Authors: Caroline Richards
The Deepest Sin (2 page)
Spencer lifted the corner of the dossier before dropping it again, intruding upon Archer's rambling thoughts. “This situation happens to concern Lord Rushford, peripherally.” Rushford was on his wedding trip in Europe and would be joining Rowena's sister, Julia, and her husband, Lord Strathmore, in subsequent weeks. “More directly, it has to do with Lady Meredith Woolcott.”
Archer's head shot up.
“I have your full attention, I can see. What a novelty! So I suppose I should make the most of the situation,” Spencer said drolly. “Bluntly put, I am asking you to follow Lady Meredith Woolcott wherever she goes, to the ends of the earth if you must.”
“And why would I wish to do that?” Archer asked.
“Because she
will
bring us to the Comte, Montagu Faron, if he is indeed still alive, as we suspect.” The diplomat's smile broadened. “You have had a passing acquaintance with the lady, so we hear at Whitehall. Should pave the way somewhat.”
will
bring us to the Comte, Montagu Faron, if he is indeed still alive, as we suspect.” The diplomat's smile broadened. “You have had a passing acquaintance with the lady, so we hear at Whitehall. Should pave the way somewhat.”
Archer had indeed. The dimness of Spencer's Whitehall offices, the windows heavily draped to keep out prying eyes, and the dampness of autumnal London had a sobering effect. He needed a drink. A very large one. Instead, he settled more deeply into his chair, his interest in Lady Meredith Woolcott exerting a discomfiting draw that he had no desire to examine closely.
“By this time, I realize you know the details of her rather colorful past: the death of her father; the two girls she was left to raise at a young age,” Spencer continued with a dismissive glance at the sheaf of papers on the desk. “Lady Meredith Woolcott also happens to be one of those troublesome bluestockings who dabbles in academics.”
Troublesome
didn't begin to describe the woman. “I shouldn't have thought her pastimes would be of particular interest to you,” Archer said.
didn't begin to describe the woman. “I shouldn't have thought her pastimes would be of particular interest to you,” Archer said.
“They aren't. Except that they connect her to Faron,” Spencer supplied smoothly, “the Frenchman who has been a thorn in our sides these past ten years.” They both knew of the man, the scourge of the Continent and beyond, whose acolytes killed and lied on his behalf, single-mindedly intent upon the collection of ancient relics, scientific spoils and new lands. Much to Whitehall's vexation. “The last insult was Faron's attempt to steal the Rosetta stone from the British Museum, as you well know, an attempt just barely foiled. Thanks to you and Rushford.”
“You're not convinced he's dead. Is that the crux of the matter?” Archer stared moodily over Spencer's head to the portrait of Queen Victoria in its gilt frame.
“I prefer to have hard evidence, this time,” Spencer said, alluding to Faron's uncanny ability to escape death, once by fire and now, possibly, by drowning. “It is rumored,” he continued, “that Woolcott and Faron were lovers.”
Archer looked away from the portrait and swallowed hard, dismayed at the blood hammering in his ears.
Lovers
. That single word reverberated through his body, echoing like a stone dropped into a dark hole.
Lovers
. That single word reverberated through his body, echoing like a stone dropped into a dark hole.
“Yes, lovers,” Spencer repeated absently. “And the affaire did not end well. Likely the cause of the continued enmity between the two of them, as well as the reason for the Frenchman's designs on Lady Woolcott's wardsâ”
Archer interrupted. “Both of whom are now safe.”
“Or so it seems,” said Spencer. “In any case, Lady Woolcott feels she is no longer in danger, freed from the cloud that had her confined to that heap in the north of England with her two charges for so many years. Now she will indulge in her unorthodox interests, which, we're told, will involve travel to support her rather bizarre intellectual interests.” He added ominously, “Who knows what may transpire? If he's still alive, Faron will wish nothing more than to see her gone.”
Archer glanced briefly at the dossier lying between them, its pages containing the story, however incomplete, of Lady Woolcott and her youthful indiscretion with one of the Continent's most dangerous men. Whom they all hoped was dead.
However, past experience demonstrated that Spencer was nothing if not a practical man. “It is not her continued well-being that concerns us, Archer. Let me make that plain.” He was not sending in a knight errant to protect a woman in distress. “Faron is obsessed with Lady Woolcott, a situation which presents us with an opportunity I should not like to miss. We would like nothing more than to flush the Frenchman out. If he is still alive.”
“He's dead,” Archer said flatly. “Lord Rushford made sure of it and witnessed his drowning in the Channel off the coast of France.”
Spencer arched his brows. “So your old friend and colleague maintains. However, no one need tell you of Rushford's uneven history and divided loyalties.”
Archer said softly, “I would suggest that you not cast aspersion on Lord Rushford, who has served the Crown admirably for most of his life. And certainly more consistently than I have. If you do not agree”âhe flicked a glance at the dossier on the deskâ“I shall like nothing more than to take my leave.”
The mastermind who had catapulted his way to the upper echelons of Whitehall with little more than razor intellect to recommend him wisely changed tactics. “Let's set aside the subject of Rushford for the moment, then,” Spencer said, all too aware that Archer would leave him in the dust if the mood struck him. As an agent to the Crown, the man sitting across from him was highly effective, if entirely uncontrollable. A ridiculously large fortune, coupled with peripatetic leanings, allowed Archer any number of options. He'd been known to disappear for months sailing into uncharted waters in his sloop,
The Brigand
. As well as appearing out of thin air to rescue agents of the Crown, including his friend Rushford, from the tightest of spots. His was a daredevil's temperament that had been effectively, if inconsistently, leveraged on Whitehall's behalf.
