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Authors: Caroline Richards

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BOOK: The Deepest Sin
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It was a moment's reprieve, when the truth took a backseat to less pressing concerns. Their conversation then took a desultory turn, Camille exclaiming over the demands of the social season, the ongoing renovations to the east wing of her country estate and any other subject that neatly avoided the true reason for Archer's long-delayed visit.
Archer listened to her lilting voice, asking few questions, merely enjoying her easy presence as fatigue finally settled into his bones. He leaned forward in his chair, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, and interrupted the flow of words. “It's wonderful to see you again, Camille, but enough of this chatter. I'm really more interested in learning how you fare.” He noticed for the first time that she looked tired this morning, faint purple shadows under her soft blue eyes. It never occurred to him that she missed him; that was not the nature of their affaire. He thought of the women who had populated his world over the years with a twinge of guilt. They had all been easy and undemanding of him. Mere afterthoughts in his life. As he preferred.
The golden-haired widow fell silent, then swung her legs, her feet encased in dainty silk slippers, from the chaise to sit facing him. “I should know by now that you are not one for small talk. And yet what have I been doing this past hour?” Ordinarily, he would have swept her in his arms without a word, satisfying both their carnal appetites as only he could. They had made love in every room of her Mayfair town house over the past two years, a welcome shock after the studiously genteel affections of Camille's late husband. A generous lover, inventive, inexhaustible and unselfish, Archer had been a revelation and, as such, would be sorely missed in her life. Camille was nothing if not intuitive and she realized that something had changed.
“So tell me of this Cairo business, if you can,” she said lightly, sensing that it was not business he wanted to discuss. It never was with Archer. He skimmed the surface of life as lightly as his much vaunted yacht, never cutting too deeply.
“There's not much I can say. The weather was overly warm. The sights inspiring.”
“I know what a lover of antiquities you are.” The tone was ironic.
“Rocks and more rocks.”
They had never been at a loss for words before, their silences amicable and comfortable. But this morning, an unfamiliar tension pervaded the salon. It would not do to examine her feelings too closely, Camille thought, her mouth already dry with loss.
“No need to prevaricate, Richard,” she interjected, wondering at her courage. “I know what you have really come to say.” She stopped to pour herself another cup of coffee, focusing on the spouting liquid as she spoke. “I am not entirely surprised. It is for the best.”
If her confession surprised him, he didn't show it. Instead, he reached over to touch her hand, hovering over the urn. “You are a beautiful, understanding woman, Camille.”
She smiled pensively, pushing his hand away lightly. “We have had a good run, Richard. You and I. I could not have survived those first years after Matthew's death without you.”
He made a dismissive sound. “Of course, you could have,” he said leaning back into his chair. “But I could not have found another who is so understanding about my absences and peripatetic ways.”
“I won't scold but sometimes women deserve a little more than they ask for.” She frowned. “And I am not speaking of jewels and trinkets.” Smoothing down the folds of her dressing gown, she looked perplexed. “I can tell something is bothering you, darling. I know that you prefer to keep things light between us but now that there is no risk ...”
Archer sipped his coffee. “Risk?” His brows shot up. “Of course. You avoid any real topic of worth for fear of getting too close to a woman. You use humor and distance and, lest I could ever forget, a veritable cache of amorous technique.”
“I've never heard you complain before.”
She smiled. “And I'm not complaining now. Merely telling you that now's your chance, darling. You have nothing to lose. And dare I say it, nothing to fear. It's over between us and yet I think I know you better than most. So why not tell me what's troubling you?”
His coffee cup half raised, Archer smiled. “Nothing is troubling me.”
Camille shook her blond curls. “Sometimes you are a bloody damned idiot,” she said, her voice low and a little angry. “You helped me when I needed someone and now you reject the help I offer you. Do not hurt me this way.”
Archer set down his coffee. “I would never hurt you, Camille.” The honesty in her eyes pained him as little else could. The ice beneath his feet was thin and he feared breaking through; he realized that he had made his way through London's early morning in search of something he could scarcely name.
“Then let me help you. Talk to me.” Camille's expression softened. “What happened in Cairo? And I don't mean whatever it was you got up to. Tell me what really happened. What has changed?” What has changed you, she really wanted to say.
The coffee was suddenly bitter. “Nothing happened, Camille,” he lied, but he could not continue the lie in its entirety. “But you are quite right when you say that you know me better than many others. So perhaps you can tell me ...” He paused, taking another sip of his coffee, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Camille put a hand to her forehead. “Tell you what? What you wish to hear or what you need to hear?”
“You deserve the opportunity at the very least.”
