way of showing it.” His own breath came roughly. “Your response is not indifferent.”
A flush ran up her throat. “You are all too full of yourself. My response is merely physical, and a reaction to recent, rather volatile events,” she said in her low voice. “And it has absolutely no bearing on our situation.”
“You are certain?” His voice had lowered to a hot whisper.
Meredith's lips parted. “All too certain. After tomorrow, I do not believe we have any reason to see one another again. You are under no obligation to me or to Lord Rushford.”
Archer watched to see if the mask would fall again. She backed away from him, alone in her defiance and strength.
“If that is what you wish,” he said finally. Such simple words. Words that smacked of defeat.
She clasped her hands before her and nodded. “That is what I wish.” There was a weariness in the set of her shoulders. “I appreciate all you have done, Lord Archer, truly. But I have come to depend upon myself over the years. And in these past several months, my circumstances have been transformed. I truly believe that. I refuse to return to living in a state of fear.”
“Despite recent eventsâ”
Meredith threw up her hands in frustration. “Please let me travel to London and put this regrettable incident behind me. I do not need reminders, Lord Archer, and I assure you that I am no longer in a perilous situation. And please do not pretend you feel anything for me beyond duty and obligation. Find your next adventure elsewhere.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Do not ignore the danger you are in, Meredith. Nor discount other events that have transpired. Between us.”
“Don't do this, Archer. I will think better of you for it.” She lowered her eyelids as if hiding some emotion. “We are both too old and experienced for such drama. And all over nothing.”
He shook his head. “You are making a mistake by hardening yourself against those who seek to help you.”
“Is that what I've become?” she asked softly. “Hardened? Well, perhaps that is what happens when the two people you love most in the world, whom you've sworn to protect, are ripped away from you.”
Her honesty was brutal. And cut him to the core, reminding him of how good he'd become at dissembling. He no longer knew if what he was feeling was genuine or feigned. He was deeply confounded, and he was not sure why. It was the same undeniable frustration he had felt on the night he had first met Meredith Woolcott at Montfort. He wondered whether it was some buried sense of chivalry, an awareness that this woman needed rescuing when, in truth, he'd learned that it was the last gesture she wanted from him.
He should be brutally honest with himself, and now was the time. Spencer had asked him to undertake the assignment to ascertain whether Faron was still among the living, using Lady Meredith Woolcott as the temptation to lure the Frenchman from his lair. And Archer had said yes, out of a familiar combination of boredom, intrigue and admittedly from a desire to get closer to one of the most challenging and maddening women he'd ever encountered.
Though he had not spoken in some minutes, Meredith had made no effort to step back. Caught in the moment, he lifted his hand and stroked the back of his knuckles along her cheek. The thick lashes lowered, hiding her response from him.
“If this is what you call drama,” he finally said, “then I find myself wanting it. Despite my advanced age.”
She opened her eyes, unblinking. “We both know this is ridiculous and unsustainable, Archer. No more than a reaction to a tumult of events.”
He lifted his hands to cradle her face, then stroked his thumb over her full lower lip. Leaning forward, he skimmed his mouth along the velvet of her cheek. “A reaction.”
“A simple effect of recent upsets.” Her voice lowered.
“The distress.” He drew back and smoothed his thumb across her cheekbone.
“Exactly,” she breathed when he slowly lowered his mouth to hers. He needed to savor each moment, tucking it away in the recesses of his memory, hiding it away for a time when he would not have the pleasure of Meredith Woolcott in his arms.
He molded his mouth softly to hers and, after a second's hesitation, Meredith was kissing him back, opening beneath him as he swept into the warmth of her mouth. Her hands came up to hold his face and she kept him there, their tongues twining together, her breath coming more urgently with every moment. He wanted her. She wanted him. And if it was a reaction to the tumult of events, so be it. He simply desired this woman with an intensity that cut him to the quick.
Playing at lust was what he did best, and this was merely more of the same, he told himself. She moaned softly, the sound of it vibrating in his chest. He withdrew his tongue to bite her bottom lip gently and then took her mouth again. She took as much as he did. She tasted sweet and dark, leading him down a path that had only one end. With long-learned discipline, he lifted his head, watching the flickering light play over the elegant bones of her face. Her hands remained on his shoulders, restless and urgent. He kissed her again, long and deep, experienced enough to know the precariousness of the situation. He'd had a lifetime of having sex in the wrong places, was adept at moonlit assignations and boudoir trysts, with women he knew too well and others he scarcely knew at all. Gently, he slipped a hand between her shoulder blades, freed the marching row of hooks at the back of her shirtwaist.