The Brigand
. As well as appearing out of thin air to rescue agents of the Crown, including his friend Rushford, from the tightest of spots. His was a daredevil's temperament that had been effectively, if inconsistently, leveraged on Whitehall's behalf.
“Also be aware of Giles Lowther, whom we suspect is still lurking about.” Faron's shadow was known to execute his master's wishes to the letter and to a fault. “He's gone to ground since the Frenchman's alleged death.”
“Strange. An Englishman in league with a French peer.”
“Nothing more than a guttersnipe and petty thief, we're told, saved from the gallows by Faron himself. And eternally grateful as a result.”
“A dangerous combination, unthinking loyalty.”
“Indeed. He was behind most of Faron's maniacal assignments, the Rosetta stone only one of many.”
“All very interesting, Spencer, but I don't recall agreeing to take this on.”
“We are simply asking you to keep Lady Woolcott well within your sights.”
Archer asked abruptly, “Why me?”
Spencer shrugged. “You met at her ward's marriage to Rushford. So it would not appear suspicious to her or anyone else if you were to seek her company from time to time in the more exotic climes you seem to favor.”
“To what end?” he asked abruptly, chiding himself for asking when the answer was obvious.
“No need to be disingenuous, Archer.” Spencer folded his hands on the top of the highly polished desk. “We use Lady Woolcott as the draw. To get to Faron, if he still lives.”
“Even if he gets to Lady Woolcott first,” Archer said, suddenly uncomfortable. He rose from the chair.
Spencer's smile was serene. “Precisely.”
Â
Now in the cooling heat of the desert air, Archer watched the retreating figure of Lady Woolcott, her long strides outstripping the pace of her Arab guide. He stared hard, taking in her bright hair and supple figure before he glanced down, realizing that he was still holding the silver flask. He tossed back more of the water, the taste metallic.
Despite his height and muscled breadth, he had learned to move silently as a shadow. He edged out from behind the low wall to follow the two figures approaching the mounts waiting for them under the sycamore trees to the south of the fortress. Lady Woolcott untied a bonnet from her saddle, along with a leather flagon. Filling a cupped hand with water, she offered both horses a drink, her movements graceful and assured.
Once again he found it difficult to drag his eyes away.
He was getting too old for this.
A sudden rush of air announced the flight of a dark raven and broke his focus. The glistening black wings streaked against the sky, but Archer was already searching the horizon, every instinct on the alert. He took the pistol from his belt, the barrel glinting as the sun caught it and danced along its polished surface.
He was getting too old for this.
A sudden rush of air announced the flight of a dark raven and broke his focus. The glistening black wings streaked against the sky, but Archer was already searching the horizon, every instinct on the alert. He took the pistol from his belt, the barrel glinting as the sun caught it and danced along its polished surface.
The Egyptian guide swung up on his mount just as Archer heard the clattering of hooves pounding in the dust.
Meredith stared wide-eyed at the three robed men looking down at her from horseback. Hawks looking for carrion. Her breath caught in her throat, her lips trying to form Murad's name. But her guide had disappeared, along with his horse, in a cloud of dust. One of the men urged his mount forward, close enough that she could see the curve of a pistol gripped in his right hand. As long as she held his gaze, he wouldn't shoot, she thought illogically. He was savoring the moment, looking down upon her.
The afternoon sun threw a strange light over the trio, casting shadows in odd places, making it impossible to see beyond the slits in the fabric over their heads that revealed obsidian eyes and little else. The customary fear that had been her companion for too long seized her chest like an old familiar. Despite the dry heat, she felt suddenly damp inside her clothes, the voluminous fabric of her trousers clinging to her legs, a trickle of sweat meandering down the length of her spine.
The man with the pistol barked a word in Arabic that she couldn't understand, intended for the men at his side. Meredith thought she detected a smile beneath the fabric that obscured his lips and chin. “You are not afraid?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm as his tongue wrapped around the English words.
“Afraid?” Meredith felt the warmth of her mount at her back, giving her false courage.
He didn't respond except to indicate with the pistol that she should move. When she failed to comply, she watched as one of the men maneuvered behind her, tethering her horse to his own saddle.
Even if she managed to escape, where could she go on foot? Meredith felt the fear in her chest harden as she willed the world around her to return to normal. But what was normal? The few months that had seemed to her a liberation already felt like a dream. She lifted her head higher, willing that world to continue. Her hands clenched at her sides and her breath clawed at her throat. Where was Murad? He'd been right beside her ... but here she was now alone. Her heart hardened.
“You clearly have the wrong woman, sir. But if it is money you wishâ” She gestured to the horse's saddle with an arm that already felt like someone else's.
He shook his head and motioned again with the pistol, urging his horse closer, a dull anger radiating from him like a banked fire.
Meredith placed one hand on her waist, as though to steady herself. It was not impossible to reach into her trousers, down in the pocket that rode against her hip. Her own pistol waited there, loaded, ready to use. She was not a novice, her aim practiced from skeet shooting on the grounds of Montfort under Mclean's watchful eye. “If you would give me a moment, I may actually have some sterling at hand.”
He slid from his horse and closed the space between them with one stride, lowering his pistol as he took hold of her arm with his free hand. The men behind him moved their mounts closer until they surrounded her, all but blocking out the late-afternoon sunlight, the heavy air redolent of sweat and exotic oils.
“If it's not money that you wantâ” she tried again. His grip tightened, fingers digging into her, pressing down on the bone. She held her breath, refusing to wince.
He shook his head. “No, madam. It is not money that we want.”
Meredith went cold. This was not happenstance, that they had come upon a lone woman in an abandoned fort, deserted by her guide. She did not believe in coincidence, never had. These three men surrounded her with intent. Montagu Faron. The name pulsed in time with her heart. Why did everything in her life coil back to that man who was now dead, carried away by the Channel's currents months ago?
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