Garden of Lies (4 page)

“Don't worry, Mr. Roxton,” she said hastily. “I'm sure you can find another secretary to help you catalog your collection. I will be happy to send you someone else from my agency to fill in while I'm gone.”

“I am not concerned with finding another secretary, Mrs. Kern, I am concerned about your safety.”

“Oh, I see.”

He was not furious because she was abandoning his cataloging project, she thought. He was simply alarmed that she might be taking a risk. It had been so long since anyone had been worried about her welfare that she was flummoxed for a moment. The realization warmed her somewhere deep inside. She smiled.

“It is very thoughtful of you to be concerned,” she said. “Truly, I do appreciate it. But rest assured that I will take precautions.”

Ominous shadows appeared in his eyes. “Such as?”

Her fragile sense of gratitude evaporated in a heartbeat.

“I assure you I can take care of myself,” she said coldly. “I have been doing just that for some time now. I regret that I tried to explain my plan to you. That was clearly a mistake. I can only hope that you will honor my confidence. If you fail to do so, you may, indeed, put me in some jeopardy.”

He looked as if she had just slapped his face very hard. Equal measures of astonishment and outrage flashed in his eyes.

“Do you really think that I would deliberately do anything that would place you in danger?” he asked softly.

She was instantly consumed with remorse.

“No, of course not,” she said. “I would never have spoken to you of my intentions if I believed that to be the case. But I admit I had hoped you might be able to provide some helpful advice.”

“My advice is to give up this wild scheme.”

“Right.” She closed her hand around the doorknob. “Thank you for your ever so helpful counsel. Good day, Mr. Roxton.”

“Damn it, Ursula, don't you dare walk out on me.”

It was, she realized, the first time he had ever used her given name. It was depressing to know that it was anger, not affection that had caused him to slip into the small intimacy.

She yanked the door open before he could stop her. She whisked up her skirts and went out into the hall, certain that he would not humiliate himself in front of the servants by chasing after her.

She was proved correct. Slater stopped in the doorway and watched her but he did not pursue her—not physically, at least. Nevertheless, when she arrived in the front hall she was oddly breathless.

Webster, the butler, opened the door for her.

“Leaving early, Mrs. Kern?” he asked. “I believe Mrs. Webster was making up a tea tray for you and Mr. Roxton.”

He sounded quite heartbroken.

In the course of the two cataloging sessions it had become obvious that the Roxton household was unusual in many respects, including the staff. They had all been hired by Slater's mother. As far as Ursula could determine, Lilly Lafontaine recruited heavily from the unemployed, currently between engagements, or retired ranks of the theatrical world.

Webster was a lean, wiry man with a skeletal face. With his shaved head, a black eye patch covering one blue eye, and a jagged scar that marked his left cheek, he looked more like a pirate than a professional butler.

Ursula had discovered that the accident that had forced him into retirement had occurred onstage. She did not know all of the details but evidently he had been the victim of a fake sword that had failed to collapse properly.

She was also well aware that with his forbidding appearance, the number of employers who would have hired him—let alone elevate him to the status of butler—was vanishingly small. She had recognized him on their first meeting as a kindred spirit—an individual who had succeeded in reinventing himself. The knowledge had not only made her like him immediately, it had predisposed her to look favorably upon his employer.

Rapid footsteps sounded in the hall. Mrs. Webster appeared, a heavily laden tea tray in her hands.

“Mrs. Kern, are you leaving so soon? You mustn't go. You haven't had tea. Cataloging Mr. Roxton's relics is such dry and dusty work.”

In her own way, Mrs. Webster was as unexpected as her spouse. She was very likely in her mid-forties but she had been gifted with the elegant bones and the fine figure of a woman who would be striking long into old age. It had come as no surprise to discover that she, too, had once earned her living as an actress. She entered a room carrying a tea tray with more of a flourish than most upper-class ladies could summon to make an entrance into a ballroom.

Like her husband, Mrs. Webster was always onstage. At the moment she was doing an excellent imitation of a Juliet who has just discovered that Romeo is dead.

“I hope to return at a more convenient time, Mrs. Webster,” Ursula said, aware that Slater was listening to the conversation. “It's just that something has come up of a personal nature.”

“Are you ill?” Mrs. Webster demanded, hand clutching at her throat. “I know a very good doctor. He saved Mr. Webster's life.”

“I assure you I'm in excellent health,” Ursula said. “I hate to rush off but I'm afraid I really must go.”

Webster reluctantly opened the door.

“Until Wednesday, then,” Mrs. Webster said, hopeful to the end.

Ursula pulled the black netting of her widow's veil down over her face and escaped out onto the front step before Mrs. Webster could add
Parting is such sweet sorrow
. She decided not to tell the Websters that she would not be returning on Wednesday or, possibly, ever again, judging by the expression on Slater's face.