Meredith did not protest when the crisp poplin shuddered down her shoulders. Nor when he turned his attention to the surprising swell of her breasts beneath the fine batiste camisole. It came as no shock that there was no corset hindering his exploration. Her hands skated up the warmth of his back as she arched away from him. His mouth skimmed down her throat; then his lips brushed the swell of her breast as his hand weighed it.
He felt her hesitation; she pushed halfheartedly at his shoulders with the heels of her hands. But her mouth and her soft lips did not hesitate when he claimed them once again, delving into her softness. And when she twisted her mouth from his, it was as sudden as a clap of thunder. Archer spread his fingers into the hair at her nape and slipped his hand from her waist.
Meredith turned her face away even as he stroked his lips over her ear, along her jaw and down the perfect length of her throat. “Meredith,” he whispered. “You wish this as much as I do.”
He dropped his hand along the length of her back, the indentations of her spine like a strand of pearls. A part of his mind told him that they were in the library of the Shepheard's Hotel, a public place, and only an instant away from discovery by an errant houseboy or, worse still, Lady Tattersall looking for her parasol.
“I don't want this,” she whispered, lowering her lashes in a sweep. “And right now I can't think straight.” All the while her hands roamed down his shoulders, stroking his biceps, then sliding around his waist and down the small of his back.
A door slammed somewhere in the corridor. They both stiffened and he became aware of the heat of her body searing his, the swell of her breasts and the taut muscles of her long thighs. In the gaslight, her breath came fast and urgent, almost drowning out a clatter in the hall, a drinks trolley perhaps or tray borne by a servant. The sound sliced through the thick air, returning Archer to the present. Reluctantly, he drew his mouth across her lips one last time and then lifted his face from hers.
First the chemise and then the shirtwaist were quickly patted back in place. Without saying a word, she turned her back to him, offering the row of buttons marching from her waist to the soft nape of her neck. He couldn't resist and dropped a kiss to the silken crook of her naked shoulder, his whiskers rasping at her delicate skin, his breath hot and swift. Her body melted into his and he heard her whisper. “Just a kiss.”
Archer didn't trust himself to speak until their breathing slowed. His fastened up her shirtwaist swiftly, fearing that he could not trust himself. Then she turned around, looking into his eyes, her lips parted.
“Do you really wish me to forget any of this happened, Meredith? I will if you tell me so.”
The question surprised her so completely that she did not have time to disguise the truth that blossomed on her face. He cursed himself for asking.
He brushed his palm along the side of her cheek.
She stared at him and then nodded. “I'm sorry,” she said thickly after a moment.
His smile was bitter, knowing that she was right.
Chapter 4
London, six weeks later
Â
I
t was another late night at Crockford's, or early morning depending upon one's point of view. A private club on St. James, luxurious and discreet, it played host to those with a robust appetite for deep play and a careless disregard not only for morality but also for good sense. The scent of brandy and fine cigars thickened the air, swirling about the six men who gathered round one of the club's mahogany tables.
The nimble fingers of Rugston, one of Crockford's world-weary dealers, shuffled the cards. His gauntness and pallor recalled those of an undertaker. With eyes that were both jaded and studiously neutral, he noted the face of each card as he dealt it and registered with preternatural precision the reaction of each of the men deep in their cups and even deeper in play. The game was vingt-et-un with a one-hundred-pound minimum and at least one of the players, noted Rugston, was in over his head.
Pale and perspiring, Mr. Hector Hamilton fingered the last of his chips like a child at his wooden playing blocks. The others had already retreated, leaving only the bespectacled man and Sir Chauncy Hunt in the game, the former having just shot Rugston a desperate glance for the last card. Hamilton had the unfortunate tendency never to hesitate, not even when a cooler head should have prevailed. The man bet wildly, lost reliably and seemed to produce a steady supply of notes to make up for his headlong rush toward disaster. His suit rumpled and his cravat stained, Hamilton looked all the more out of place in a club habituated by the aristocracy and plutocrats with their easy elegance and mantle of confidence that confirmed those to the manor born.
The cards dealt and the last bets placed, the two men each chose to draw. Hamilton won a short reprieve as he exposed his card, the jack of hearts.
“You had to win sometime, Hamilton, I suppose,” Sir Chauncy Hunt murmured good-naturedly. “Will keep you in the game at least. Must have offered up your prayers to old Rugston.”
Rugston pretended not to hear, as impartial a god as there ever was to importuning and petitions.
“My fortune has turned,” Hamilton said, a slight slur to his voice. He could hold his liquor no better than his cards. “One more time, Rugston, but make certain you shuffle the pack.”
Hunt admired the neat pyramid of winnings on his right, his pale hand fingering the chips lovingly. He narrowed his eyes, wondering along with the rest of the room's occupants, if the evening's end would be unpleasant. A man could lose his birthright, and many had within the confines of Crockford's, but never his head. No overt signs of excessive emotion were tolerated. It wasn't the done thing.
