by Amanda Quick
“I think that, under the circumstances, you really should call me Slater.”
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She hoped the veil concealed her blush.
“Yes, of course,” she said briskly. “Thank you . . . Slater.”
There was a short pause. Belatedly it dawned on her that he was waiting for her to say something.
“Please call me Ursula,” she added.
“Thank you, Ursula.” He inclined his head. “I shall call for you at seven-thirty tomorrow evening. Is that agreeable?”
She thought about that for a few uncertain seconds. When one considered the matter closely it was obvious that being alone in the carriage with Slater at night would be no different from being alone with him now, during the day. But for some reason the prospect unnerved her a little. She reminded herself that theirs was a partnership.
She smiled, satisfied with her logic. “I will be waiting.”
It was, she thought, a great pity that every gown in her wardrobe with the exception of her house dresses was black.
TEN
Shortly before midnight Slater sat in the shadows of a hansom and watched the front door of the exclusive gentlemen’s club. The cab’s lights were turned down low so as not to draw attention. In the fog the streetlamps that marked the steps that led up to the front door of the club were no more than luminous spheres of ghostly energy.
He could have gone up the steps and been admitted to the club. He was a member, thanks to his father’s status and power, but he had not exercised his privileges since his return to London. It was Brice Torrence’s favorite retreat. It seemed best that he and Torrence did not find themselves in the same room. Brice evidently felt the same way. Whether by luck or by design, in the two months since Slater had returned to London he and Brice had managed to avoid chance encounters.
The only reason he was here tonight, waiting in the mist-bound shadows, was because the club happened to be one of Fulbrook’s favorite haunts.
The hansom squeaked a bit when Griffith shifted his weight on the driver’s perch above and behind the cab. He spoke through the opening in the top.
“His lordship’s been in there a good long while now.”
“Are you bored, Griffith?”
“When you told me that you wanted to play detective tonight I thought it would be a bit more exciting.”
“So did I,” Slater admitted. “Blame Fulbrook. It appears he lives a rather conventional life.”
“Do you really think he might have murdered Mrs. Kern’s secretary?”
“I have no idea. But Mrs. Kern won’t be convinced that her employee was not murdered until we find the truth. At the moment she suspects that the killer might be connected to the Fulbrook household so I thought it might be useful to gain some idea of Fulbrook’s habits.”
“He’ll probably follow the same pattern as the rest of his sort. Spend a few hours at his club playing cards and drinking and then go off to visit his mistress or a whorehouse. It’ll be dawn before he goes home, which means we won’t get any sleep tonight.”
“It might be useful to discover the address of his mistress or his favorite brothel, assuming he has one or the other.”
“They all do,” Griffith said with world-weary wisdom. “They marry a respectable lady for her family connections or her fortune or both and get themselves an heir. But there’s always a mistress on the side.”
That was, Slater thought, an excellent summary of his father’s lifestyle. Edward Roxton had married twice before he succeeded in fulfilling his responsibilities to the family name and the title but throughout the decades he had never given up the liaison with Lilly. As far as Slater could tell, his parents had, in their own fashion, been devoted to each other. He had no idea how his father’s first wife had felt about the situation. He had never met the woman, although, as a boy, he had seen her occasionally from a distance. Like other ladies of her station, she had pretended to be unaware of her husband’s other life. For his part, Edward had gone out of his way to keep Lilly and Slater in a separate sphere.
Edward’s second wife, however, was a very different matter. Judith had been remarkably clear-headed about the marriage. She’d had her own reasons for wedding a man several decades older than herself. It had been a business bargain for both parties and each had fulfilled the terms of the agreement.
Slater watched the door of the club open. An elegantly dressed man emerged from the front hall and paused at the top of the steps. For a moment his aquiline profile was visible in the glary light.
“There’s Fulbrook,” Slater said. “Prepare to follow him and make damned sure he doesn’t notice us.”
“He won’t pay any attention to us,” Griffith said. “It’s just one more cab in a fogbound night. Doubt if he’ll even look back. Why would he? Not like any of his associates will care that he’s off to visit a woman.”