The carriage that Slater had insisted on arranging for the twice-weekly sessions was waiting in the street.

The coachman jumped down from the box, opened the door and lowered the steps. His name was Griffith and he was a mountain of a man with a powerful, muscular build. His black hair was tied back at the nape of his neck with a leather thong. Ursula had learned that in his previous career he had worked as a stagehand with a traveling theater company.

“You're leaving early today, Mrs. Kern,” he observed. “Everything all right? You're not coming down with a fever, are you?”

This was getting to be ridiculous, Ursula thought. It seemed that everyone connected to the Roxton household had begun to take an alarming interest in her health. She was certainly not accustomed to such close scrutiny, nor did she want to encourage it.

“I'm in excellent health, thank you, Griffith,” she said. “Please take me back to my office.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Griffith handed her up into the cab with obvious reluctance. She collected her skirts and sat down on the elegantly cushioned seat.

Griffith closed the door. He exchanged dark glances with Mr. and Mrs. Webster before he vaulted up onto the box and loosened the reins. Ursula got the distinct feeling that she would be the subject of some low-voiced conversations later in the kitchen.

She had understood from the outset that Roxton's servants were fiercely loyal to their employer but it was unsettling to realize that they took such acute interest in her. In the two years that had passed since the scandal that had destroyed what she thought of as her
other life
she had successfully reinvented herself. She could not afford to let anyone look too deeply into her past.

H
e stood at the window in the front hall and watched until the carriage vanished into the fog. Everything inside him went cold. He was losing her.
You never possessed her. She was not yours to lose.

But logic did nothing to push back the endless night that threatened to coalesce at the edge of his senses. It was always there, lying in wait. The time spent in the temple caves of Fever Island had taken its toll. The year in the monastery had taught him self-discipline and the dangers of strong passions. For the most part he had learned to harness the forces of his temperament. The Principles of the Three Ways had provided him with a sense of structure and control that suited his nature. He had found what some would describe as a calling, and he had pursued it relentlessly, driven by a quest for answers to a question he still did not understand.

He thought he had made his peace with the darkness. With the exception of the occasional cathartic flash of violence, he had assumed the role of observer. Even during the rare moments of sexual release some part of him was always standing back, watching.

But Ursula had interfered with the carefully constructed and exquisitely balanced order of his world. She made him want more. And desire was the most dangerous force of all.

Webster cleared his throat in a disapproving manner. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you,” Slater said.

He turned away from the view of the street, went back into the library and closed the door. He stood alone listening to the empty silence for a time, thinking about his first impressions of Ursula Kern. She had been wearing black from head to toe but the very darkness of her attire had only served to heighten the rich, burnished copper of her auburn hair.

He would never forget the moment when she had raised the veil of her dashing little widow's hat to reveal an intelligent face made riveting by fiercely brilliant hazel eyes, a strong will and a forceful character.

He had known at once that she was a woman of spirit. He had savored the knowledge in ways he could not begin to describe—
like
a damned moth to her flame,
he thought. He sensed that she was a woman who understood the importance of secrets. A part of him hoped that such a woman might come to understand and accept a man who also kept them.

The press speculated wildly about what he had been doing during the past few years. Some claimed that he had studied ancient mysteries in foreign lands and learned strange, exotic secrets. There were rumors that he had discovered astonishing treasures. Other reports insisted that the experience on Fever Island had rendered him unhinged—possibly quite mad.

The general consensus both in the newspapers and in Society was that he had returned to London with the goal of exacting vengeance.

Not all of the rumors about him were false.

M
atty Bingham was at her desk, transcribing dictation on the latest model of the Fenton Modern Typewriter. Ursula stood out in the hall for a moment, watching through the window set into the door. Matty was one of the first secretaries hired and trained by the newly founded Kern agency two years earlier. She had, in fact, walked through the door only a week after Anne Clifton, desperate and determined. Matty had soon displayed a talent for organization and finances that had proved invaluable. Although she still occasionally took private clients, she had become Ursula's second-in-command.

This afternoon her curly brown hair was pinned in a tight bundle on top of her head. The style emphasized her fine brown eyes. Attired in a crisp tailor-made dress with a prim white bodice and a maroon skirt, she was the ideal image of the professional secretary. Her posture in the chair was elegant, her back and shoulders very straight. The movement of her hands on the keys was graceful, almost hypnotic to watch. She looked as if she was playing a piano. That was, of course, an important reason why the new field of secretarial work—one of the very few respectable professions open to women—was viewed as a suitable female occupation.

Those who pontificated on such matters in the press were keen to point out that typewriting was a fine job for women because females could perform their tasks without compromising their femininity.

