The Deepest Sin Read Free

“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.
    â€œThey 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.”
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYes, 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 wards—”
    Archer interrupted. “Both of whom are now safe.”
    â€œOr 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.”
    â€œHe’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”—he flicked a glance at the dossier on the desk—“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,