“Because you have decided that we are to part company? You believe that I should like to twist the knife a little bit, in revenge?” She shook her head, acknowledging that he did not realize she loved him. “I'd hoped you'd know me better, Richard.” Lord, he was a gorgeous man. Rumpled, tired, larger than life, sitting in her morning room, oozing that masculinity that she'd found irresistible from the start. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to stop the flow of words, to turn back the clock, saunter over to his chair and fall into his arms. She gave herself an inward shake. She'd known from the beginning that Lord Archer was not for her to keep. She'd realized it from the start, the moment she'd seen him from across the room at her best friend's Lady Dorrington's recital, those blue eyes in that rugged face ... dear God. She took a breath. “There is no easy way for me to say it.”
He arched a brow. “Then say it straight out.”
“It's simply that you run away... . Oh, dear,” she said watching his face. “I don't mean in the literal sense.”
“I've never been accused of cowardice.” He smiled.
“That's not what I meant, Richard.”
“Then what do you mean? Please go on. I need to hear this. And from you, a woman I respect deeply.”
Camille held up both hands, palms out. “I appreciate your trust.”
“And respect.”
She took a deep breath. “Bluntly put, this rootlessness that you seem to prefer ... I do not quite understand it. But you cannot keep running away from people, from places, from those about whom you begin to care. You are nearly forty years of age, Richard. It is time.”
“You make it sound as though I have a foot in the grave. That I should find myself some young miss and saddle her with a half-dozen babes.”
She jerked out of the chaise, frustration marking her brow. “There you go. Deflecting the seriousness of the moment with some ridiculous attempt at humor.”
He shrugged helplessly. “Very well then. I shall be perfectly serious. Time for what, precisely, Camille?”
Taking another deep breath, she said, “To confront what you fear most. It's that simple, my dear friend.” She had almost said dear
lover.
She took a sip of her now tepid coffee, looking away.
Shoving a hand through his hair, Archer stared darkly at Camille. Unbidden, the image of Meredith shimmered before his mind's eye.
Fear
. Abruptly, he shoved back his chair. “I should go,” he said, his voice gruff. “I have imposed upon you long enough. In every sense.” He picked up his jacket.
The countess placed her cup carefully on the table and then stood, drawing herself up to her full, if diminutive height. She barely reached his shoulder. “I hope I have not offended you. That was not my intent.”
“You could never offend me, Camille.”
“We shall always be friends, I trust.”
“Always.”
Camille forced herself to meet his gaze. “Where will you go?” She knew how much he loathed the emptiness of his London town house.
“That's never a problem.”
He thrust a hand through his hair. He'd a sudden fancy for a bottle of brandy and a biddable woman who would fuck him blind.
Chapter 5
T
he hansom cab rocked to a stop in front of Meredith's hired town house off Belgravia Square. She shivered as the door opened and cold air flooded the interior, lashing the tip of her nose with an icy breeze. London in early December was a world away from Egypt.
A footman materialized on the steps to hand her from the coach. A flurry of wet drops, almost snow, swirled about them, sticking to her lashes. She suddenly missed Montfort with a pang that took her breath away as she remembered how when she was chilled to the bone, a hot brick would instantly appear to warm her feet, courtesy of the small staff of loyal servants that had seen to her care over the years.
She clutched her leather-gloved hands together to warm them. Nostalgia would do her little good. What she needed was a ride in Hyde Park, to simply hire a mount for the afternoon and exercise until her nervous energy had been burned to a crisp, banishing the cold that had settled in the pit of her stomach since that afternoon in Rashid. Even now, her shoulder blades twitched and she glanced up and down the street. Despising the sensation of being watched, she tamped down the flame of fear that flickered to life. Before the incident at the abandoned fort, she had put the ever-present sense of heightened awareness behind her, but today she couldn't escape or ignore it. Trepidation stalked her, and she forced herself to walk, not run up the steps of the town house.
Once inside, Meredith took a deep breath. What a liar she was. Lying to herself and lying to Lord Richard Buckingham Archer. In her heart, she knew that those men at St. Julien had been sent by someone, a truth too bitter for her to swallow, and one she could not yet make herself digest. She had not been able to shake the ominous feeling that had come over her when she'd faced the third man in the group of Arabs that had descended upon her. There had been something wrong about the way he'd been looking at her. The dark emotions were made worse by the fact that she had killed him, an unholy secret she now shared with a man she could not permit herself to trust.
Archer.
Her stomach tightened. Her independence was what had kept Rowena and Julia safe; the last thing she needed or wanted was Lord Richard Archer sniffing about. His presence in her life was entirely suspect, causing her to wonder what his real interest in an aging spinster might be. Most humiliating, he had slipped away the self-protective blanket of numbness she'd enveloped herself in these past years, reawakening in her an appetite she had long ago forsworn. It had been many years since she'd had a man in her bed, and she would do anything to keep it that way; she would maintain a distance between them. Her response to him had been entirely inadvisable, the result of a highly tumultuous situation. Nothing more.
