Garden of Lies (31 page)

T
wo days later Ursula was inspired to send an invitation to tea to the small group of investigators. Mrs. Dunstan bustled about excitedly all morning preparing the rarely used drawing room. Dust covers were swept away. Drapes were pulled back to allow the watery sunlight into the space. After the cleaning had been completed to her satisfaction, she retreated to the kitchen, where she prepared a veritable feast of small sandwiches, lemon tarts and little cakes.

The guests arrived unfashionably early. Lilly took up a position on the sofa, a formidable figure in a red gown trimmed with white lace. Otford, a hot-off-the-press copy of
The Illustrated News
of Crime and Scandal
tucked under one arm, headed straight for the silver tray.

Slater was in his customary head-to-toe black. He lounged gracefully against one wall and munched a sandwich.

“Lady Fulbrook won't hang, you can be sure of that,” Otford announced. He popped a cake into his mouth. “Her sort never do. Mark my words, she will quietly disappear into a private asylum and spend the rest of her days there.”

“I would not wager a great deal of money on that outcome if I were you,” Lilly said. “In my opinion, the woman is a consummate actress. It wouldn't surprise me in the least to learn a few months from now that Lady Fulbrook has been miraculously cured by a practitioner of the modern theory of psychology.”

“An alienist?” Ursula paused her teacup in midair while she pondered that. “Good heavens, I had not considered that possibility.”

“We will keep an eye on her,” Slater said. “But if she is set free, I do not think she will return to London. She certainly cannot go into Society. She is now a notorious woman, thanks to Mr. Otford and his colleagues.”

“That she is,” Otford said. He waved the copy of his magazine. “I must admit I am grateful to her. Nothing better than a woman on the cover to attract the attention of the public.”

“Let me see that.” Ursula got up, marched across the room and yanked the magazine out of Otford's hands. She sat down beside Lilly and examined the penny dreadful.

The cover was a melodramatic bedroom scene that depicted a beautiful woman in a diaphanous nightgown clinging to the arm of a villainous-looking American armed with a very large revolver. The body of a gentleman was sprawled on the floor, his throat slashed. The title said it all:

T
HE
F
ULBROOK
M
URDER

Lady Fulbrook Driven Mad by Illicit Tryst with American Crime Lord! Conspiracy! Poison! Scandal!

Ursula paged quickly through the magazine, checking for other illustrations. “If I find my name or the name of my agency in this article, Mr. Otford, I vow—”

“Calm yourself, madam.” Otford flapped a napkin in Ursula's direction and spoke around a mouthful of cake. “I assure you that you are not referenced anywhere in the magazine. Neither is anyone else in this room. Per Mr. Roxton's instructions, I gave full credit to Scotland Yard.”

“If Lady Fulbrook is committed to an asylum, what will happen to the Fulbrook estate?” Lilly asked.

“I suspect that heirs and potential heirs on both sides of the family are currently marshaling their forces—specifically their lawyers—to do battle over the fortune,” Slater said.

“What of the ambrosia plants?” Ursula asked.

Slater stirred and pushed himself away from the wall. He wandered across the room to contemplate the items on the tea tray.

“As it happens, there was a fire in the Fulbrook conservatory last night. It started in the stillroom, where a number of chemicals were stored. Evidently everything, including the plants in the special chamber reserved for the ambrosia, was destroyed.”

“Huh.” Otford stopped eating and pulled out his notebook.

Ursula watched Slater. “There may be other ambrosia plants out there, somewhere. And packets of seeds, as well.”

Slater shrugged and selected a sandwich. “Perhaps someone will discover something useful to do with the plant. It is not as if we do not need better medicines.”

“Well, there is that, I suppose,” Ursula said. “Now, then, no doubt you are all wondering why I asked you to tea today.”

Everyone looked at her.

Lilly frowned. “There is a reason? Besides tea, that is?”

“Yes, there is a reason.” Ursula picked up the silver card case on the coffee table. “I called you together to announce that Slater is about to embark on a new career.”

Slater coughed and sputtered around a bite of sandwich. “What?”

“This tea is a celebration of his new profession, and I am delighted to make him a present of his first business cards.” She selected one of the crisp white cards and held it up so that everyone could admire the elegant engraving.

“Let me see that.” Slater crossed the room in two long strides and snapped the card out of Ursula's fingers.
“Slater Roxton, Private Inquiries. Discretion Assured.”
He looked up. “What the devil?”

There were startled gasps from everyone else in the room. The gasps were followed by murmurs of approval.

“Yes, of course,” Lilly said. She was suddenly radiant with enthusiasm. “It's the perfect career for you, Slater. I should have thought of it, myself.”

Slater stared at Ursula with the expression of a man who had been shaken to the core. “Business cards?”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance to you in your new line,” Otford suggested eagerly. “You'll need a man who knows how to dig up information. In exchange for exclusive stories like the Fulbrook murder, I offer my investigative services.”