After a cursory glance at the dealer, Hunt half turned in his chair before saying, “No need to go on, Hamilton. You've finished your hand. Time to return home.”
Eyes bleary behind his spectacles, Hamilton turned up his palms in protest. “My luck has changed, I am confident of it, supremely so,” he managed. “Let's play another hand. Tell me that you're game, Chauncy,” he wheedled. Lord Hunt threw his head back in exasperation before inclining his chin and a moment later Rugston sent the cards skidding across the table.
The march toward morning continued as the play deepened and Hamilton grew ever more reckless. A few of the watchers shrugged with the insouciance of the very wealthy and returned to their clubs, their mistresses or, less likely, wives, casually wondering how a nonentity such as Hamilton, the son of a vicar and a don at Cambridge, was filling his coffers. He should have been on the precipice of insolvency not once but at least a dozen times, but it seemed that nothing stayed his hand. Inhaling brandy, he was soon down three thousand pounds, but with optimism to spare. Brandishing a packet of banknotes, he waved to the footman to refill his glass.
He was betting as though Providence itself was behind his every hand. Tipping up the corner of his card, he showed two eights to Hunt's two tens. The card faceup on the table between them was the two of hearts. Even Rugston, face still impassive, wondered if Hamilton was on the road to ruin.
“It appears as though your good fortune is on the wane, my man,” Hunt said generously. “It is close to four in the morning.”
Hamilton slurred contemptuously. “Lady Fortune shines upon me
. Contra felicem vix deus vires habet.
”
Hunt pushed back his chair and stood. “Bloody annoying. Latin at this hour.”
Hamilton looked down the table, bleariness in his eyes. “ âAgainst a lucky man a god scarcely has power.' ”
“Perhaps your pockets are not as deep as the gods suggest,” Hunt said while a footman held out his freshly brushed jacket. Rugston had stepped away from the table, as silent as a monk, his hands behind his back.
Hamilton's hackles went up. He stumbled to his feet. “I wish to continue.” The few occupants left in the room shook their heads with the discomfiture of knowing that an exceedingly unwelcome confrontation would result. Rugston motioned to the footman, who laid a heavy hand on Hamilton's shoulder. The drunk's only response was to shove a pile of banknotes toward the center of the table.
“I wish to play,” he slurred, nearly collapsing on the mahogany. “
I need to play
. Do you realize,” he said to no one in particular, “what I was asked to do, indeed, what I did, not a fortnight ago?” The last few occupants of the room tensed in a paroxysm of mortification, steeling themselves against Hamilton's next words. The very least he could do was redeem himself with a tale of pistols at dawn. “My lady love,” he continued. “The beauteous Cressida Pettigrew.”
There was a collective groan around the room. Dear God, not this. “Go home,” said Hunt for the benefit of Crockford's reputation, despite the fact that he was already halfway out the door.
“I was given no choice,” Hamilton said, voice trembling. “I am affianced ... was affianced. Broke off our engagement. And for what?” He pulled himself up on the edge of the table. “For filthy lucre,” he spat, nearly collapsing again.
From the depths of the room, a deep voice emerged. “I shall see Mr. Hamilton to a hansom.” Lord Richard Buckingham Archer moved out of the shadows, a study in nonchalance, the picture of boredom, his expression of amused disregard familiar to the habitués of Crockford's. He had removed himself from the game hours ago but had lingered in the room watching the drama play out. Hector Hamilton remained in his crosshairs.
“You're a better fellow than I am, Archer,” Hunt murmured over his shoulder as he departed with a shrug.
Hamilton cocked a bleary eye, coming to life like a desiccated plant after the rain. “I don't require your assistance, Lord ... whatever your name is ... I forget, although we were introduced earlier, if I recall.”
The footman backed away and Archer tried to hide his annoyance, unfortunately sober enough to find the current situation bloody irritating. “Let's not make this more complicated than it need be, Hamilton.”
“You delay the game,” Hamilton said, looking genuinely confused, watching as the footman and Rugston departed, leaving him alone with a formidable-looking man, several inches taller and broader than was reasonable. Wreathed in the swirls of lingering cigar smoke, Lord Archer appeared a messenger from the abyss.
“I need another drink. Allow me that at least.”
“Not entirely wise.” Archer stilled Hamilton's flailing arms. He patted his cravat back in place. “It may dull your pain now, but will do nothing for you in the morning. Which,” he said, gesturing to the sashed windows, which hinted at the start of day, “has already arrived.”
Hamilton looked at the heavy velveteen curtains which blocked out the nascent sun, genuinely confused. He collapsed back into his seat. “I cannot believe what I've done.”
