Authors: Caroline Richards
The Deepest Sin (17 page)
“I won't leave you,” she repeated, all the while wondering how she would get help or the attention of a hansom. Biting her lip, she gently put Hamilton's head on her lap, realizing that he had yet to release her wrist. “Can you sit up?” she asked gently. “When you're ready.”
Gradually, with a hand supporting his back, he raised his torso, swaying like a puppet for a moment, before taking a steadying breath. “I think it's simply a gash in my leg,” he said, turning a bilious green underneath the glare of the gaslight.
It began raining in earnest and it seemed an eternity that they remained splayed on the cobblestones like two abandoned creatures. Finally a charwoman, returning from her evening duties, came muttering to herself down the alley toward them. Meredith handed her most of the contents of her reticule, promising her the remainder if she procured a conveyance.
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An hour later, they were in her Belgravia town house. Hastily discarding her sodden cashmere wrap on the pristine parquet floor, she watched Broton support a limping Hamilton into the library, where a fire burned brightly. She stayed back in the hall to compose herself, studying her too pale face in the oval mirror, mud on one cheek and hair in disarray, before sinking into an occasional chair. Slowly, she bent forward, lowering her forehead onto her arm, forcing herself to draw in deep draughts of air. The hall was blessedly cool, unlike the library, and the blood slowly returned to her head.
Bitterness closed her throat as a warm tear slid down her nose. Shamed by her lack of control, Meredith jerked up her head to dash away the tear. There was no time for useless ruminations and dark speculations. She stood, shook out her skirts, and returned to the library, where she saw Broton arranging Hamilton on the divan. Recognizing what needed to be done, she quietly asked him to summon a doctor and rouse the housekeeper from her sleep to procure linens and salve. Sniffing his disapproval, Broton obeyed, his silence remonstration for having to witness such irregularity.
“We will have you set to rights in no time,” Meredith said brightly to Hamilton, whose color was returning. Anxiety and guilt tinged her words, born of a reluctance to examine too closely what had occurred. What should have been a triumphant evening had become a nightmare. Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the silk throw and bundled it around Hamilton.
He smiled wanly. “All this fussing is entirely unnecessary, Lady Woolcott. There is very little blood, simply a minor injury. I could have returned to my rooms and summoned the doctor in the morning.”
“Nonsense.” She dropped to her knees on the rug, beside Hamilton's legs. “I shall let you roll up your trouser so I may have a look.”
Hamilton froze when Meredith slowly tipped her head back. “Let's have a look. We do not wish the wound to fester.” She felt guilty enough as it was. “When Rowena and Julia were in the schoolroom, they were forever coming to me with their scrapes and bruises. Rowena adored climbing things, the gazebo or the lofts in the stables, with predictable results. So there's nothing I haven't seen before,” she said, welcoming the task at hand as a means to banish dark thoughts. When Hamilton still didn't move, looking rather like a child hiding under a blanket, she placed a hand gently upon his pant leg. He tensed against her touch. “Once we have this resolved, I promise I shall put you in a hansom to return to your rooms. Pleaseâit is the least I can do.”
“None of this is your fault, Meredith,” Hamilton began, but when he met her steely gaze, he shifted on the divan, his hands diving beneath the throw. Meredith waited, not wishing to embarrass him further. Hamilton inhaled, then sighed out a breath, rolling his trouser leg up to his lower thigh. Reluctantly, he extended his leg to her and she expertly tugged until the boot released its hold. He sat stiffly and stared at the watercolor over the mantel, a flush high on his pale face.
Keeping up a low chatter about the evening that had just passed, Lord Lyttleton's questions about the positioning of the stela, Cavendish's chilly reception, and Faraday's revelations regarding magnetization, she rolled his stocking down with impersonal efficiency. Thin ankles emerged with barely thicker calves covered by a fine down of hair. The door to the library opened quietly as Broton, unsuccessful in rousing the housekeeper, placed a tray of arnica salve and strips of linen on the floor at her side.