“People got killed,” Slater said.

Otford cleared his throat. “Right. Murdered. Very unfortunate.”

“The important thing to remember,” Ursula said, “is that additional people would very likely have been murdered and others would have been forced to submit to the misery of blackmail if it had not been for Slater's inquiries.”

Slater rounded the coffee table, leaned down, wrapped his hands around Ursula's waist and lifted her off the sofa. He held her so that her satin slippers did not touch the carpet.

“What in blazes do you think you're doing, woman?” His voice reverberated dangerously around the room. “I'm not going into the private inquiry business.”

“You need a career, Slater,” she said. She braced her hands on his shoulders and looked down at him. “Your days of wandering the world chasing lost artifacts are concluded. You are home now and you must find something new to do with your life. It is time you put your skills to work.”

“What skills?”

“You know how to look for answers. That is a surprisingly uncommon talent. Searching for answers is what private inquiry agents do. Really, it's what you've been doing for years. Now you've got the business cards to go with the business, so to speak.”

He set her slowly on her feet. “Never thought of it as a profession.”

“Furthermore, I may be able to assist you from time to time,” she continued. “As a secretary, I can go into a great many places without arousing curiosity or suspicion—business establishments, private homes, almost anywhere, really. Who doesn't need a secretary from time to time?”

“No.” Slater eyed her with steely determination. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”

“We can discuss the details later,” she assured him.

“There will be nothing to discuss,” he said.

She sat down quickly and picked up the pot. “More coffee?”

“Damn it, Ursula—”

“Perhaps another sandwich.” She nudged the silver tray across the coffee table.

“Damn it, Ursula—”

“I believe you are repeating yourself. Try the chicken salad sandwiches. They're excellent. Oh, I do apologize. You're a vegetarian. The cucumber, perhaps? And by the way, I do love you, you know.”

He looked at her as if he had never seen anything like her in his entire life, as if he was afraid to believe she was real.

“What did you say?” he got out.

“About the chicken salad sandwiches?”

They might as well have been alone in the room, she thought. No one else moved. No one spoke a word.

“About loving me,” Slater said.

“You obviously heard me. You seem surprised. I would have thought that you would have learned that much from your labyrinth.”

“I have been afraid to ask the question. Terrified, as a matter of fact. I was afraid the answer might not be the one I wanted to hear.”

Ursula looked at Lilly and Otford. “Would you mind giving us a few minutes alone while we clear up some rather personal matters?”

Lilly shot to her feet. “Not at all, dear. Take your time.”

She swept across the room to the door. Otford hurried after her.

Ursula faced Slater across the low coffee table.

“You, sir?” she said. “Afraid of answers? Forgive me, but I find that difficult to believe.”

“Believe it.”

“Perhaps it's just as well you did not seek the answer in your labyrinth,” she said. “Some things must be done face-to-face.”

He smiled. It was one of the rare smiles that banished the darkness from his eyes. He reached for her hand. She gave it to him. He drew her out from behind the coffee table.

“I knew the day I met you that you were the one I would love,” he said.

It was her turn to be stunned. “Did you?”

“Why the devil do you think I employed you to assist me with cataloging those damned artifacts? I have no interest in them. As far as I'm concerned, the British Museum is welcome to haul away the whole lot. All I cared about was finding an excuse to keep you near me.”

Joy rushed through her. She was suddenly weightless.

“You hired me because you were in love with me?” she whispered. “And to think that you tried to tell me that you were not a romantic man.”

“Some answers are inescapable,” he said. “You are one of them.”

She smiled. “Do you think that will be a problem for you?”

“More in the nature of an amazing discovery. It occurs to me that in this case, one question leads to another.”

“What is that?”

He smiled his slow, deep smile—the smile that revealed the truths and the passions that smoldered inside him. He framed her face in his powerful hands.

“Will you marry me, my love?”

“Are you quite sure you don't want to walk your labyrinth first with that one?”

“Your answer is the only one that matters,” Slater said.

“The answer is yes.”

She could have sworn that she glimpsed the glitter of tears in his eyes. Alarmed, she tried to step back.

“Slater?” she whispered.

“That was the answer I needed to hear,” he said. He looked very satisfied. “So, once again I find myself taking the third path.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That day on Fever Island when I found myself entombed, I realized I had a choice of three paths. There was the Path of War and the Path of Vengeance. I chose the third path.”

“What was it?” Ursula asked.

“The Path of the Lovers.”

She smiled, gripped the lapels of his coat and stood on tiptoe to brush her mouth against his.

“What made you choose that Path of the Lovers?” she asked.

“It was,” Slater said, “the only one that seemed to offer hope.”

He wrapped her close. His mouth came down on hers and she gave herself up to his kiss and the future.

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