Leaning a hip against the table, Archer cut Hamilton a sidelong glance. “Confession is good for the soul.”
“And won't help me now. What's done is done.”
“But worthwhile, in certain instances, one must suppose.”
Hamilton sprawled hopelessly in his chair before lifting his gaze. “My darling Cressida. I should have left this game early on and met the scoundrel at dawn to clear my name and my conscience.” There was little indication that he was any better at pistols than he was at the gaming table. Besides which, the last duel had taken place in London over two decades ago. Rubbing a hand over his rumpled waistcoat, Hamilton stared into the smoky air as though looking for redemption that would never come.
“Cressidaâyour fiancée. That we know. And who might the scoundrel be? Do tell.” Archer crossed his arms over his chest. Patience, he counseled himself, seized by the sudden impulse to simply leave Hamilton in a crumpled heap and walk out. With a cursory glance at the cards left on the table, he let his gaze drift around the shadowy depths of the room, more familiar to him than the corridors of his own London town house, which he had endeavored to avoid these past several years. Ever since his return from Egypt, his constant companion, ennui, was laced with an extra uncharacteristic restlessness, causing him to pace the floors of the vast, empty place until his unease would send him into the world again.
The crystal decanter beckoned and he studied its brandied depths. He had intended to shut the door on Egypt only to find that London had become once again his prison, but this time his jailer was none other than a woman. He could easily have let Lady Meredith Woolcott go, he told himself, should have let her go, save for the unremitting demands of Whitehall and an infuriating disinclination to admit defeat. There was no reason that it should be so. Willing women were everywhere, he'd learned long ago. Adventurous widows and bored wives, they had filled his days and nights for decades.
Since his return from Cairo, he had not even bothered to visit Camille. The lighthearted blonde with the quick wit and generous spirit had been the perfect casual companion these past few years. Temperate, easy and available, Countess Blenheim had been left unfashionably bereft, a widow who mourned her husband as only Archer could understand. Theirs was a comfortable alliance, simultaneously as empty and filling as an overly sweet meringue. The appetite had waned and somehow Camille's lilting laugh and her easy physicality no longer held appeal. There would be no awkward moments, no scenes, since they had both kept the stakes deliberately low. Archer mentally prepared to have his secretary send the countess a choker in the emeralds she preferred.
Perhaps old Spencer was correctâlife came too easily to him. He had never really belonged anywhere, reluctant to put down roots, either in London or at the estate. Nor did he long for the brace of heirs, the appropriate consort, to make his life complete. He had stopped wondering at the source of his indifference long ago. It had been years since importuning matrons pushed their plump princesses in front of his gaze, having learned the hard way that his insistent bachelorhood was an impregnable fortress. Better still, his cousins had done him the unbelievable favor of producing several perfectly serviceable heirs to continue the family name without inconveniencing him in the least.
Resisting the urge to fill his glass, he forced himself to refocus on the man before him who was endeavoring to drown the devils that chased him. Not an unfamiliar sight, in his experience. Hamilton appeared no closer to leaving, his spectacles fogged with the fumes of spirit and despair. Well, it was high time to break through the gloom, Archer calculated. Little patience remained.
“Who is providing you with the means that allow you such extended play here at Crockford's, Mr. Hamilton?” He recalled the last dozen hands in which the play had risen to a fevered pitch, Hamilton playing like a madman, running a desperate finger around his collar as though it was about to choke him. In response to the question, Hamilton belched and glanced down at his hands sprawled on the table.
“Perhaps I can help you,” Archer prodded, amazed at the hours he'd lost watching Hector Hamilton from the sidelines. All for a cause, he supposed, although he wondered why he had made it his. He considered not for the first time whether Whitehall and Lord Spencer had gotten it wrong. Spencer's canny gaze had never wavered when he'd relayed the information in the hushed confines of his offices in Whitehall, just a week after Archer's return from Egypt. Almost as though he relished the turn of events, damn the man. It was bloody near impossible to believe that Hamilton was the person chosen to inveigle Meredith back into Faron's path.
“I shall never be able to return to Cambridge... .”
“Where you are a don? Is that not correct?” No, not precisely. Hamilton was a professor of ancient languages, a piece of knowledge that Spencer had relayed with his usual coolness.
“Bugger all,” Hamilton sputtered, resolve, if not sobriety, washing over him.
“Bugger whom?”
“I'm not sure. That is the rub.” He swallowed hard. “And why are you so interested, Lord ...”
So he did not know who was making him dance like a marionette controlled by strings. Archer sat down and braced both hands on the table, leaning into them. “Hamilton. If you are looking for an out, I may be of assistance.”