The butler arranged a decanter of brandy and two glasses by the divan before straightening. “Shall I stay, madam?” The tone of his voice told her it was the last thing he wanted to do.
“You may go. As long as the doctor is on his way.”
“Indeed, madam. I asked him to proceed immediately to Mr. Hamilton's rooms at Watlings near Charing Cross.”
Hamilton looked down at her guiltily. “I made the request of Broton, although he wished to defer to your wishes.”
“You may go, Broton,” Meredith said wearily, without looking up. In moments, the library door clicked quietly behind him.
Hector was appraising her with concern in his eyes. His expression told her that he'd expected her to faint, perhaps, or at least reach for her smelling salts, not that she had any at hand. “I have asked far too much of you, Lady Woolcott. You, too, have had quite a shock. And all you have been doing is looking after me, whilst I should have inquired about your well-being earlier.”
Meredith smiled, forcing her quaking nerves to quiet. “I've taken worse spills from a horse, Mr. Hamilton. This was merely a tumble thanks to your blessed intervention. In return, the least I can do is make quick work of this wound so you may be on your way safely to meet the doctor at your rooms.”
Pulling the top from the tin of arnica, she focused on the small gash in an attempt to spare Hamilton any more embarrassment. Her fingers were steady as she dipped into the salve. He made a sharp sound through his teeth when the ointment touched his skin.
She clenched her jaw. “So sorry this hurts. But the salve will help until the doctor can see to the stitching.” And with the other hand, she fished out a snowy square of linen, spreading it open. He remained utterly still, only his breathing betraying his tension. His skin was hot beneath her touch as she continued to coat the wound, which had stopped bleeding. Glancing up, she was surprised to find his eyes closed, his spectacles in his right hand. The flush still on his pale cheeks, he gripped the spectacles as though hanging on for dear life.
The situation was awkward, not that she ever gave a thought to appearances. Hamilton was a veritable stranger, in her house in the dead of night. However, she was a woman of independent means, of a certain age, who did as she wished. Continuing to apply the salve, she listened to Hamilton's uneven breathing, wondering briefly what he was thinking about, perhaps imagining another woman laying her hands upon him. It made her aware of how little she knew about the man, other than their fortuitous meeting in Hyde Park and his scholarly pursuits at Cambridge. The fact remained that he had intervened twice in her life, saving her from what exactly? The dark thoughts threatened to return, and she steadied her hand. The danger that afternoon on Rotten Row with the unknown rider was nothing but a product of her feverish imaginings, to be sure, and this evening they had found themselves the victims of footpads, nothing more. Regardless, she thought, she owed the man a debt of gratitude.
Too many debts in her life, of late. She pushed the image of Lord Archer from her mind, taking hold of a strip of linen and wrapping it around Hamilton's thigh softly, then tightening the ends securely.
He let out a breath of relief, donning his spectacles. Before she could protest, he leaned forward to roll down the trouser leg. “You have done enough, truly,” he said, a flush of embarrassment on his pale cheeks. “I thank you.” He sounded subdued and tired, but there was a questioning in his eyes as he looked down at her, kneeling on the floor.
“It is I who should thank you. Had you not placed yourself in front of me to deflect the knifeâ” she began, rocking forward on her knees.
“I wasn't thinking at all. In truth, it all occurred so quickly that it was the only response that came readily to mind. So I cannot take credit for any heroics.” The flush had left his thin cheeks, but the taut line of his mouth indicated tension. It seemed as though a combination of shame and guilt held him in its grip. “None of this would have happened had I not suggested that we walk. A hansom would have been much wiser,” he concluded with some bitterness.
