Garden of Lies (21 page)

B
rice Torrence descended the front steps of his club shortly before midnight. He was dressed in the black-and-white formal attire he had worn to a ball that evening. He raised a silver-handled walking stick to signal the first cab in the line of vehicles that waited in the street.

Slater moved out of the deep shadows cast by a nearby doorway vestibule.

“I'd like a word with you, Brice,” Slater said.

Brice tensed and turned halfway around. His initial start of surprise was transmuted into anger.

“Roxton,” he said. “What in blazes do you want?”

“Some brief conversation. You owe me that much, don't you agree?”

“Do you want me to apologize for what happened on Fever Island? To tell you that I'm sorry I left you for dead in those damned temple caves? How was I to know that you were still alive? Hell and damnation, man,
I thought you were dead
.”

Slater was stunned by the way the words spilled out of Brice. It was not the response he had expected. For a moment he was not sure how to handle it.

“I know you thought that I had been killed by that fall of rock,” he said. “I don't hold you responsible.”

“I left you to die while I sailed home with a priceless artifact. Some things are unforgivable in a friendship.”

“This is not the conversation I want to have,” Slater said.

“What do you want to discuss? Restitution? How am I supposed to make things right between us? How do I change the past?”

“This is not about the past, at least not those aspects of it. I want to talk about the Olympus Club.”

Brice stared at him. “What the devil?”

Slater heard the door of the club open again. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two very drunk men come down the steps. Their laughter was too loud as they debated where to spend the rest of the night.

There was another man on the street, as well. He came quickly along the walkway as though late for an appointment. When he moved through the glary light of the streetlamps, Slater caught a glimpse of him. He was small in stature but he cut a fashionable figure in an excellently tailored suit. He carried a walking stick in one hand.

Slater did not recognize him but he knew the sort—a clubman, making his nightly rounds of the most exclusive gentlemen's haunts.

Slater turned back to Brice and lowered his voice.

“Will you come to my house with me?” he said. “We can discuss this over some very good brandy.”

“You can say whatever it is you think needs saying right here.”

“If you insist,” Slater said. “But perhaps we could put some distance between ourselves and the front door of your club?”

Brice looked wary but he accompanied Slater a short distance away from the light of the gas lamps that illuminated the front steps.

Slater glanced back to make certain that no one was close enough to overhear the conversation. He saw that the dapper little man with the walking stick was nearing the steps of the club. In another moment he would disappear through the doorway.

Slater shook off the uneasy feeling and focused on Brice.

“I warned her this was probably not a good idea,” Slater said.

“Warned who? You're not making sense.”

Slater was about to respond but it occurred to him that he had not heard the small man's shoes on the front steps of the club. Instead, the brisk footsteps were continuing along the walkway, coming closer.

The cab line was across the street, Slater thought. The little man was not headed in that direction, either.

The footsteps echoed in the fog, moving more quickly now and in a purposeful manner.

“Brice, do you know the man coming up behind me?” Slater asked. “The small fellow with the walking stick?”

“What?” Distracted, Brice peered past Slater. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Because you know just about everyone in Society. If you don't recognize him, that is not a good sign.”

“Have you been drinking?” Brice demanded.

The footsteps were closing rapidly now. Slater glanced over his shoulder again. The little man had one hand clenched around the handle of the walking stick. He grasped the lower end of the stick in his opposite hand.

He looked very much like a man who was preparing to unsheathe a dagger.

Or a stiletto
, Slater thought.

He took off his spectacles, dropped them into the pocket of his coat and turned back to Brice, who was speaking impatiently. Something about getting on with it. Slater fixed his attention on him, as though paying attention. But he listened, instead, to the footsteps closing the distance behind him.

And there it was, the slight shortening of the small man's stride. Like a jumper collecting power to take the fence, the assassin was readying himself for the kill.

Slater shoved Brice into the bushes at the border of the pavement, simultaneously twisting away from the attack.

Brice yelped, outraged.

Slater whirled around to confront the assassin.

A needle of steel gleamed in the luminous fog.

Suddenly aware that he was going to miss his target, the little man tried frantically to change direction.

Slater took advantage of the opening. He made one hand into a straight edge and brought it down in a hard, chopping blow that caught the assassin on the forearm close to the wrist. Bone cracked. The stiletto and its walking stick sheath clattered on the ground.

It had all happened very quickly—a matter of seconds—but the commotion was starting to attract attention from the cab line.

“Footpad.”

“Send for a constable.”

Slater started toward the assassin.

“You crazy son of a bitch,” the little man hissed. “You'll pay for this, I swear you will.”

He turned again and ran off into the fog.

“Damn.” Brice got to his feet, brushing off his clothes. “He got away. He'll disappear into the stews.”

“Not likely,” Slater said. “You heard the accent. He's an American criminal trying to escape in our fair city. I doubt that he'll get far.”

“What do you mean? It's a very big city, in case you haven't noticed.”