Ursula privately suspected that the real reason women were welcomed into the secretarial field had more to do with the fact that most of them were so grateful to be allowed to make a respectable living that they were willing to tolerate lower pay than a man would demand. She had made certain that the secretaries of the Kern Secretarial Agency were the exception to that rule.

Kern secretaries were not only highly skilled in stenography, typewriting and organizational techniques, they were very expensive. The women who worked for the agency were paid incomes that allowed them to afford good lodgings and fashionable clothes. The high wages made it possible for them to put aside money for their retirement years. Their steady incomes sometimes lured suitors, as well. In the past two years, three Kern secretaries, including Matty, had received offers of marriage. One woman had accepted. Matty and her colleague had turned down the proposals, preferring the freedom that came with their new profession.

The Kern agency advertised that their elite secretaries operated the very latest and most technologically advanced typing machines. Ursula and her employees had all agreed that device was the Fenton Modern Typewriter.

Ursula opened the door and went into the office. Matty looked up in surprise.

“You're back early,” she said. Concern tightened her brows. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“Why does everyone insist upon inquiring after my health this afternoon?” Ursula yanked the hatpins out of her hat. “Do I appear sickly?”

Matty's concern immediately transitioned to fascinated horror. “Something dreadful happened at the Roxton mansion, didn't it? Are you all right?”

Ursula dropped the hat and veil onto a side table. “I'm fine, Matty.”

“No, you're not fine. Mr. Roxton said or did something to outrage your delicate sensibilities, didn't he?”

Ursula sank into her desk chair and gave Matty a repressive look.

“To be clear,” she said evenly, “Mr. Roxton committed no outrages upon my person and he did not offend my delicate sensibilities. Professional secretaries cannot afford to possess delicate sensibilities. That way lies disaster.”

“We are respectable females. Of course we have delicate sensibilities.”

“No, Matty, what professional secretaries must possess in abundance are the qualities of intelligence, common sense and a willingness to do whatever is required to extricate one's person from potentially outrageous situations before they become outrageous. There are no knights in shining armor hanging about waiting to rescue us. We must deal with the world on our own. Which is, of course, why I make certain that all of my secretaries wear hats with large, sturdy hatpins.”

“Yes, I know.” Matty brushed the hatpin requirement aside. “Well, if you were not offended, why are you in such a fierce mood? You look as if you could cheerfully throttle someone.”

“Do not tempt me.”

“Something did happen at the Roxton mansion. I knew it. I warned you about that man, did I not?”

“On any number of occasions.”

“You can't expect him to behave like a well-bred, well-mannered gentleman. They say he was entombed alive for weeks on that island.”

“His mother informed me that it was more in the neighborhood of a few days.”

“It doesn't matter, the point is he was buried alive. After he escaped the temple tombs he was stranded on that island for a full year. That would be enough to shatter anyone's nerves or drive him mad.”

“Mr. Roxton is not mad, Matty.” Ursula reflected briefly. “A trifle eccentric, perhaps, but I'm quite sure he isn't mad. I think it's safe to say there's nothing wrong with his nerves, either.”

“The latest issue of
The Flying Intelligencer
reports that Roxton practices exotic sexual rites on unsuspecting females,” Matty announced.

Ursula stared at her, genuinely shocked for the first time. “Good heavens. I must admit I hadn't heard that particular tidbit.”

“Evidently Roxton is in the habit of kidnapping innocent, respectable ladies right off the street. He takes them to a secret chamber where he performs the rituals.”

“Is that so? Have there been a number of complaints from the victims of these exotic sexual rituals?”

“Well, no.” Matty looked disappointed. “The victims never remember exactly what happens during the ceremonies because he hypnotizes them to make them forget.”

“I suspect they can't remember the exotic sexual rites because those rites never occurred in the first place. Really, Matty, you know you can't believe everything you read in the papers.”

Matty was a great fan of the sensation press. In the wake of Roxton's return to London two months ago, the papers and the penny dreadfuls had wasted a great quantity of ink discussing the rumors of his so-called “entombment” and speculating on what he had done during the years following his rescue from Fever Island.

Matty had read every word printed about the mysterious Slater Roxton. She had never met him but she considered herself an expert on the man. She was clearly disappointed by Roxton's failure to perform exotic lovemaking rituals on her employer.

“What of the years after he escaped from the island?” Matty asked. “No telling what he got up to during that time.”

“He did not disappear after he was rescued from the island,” Ursula said. “His mother assured me that Mr. Roxton returned to London at least twice a year to visit with his parents.”

“Yes, well, he certainly kept his visits quiet, didn't he?”

“I doubt that it was difficult. There was no reason for anyone to pay any attention to his comings and goings until recently. The only reason the press is agog now is because his father died and left the family fortune in Mr. Roxton's hands.”

Matty assumed an all-knowing air. “They say he has returned to exact vengeance.”