Having left Cairo, she had returned to London to throw herself into her work, reviewing the knowledge she had collected whilst in Egypt, collating her notes, consulting her dictionaries and reference books to refine her lecture. A few forays to the Victoria and Albert and the British Museum had been her only excursions. Meredith now looked around the front hallway of the town house, slowing her thoughts by breathing in the calming aroma of beeswax and lemon oil.
Leased by her London solicitor on her behalf, the Belgravia town house was of respectable size, made of creamy stone, its narrow rooms accompanied by a suitably aloof butler and staff, the former in the habit of regarding her with a mask of well-practiced hauteur. Broton was accustomed to serving a much more demanding and fashionable master and made his disaffection known. How entirely different he was from the perennially irascible Angus McLean, Montfort's groundskeeper and the closest thing to a butler Meredith had ever known. If a superior butler were her only problem, Meredith thought dryly, turning to the side table to quickly sort through her mail. She rifled through a small hillock of invitations, and set them to one side. There were several letters from various friends at Montfort, but none from Rowena or Julia, who, she knew despite a small fret of concern, were deliriously in love with their new husbands and traveling the Continent. All was well. There was no need for the anxiety burning in her throat.
Halfway through removing her leather gloves, she realized she did not wish to be shut up in her study for the evening with little more than her rampant imagination and a dinner tray before the fire for company. Having spent most of the morning and afternoon at the British Library, finalizing the last words of her lecture to be delivered tomorrow evening at Burlington House, there was little left to do. She would not be able to settle anything, other than making a few desultory notes about what she might do to add to her lecture. It was truly too late for anything more.
Throwing her wrap over the balustrade, she checked her watch, fiddling with the chain, which had developed a small kink. She should go riding instead to soothe her jangled nerves. Cowering in the confines of this tall, narrow house would do her little good.
 
One hour later, Meredith folded up the collar of her greatcoat, pleased that she had remembered to pack it in her trunk when she'd traveled south from Montfort. At the entrance to Rotten Row, deserted now because of the weather, the mist was beginning to turn to snow once again. Flakes melted against her skin, sending icy rivers down her neck. Nodding to the groom from the Bathurst Stables who held out the stirrup for her, she swung up into the saddle and took a firm grip on the reins.
The gelding danced across the stones, iron-shod hooves sinking into the softening earth. Reveling in the bite of the weather, Meredith snapped the reins, focusing on the horse that pranced and cross-stepped with high energy beneath her. She smiled behind her collar, grateful for the distraction as the sleet flew past her in flurries. It stuck to her coat, soaked into the exposed wool of her riding skirt and numbed her toes.
Urging the gelding forward into a trot and then into a canter, she soon left the groom behind. Time passed in perfect rhythm, the distinct jangle of harness the only sound on the deserted path, abandoned by fashionable London because of the inclement weather. Meredith gave herself over to simple, physical exertion, the perfect tonic to days spent indoors and at the library completing her work. The tension that had enveloped her like a shroud was beginning to dissipate, along with the memories of Archer that had haunted her every day since her return.
Mercifully, he had remained true to his word, and had delayed his departure from Cairo, allowing her the peace and privacy she required on her return to London. Quite deliberately, she had exorcised any trace of Archer from her thoughts and emotions, focusing instead on the challenge that lay ahead of her.
Mentally recalling the focus of her lecture, she reviewed her notes in her mind, envisioning the three parallel inscriptions on the stone. The major breakthrough had come from a British physicist, a friend of her father's who had advanced the idea that hieroglyphic characters could have phonetic value. It had been commonly believed that in hieroglyphic writing, elliptical figures called cartouches represented royal names. It was only later that Champollion had concluded that the ancient Egyptian language had three forms. Using only fourteen incomplete lines on the Rosetta stone, he had deciphered the alphabet of ancient Egypt.
She was suddenly reminded of a night long ago, in one of the six libraries at Claire de Lune. In front of them sat the sketches of Dominique Vivan Denon, who had rendered everything he had seen as a scholar with Napoleon's army, marching past the coastline and up the Nile River. The Faron family with its unimaginable riches had purchased the drawings like so many glittering baubles. The smell of vellum, leather and paper mingled with the scent of lavender oil and the snap and sizzle of the coal in the great fireplace.
The young Faron had smiled at her, pulling the silk scarf from around his neck with one swift tug and tossing it on a chair. “Exciting, isn't it? That we have these in our possession to study, Meredith?” He walked over to her and bent to kiss her gently on the cheek. “These must have been astonishing remnants of the Egyptian culture with thousands of mysterious symbols that nobody could understand, but only dream about.” His breath was warm at her cheek, his voice simultaneously teasing and exciting her. Straightening, he looked down at her with a boyish grin.