“He'll stand out on the streets,” Slater said. “After all, he can barely speak the language.”

D
amian was waiting for her in the conservatory.

The moment she opened the door and moved into her private Eden, Valerie knew he was there. It was as if she was so attuned to him she could sense him on the metaphysical plane. Her pulse skittered in delight. A euphoria that was more intense than what the ambrosia could induce swept through her.

“I got your message, Damian,” she whispered into the darkness.

The indoor jungle was drenched in shadows and moonlight. She had not dared to bring a lantern or a candle. She had been afraid that one of the servants would notice. She could not trust any of them.

The faint scent of cigarette smoke floated lightly on the fragrant air. A dark figure stirred near a bed of towering ferns.

“Valerie,” he said. “I have missed you so much these past months. I could not wait any longer to be with you.”

She flew toward him, her chest so tight with the force of her emotions that she could scarcely breathe.

“Damian,” she said. “Damian, Damian, my beloved. I have been in torment waiting for you to come to me. Every day without you has been an eternity.”

He opened his arms and she flung herself into the safety and the rapture of his embrace. He extinguished his cigarette in the fern bed and then his mouth closed over hers.

His kisses thrilled her senses, just as they had all those months ago in New York when they had become lovers. Two lost souls, he said, who had found each other at last. He had vowed to find a way for them to be together. All that was required was time and careful planning.

She looked up at him, savoring the sheer size of the man. Like a gallant knight of old, he had come to rescue her from the cruel tyrant she had been forced to marry.

“It was so clever of you to come to London before you were expected,” she said. “As far as Fulbrook is concerned your ship will not dock until the day after tomorrow. How long have you been in town?”

“A few days. I'm staying at a hotel under another name. I have been afraid to let you know I was here for fear the secret might slip out. But tonight I could not wait any longer. I had to see you.”

“I will keep your secrets. You can trust me.”

“I know.”

He kissed her again and then he caught her hands in his.

“I cannot stay long tonight,” he said. “I will not let you take the risk of being discovered, not now when we are so close to the fulfillment of our plans.”

“Don't worry, we are safe,” she said.

“It is imperative that your husband believes that I am still on board ship. He must not suspect that I arranged to arrive a few days ahead of schedule.”

She touched his hair, hardly daring to believe that he was real, that this was not a dream.

“How much longer until we can be together?” she asked.

“Not long, my love.” He touched her mouth with one gloved finger. “Not long at all. The last shipment is in the warehouse. We will take it with us when we sail to New York. There are a few more matters that must be dealt with and then it will all be over.”

“You must promise me that you will be careful. Fulbrook is not strong like you but he is powerful in his own way and quite ruthless.”

“Do not fear, my sweet. In a very short time he will no longer be a problem for either of us. But now I must go. I should not have come here tonight but I had to see you. It has been agony, exchanging secret letters and thinking about you here with Fulbrook.”

“My husband spends his time with his whores and at his clubs, not with me. I have been alone—so very alone. At night I dream of you. During the day I cannot stop thinking about you.”

“Soon you will be safe with me in New York.”

“Safe.” She breathed the word with a sense of wonder. “Safe at last.”

He kissed her again and her heart soared.

Y
ou want me to pack a bag and move to your house now?” Ursula clutched the lapels of her wrapper at her throat. “It's the middle of the night, Slater. I don't understand.”

They were standing in the front hall of her house. Slater's greatcoat dripped rain on the black-and-white floor. At the foot of the steps a carriage waited, the interior lamps turned down.

“The assassin came for me less than forty minutes ago,” Slater said. “At this point I cannot be certain who he will go after next, assuming he is still capable of murdering anyone. I think I broke his arm. But that is not enough of a guarantee. I want you in my house. It is much more secure. My locks are excellent. There are more people around to keep an eye on things.”

Ursula stared at him, trying to get past the first shock. “Are you telling me that someone tried to murder you tonight?”

“Yes,” Slater said. He did not bother to conceal his impatience. “You need only bring what you need for tonight. Your housekeeper can pack the rest of your things tomorrow.”

“You were nearly murdered tonight?”

Slater frowned. “It's all right, Ursula. I'm fine. Thank you for your concern.”

“Is that all you can say?” Her voice was rising. “You were nearly killed. Because of me. Because of my investigation.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Pack a bag. I'd appreciate it if you would not dither about.”

“I'm not dithering, damn it. I have just sustained a great shock to my nerves. There's a difference.”

“Really?” The edge of his mouth curved faintly. “I hadn't noticed.”

“Bloody hell.” She swung around and marched up the staircase. “I shall be down in fifteen minutes.”

“Don't worry,” Slater said, “I'll wait. Oh, and you needn't concern yourself with the proprieties.”

She stopped halfway up the stairs. “And why is that?”

“Webster has been dispatched to collect my mother. She will act as a chaperone.”

“Lilly Lafontaine. Playing the role of chaperone. Something tells me she will find that endlessly amusing.”