“That may be Society's opinion but that view was shaped by the sensation press. I doubt very much if it is true.”

“Consider his position—he is the long-lost bastard son of a wealthy lord and a famous actress. Upon his father's death Mr. Roxton discovers that he will not inherit the estate and he will never be able to take up the title because of his illegitimate birth. And just to rub salt into his wounds, his father's will charged him with the duties and responsibilities of managing the inheritance for his two
legitimate
half brothers and his father's widow. The injustice of that situation would be enough to make any man seek revenge.”

Ursula drummed her fingers on the desktop. “I saw no signs that Mr. Roxton is worried about his own financial future,” Ursula said. “His mother does not appear concerned, either. I got the strong impression that Mr. Roxton's father took excellent care of Lilly. More to the point, I don't think that Slater Roxton has been idle during the past few years. His mother indicated that he has done rather well for himself. Something about investments, according to Lilly. Evidently he has a head for business. Furthermore, she assured me that her son is not unbalanced.”

“Well, she is his mother, after all. What would you expect her to say?” Matty paused for emphasis. “And while we're on the subject of revenge—”

“We are not discussing the subject of vengeance.” Ursula slapped the blotter with the palm of her hand. “Don't you have something that needs to be typed?”

Matty ignored that. “Don't forget the little matter of the Jeweled Bird. Everyone knows that while Mr. Roxton was languishing on Fever Island, his business partner, Lord Torrence, sailed home with the fabulous treasure that was discovered in the temple caves.”

Ursula grimaced. “Lord Torrence along with everyone else believed Mr. Roxton was dead.”

“Well,” Matty said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “there is speculation that Lord Torrence tried to murder Mr. Roxton on Fever Island. They say he triggered the trap that entombed Roxton so that he could keep the Jeweled Bird for himself.”

For the first time since the conversation with Matty had started, a chill slithered down Ursula's spine. The press was notoriously unreliable but there was some truth in the old adage
Where there is smoke, there is fire
. The spectacular Jeweled Bird had caught the public's attention when Lord Torrence had allowed it to be exhibited for a time in a museum. People, herself included, had stood in line for hours to view it. The fact that one of the discoverers had died in the tombs on Fever Island had only added to the sense of fascination. When the fabulous statue was reported stolen shortly after it was returned to Torrence's private collection, there had been another sensation in the press. The Bird had faded into the mists of legend.

Ursula did not think that Slater was particularly concerned about money or the title, either, for that matter. But a man who had been entombed and returned from the grave only to learn that the fantastic artifact he had helped discover had disappeared into the illegal antiquities trade—such a man might harbor thoughts of vengeance. It might also convince him that the terrible accident on Fever Island had not been an accident, after all. One thing was certain, Ursula thought—if Slater set out to exact vengeance, his victim was unlikely to escape.

A great many tales and legends swirled around the mysterious Mr. Roxton. She would not be surprised to learn that a few of them were true.

She leaned forward to flip the pages in her appointment calendar. “I believe we have an interview with a new secretary this afternoon. Oh, yes, there it is. Miss Taylor will arrive at three.”

“I can deal with it,” Matty said.

“Are you sure?”

Matty smiled, a gentle, understanding smile. “I know Anne's death has been hard on you. There's no need for you to interview the secretary who will replace her. For heaven's sake, the funeral was only yesterday. You need a little time to get past the shock of it all.”

“I'm going to miss her,” Ursula said. “And not just because she was a great asset to this business.”

“I—we, all of the secretaries here at the Kern agency—know that you and Anne were good friends.”

“She possessed so many of the qualities I feel I lack. She was fun to be around. Clever. Vivacious. Full of enthusiasm for life. I admired her daring and her boldness. She was a woman ahead of her time in so many things.”

“Mmm.” Matty picked up the stack of pages she had finished typing and squared the bottom edge against the blotter with a few brisk taps.

“What?” Ursula asked.

“Nothing. It's not important. The poor woman is dead.”

“Matty, are you aware of something about Anne that I should know?”

“Oh, no, truly,” Matty said quickly. “It's just that, well—”

“Well, what? Matty, I am not in the mood for this.”

Matty gave a small sigh. “It's just that some might say that Anne was inclined to be a little too daring and a bit too bold for her own good. She could be reckless, Ursula. You know that as well as I do.”

“Her spirited temperament was one of her charms, wasn't it? She was the woman we all yearned to be—the Modern Woman.”

“Perhaps.” Matty smiled reminiscently and then abruptly wrinkled her nose. “Except for the cigarettes. I never could understand her taste for those things.”

“Neither could I,” Ursula admitted.

“Do you know, yesterday, when we stood there at the graveside, I thought that Anne must have died from a heart attack or a stroke,” Matty said.

“What makes you so certain?”