“You are making it difficult to concentrate.” Meredith smiled up at him.
Faron's glance was cheerful as he took a few steps back to lounge on a corner of the desk, one long leg swaying idly. “Perhaps that is the idea,
ma chère
.”
Meredith's raised eyebrows brought forth a laugh. “There is too much for us to work through,” she demurred in the suggestive tone she knew he adored. Gesturing to the notes littering the parquet floor, she was the picture of consternation.
“I think we can take our respite with a bottle of champagne in front of a roaring fire,” Faron proposed. And then he pushed himself away from the desk to hold her tight, tossing her notes in the air until they showered down upon them like snowflakes.
 
The December snow of London now scalded Meredith's cheeks. Memories always caught her off guard, as unexpected as a knife twisting between her ribs. They were no longer clear as they once were, the words and images having slipped away, hushed by a thousand exhortations in her mind. Only the scars remained, the physical reality of their time together, pulsing on the skin beneath the long sleeves of her garments.
She urged her mount forward, riding into the fog at a smart trot, lost in her thoughts as much as the fog. Startled, she suddenly noticed a lone rider rounding the corner and materializing in the mist, coming toward her.
He slowed at her approach, clearly waiting for her, and she drew up short, cursing herself for having left her groom behind. Her mount's breath mingled with the cold as it stamped impatiently, shaking its head. She straightened in her saddle, gripping her small pistol in the confines of her greatcoat, her crop in the other hand. The horse snorted and raised its head, ears cocked attentively. Meredith tensed beneath her coat, hands and feet cold but every nerve alive. She glanced down the track to see it was utterly deserted. There was not so much as the distant tread of another rider to indicate that they weren't entirely alone.
Heart fluttering in her throat, she clenched the pistol. Across from her, the shadow of a man and horse danced in front of her, blocking her way. She could dart into the bushes lining the path, but sensed the rider would only follow her into the underbrush where they would be totally out of sight. The moment seemed an eternity as Meredith struggled to see beyond the hat pulled low over the rider's eyes.
“Let me pass.” Her voice was low but her intention firm. The man who sat across from her was in for a gruesome surprise if he did not move. Anger bubbled up, cutting off reason and fear. She was prepared to take aim and fire, to inhale the familiar scent of sulfur layering the air. There would be no hesitation. Rowena and Julia—the names were all she needed, drawing upon all the years when her life was filled with just one issue—protecting her two wards. She envisioned the man pinned beneath her horse's hooves, either dead or limp with terror.
Wrath welled up within her, filling her to her fingertips, as perversely reassuring as a battalion at her back. The horseman sat straighter, still as a statue, seeming to stare through her, daring her to what? Her mind whirled with possibilities, one more ghastly than the next. Her finger curled around the trigger of her pistol, the sound of her movement muffled even in the dead quiet of the late afternoon, severed only by the unmistakable tempo of another rider coming her way.
This could be good or bad, she told herself, swallowing hard. Suddenly, the rider blocking her path spun his horse round and sped past her, greatcoat flapping behind him. A gust of cold wind kicked up, its dance gathering the dried twigs and leaves of autumn in its wake.
“Are you quite all right, madam?” a pleasant but concerned voice inquired. A man in a brown wool muffler, blond hair plastered to his head from the damp, reined in his mount.
Meredith released the hammer of her pistol. Dear God, had she imagined it all? Danger where none existed? “Yes, quite all right, sir. Thank you.” Her voice surprised her with its steadiness when she felt as though she was slowly going mad. “Nothing untoward has occurred,” she reassured him, forcing her pulse to slow.
“My intent was not to interfere, and if I did, my heartfelt apologies.” Drawing up before her, he extended his hand. A smile lit the eyes in a thin, ascetic face. “Allow me the pleasure of an introduction. Hector Hamilton, humbly at your service.”
“Lady Woolcott.” Meredith took his hand. “How kind you are, Mr. Hamilton, to have stopped to ensure that all was well.”
Behind his spectacles, his eyes were uneasy, looking up the path where the rider had disappeared. “Absolutely no thanks necessary. A pleasure, Lady Woolcott. But to be out on an afternoon such as this. You are an intrepid equestrian, to be sure.”
“As are you, Mr. Hamilton,” Meredith said unsteadily as she pushed back her hood to give it a good shake, sending small rivers of moisture to the ground.
Mr. Hamilton's thin cheeks flushed. “Certainly not. I must confess my pursuits rarely take me out of doors. I merely sought to clear my head, having been imprisoned far too long in my study.” When she looked enquiringly, he added, “I am down from Cambridge, you see, but alas never far from my work.”
BOOK: The Deepest Sin
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