Meredith admitted lightly. “I am equally responsible, if not more so, Mr. Hamilton. Clearly, neither of us is accustomed to the dangers of London. I had just read in the broadsheets this morning about the terrible poverty in certain sections of the city, no doubt giving rise to thieves, pickpockets and worse. When people are desperate, they are driven to desperate measures.” She replaced the lid on the arnica salve. “We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she added, trying to convince herself of the fact. The two men seemingly waiting for them not far from Burlington House had nothing to do with her situation, nothing at all. She was allowing that damned Archer's baseless warnings to eat away at her nerves and fuel her anxious imaginings. “Rest awhile and no more talk of guilt. These types of encounters are random, nothing more.” She glanced up at him. “Your normal color is returning. I will have Broton call a carriage to take you to your rooms at Charing Cross.”
Hamilton appeared doubtful, smoothing the fine silk of the throw over his lap. “I still feel responsible, terribly responsible. I promised to take you safely home and I failed in my responsibilities.”
“There is nothing you could have done differently. I beg you to stop punishing yourself when, in reality, you acquitted yourself admirably. I would not be here before you, unharmed, had you not put yourself before me. Both literally and figuratively.”
“Even still.”
Waving away his apologies, she rose from her knees. “Entirely unnecessary.” She sat opposite him in a wing-backed chair, oblivious to the stains her soiled jacket would leave on the brocade. Broton would not be pleased, she thought dryly, summoning the butler with the bellpull. She had offered earlier, but felt the need to fill the awkward silence, and gestured to the brandy and glasses. “Are you certain I can't find you some refreshment?”
He seemed not to hear her. “I do not wish to see you harmed, Lady Woolcott,” he said suddenly, uttering the non sequitur out of the blue. And quietly, as though he thought it necessary to say the words aloud. She answered with silence, twisting a piece of linen between her hands.
“It is the last thing that I should wish.” His voice had acquired a plaintive tone.
“Of course,” she murmured. It was shock speaking. The man was injured, had lost blood. “You will feel much better once the doctor does his work. Perhaps he will give you a tincture to help with your discomfort.” Broton appeared at the doorway, interpreting her nod with a glance before disappearing to summon the hansom.
“It is a small gash, hardly fatal. I am not at all concerned. But there is another matter which has been preying upon my mind.” He cleared his throat. “May I ask a question, of a personal nature?”
A flicker of pressure lit in her chest. “It depends, of course.”
“I do not wish to pry... .” Then don't, thought Meredith, tensing.
“Lord Archer,” he began tentatively.
Meredith dropped the linen strip, hands up to ward off questions. “I believe I mentioned a tenuous familial connection. That is all. Lord Archer is no more than an acquaintance.”
He persisted. “I am relieved to hear of it. There is something rather alarming about the man.”
“Alarming?”
“If you might permit me to say, there is an intensity about him that strikes one as rather unseemly.” He paused delicately. “When he is around you in particular, Lady Woolcott.”
Meredith smoothed the linen on her lap. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Hamilton, but Lord Archer is merely rather forward. Regrettable behavior perhaps, but hardly sinister.” She could not believe that she was defending the man.
“Of course, I understand and I do not wish to pry, but I do admire you immensely, Lady Woolcott, and should not wish to see you in any way ... compromised ...” He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. “As I indicated to you earlier this evening at Burlington House, Lord Archer and I have met before. Briefly.”
Suddenly, Meredith was bone tired, the last of her reserves draining from her body. She did not wish to think about Lord Archer, ever again. And she didn't want Hector Hamilton to think that Lord Archer had any role in her life at all.
“And in that brief meeting, I came away with the impression that Lord Archer could be ... dangerous to have as an acquaintance.” He shook his head in disbelief. “There now. I have said it.”
“Dangerous,” she said lightly. “I think that is a trifle melodramatic.”
“It is not my place, of course, to pass judgment,” he relented. In front of her was a man who had saved her from footpads this evening. The least she could do was listen to his concerns. Even if it meant bringing the specter of Lord Archer to life in her library. Hamilton paused for a further moment, giving her a chance to ask him to desist or to leave. Which she couldn't. Instead, she sat back in the chair and waited.
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