“Nevertheless, I think it best to be cautious. Fulbrook will know that I have not frequented this club since my return to London. If he were to see me in the vicinity tonight, he might think it odd, especially after having made it obvious that I have taken a personal interest in his wife’s new secretary—always assuming he is aware of Mrs. Kern.”
“You think he knows that we collected Mrs. Kern from the Fulbrook residence earlier today?” Griffith asked.
“Someone watched Mrs. Kern leave the house,” Slater said.
Fulbrook came to a halt at the bottom of the steps and contemplated the row of cabs waiting in the street. He did not select the first in line. Instead he chose a hansom seemingly at random and went up the narrow steps. He disappeared into the deep shadows of the small cab.
“Bloody hell,” Griffith grumbled. He shook the reins, rousing the horse into a light trot. “I wasn’t expecting that. Most take the cab at the front of the line.”
“Most men of Fulbrook’s station prefer their own carriages.”
“A hansom is faster.”
“And so much more anonymous,” Slater said. “Interesting.”
They followed Fulbrook’s cab into the thickening fog. As they progressed through the streets the neighborhood changed. The houses and parks grew larger and more imposing.
“If he’s got a mistress in this neighborhood he’s keeping her in fine style,” Griffith remarked.
“I doubt very much that he’s got a woman stashed in one of these big houses,” Slater said. “More likely he’s headed to the home of a friend.”
“Damned late and a far way to travel just to have a brandy with a friend,” Griffith said.
“Depends on the friend.”
Fulbrook’s hansom came to a halt in front of a grand mansion. It was impossible to see much of the big house or the gardens because of the high brick wall that enclosed the grounds. Iron gates barred the drive.
A man with a shielded lantern appeared from the shadows of a small shelter adjacent to the gate. He angled the light into the close confines of the Fulbrook cab. A few words were exchanged. Evidently satisfied, the guard opened the gates and waved the hansom through.
“This is close enough, Griffith,” Slater said. “I do not think the guard will pay any attention to us if we remain where we are and keep the lamps turned down. I’d prefer not to attract his attention.”
Griffith brought the vehicle to a halt.
Fulbrook’s hansom disappeared through the gate. The guard allowed another carriage to depart and then he closed the gates. He had to open them again when a new vehicle arrived.
“There is a great deal of coming and going,” Slater said. “Fulbrook’s friend appears to be entertaining tonight.” He jumped down from the cab. “I’m going to take a look around.”
“D’ye think that’s wise?” Griffith asked uneasily.
“I believe it’s what detectives do,” Slater said.
“It’s also the sort
of thing that burglars do and they tend to get arrested.”
“It’s only incompetent housebreakers who get arrested, Griffith.”
Slater removed his spectacles and folded them neatly into the pocket of his coat. His eyesight was excellent. The eyeglasses were nothing more than a veil—not unlike the one that Ursula wore. People saw the spectacles—they did not see the eyes. In the years since Fever Island he had found the small disguise very useful in his work. For some strange reason people tended to discount the possibility that a man wearing spectacles might prove dangerous.
He faded into the shadows, simultaneously chagrined and amused to discover that he felt the old dark thrill of the hunt heating his blood. He had Ursula to thank for this, he thought.
He made his way along the narrow lane that bordered one side of the towering garden wall, turned the corner and found the rear gate. It was locked but there was no guard and no streetlamp.
He studied the view of the gardens through the wrought-iron bars of the gate. Most of the thick foliage lay shrouded in deep shadows and fog but the entrance to a hedge maze was lit with brightly colored lanterns. As Slater watched, an elegantly dressed couple disappeared into the green puzzle. The man’s drunken laughter was hoarse with anticipation.
The ground floor of the big house was brightly illuminated. There were lights at the edges of the windows of the upper floors but the drapes were pulled closed.
Slater stood quietly for a time listening. Low voices drifted out of the shadows. A woman laughed flirtatiously. A man murmured in what he no doubt believed to be a seductive tone but his words were slurred. Another couple vanished into the maze.
Slater stepped back and studied the gate at the places where it was hinged to the brick wall. The intricate wrought ironwork was intended to keep intruders out but it also provided a number of convenient footholds. The trick would be scaling the gate without being seen. But none of the couples who occasionally materialized in and out of the mist appeared to be paying attention to the gate. In any event the fog was thickening so quickly that it was increasingly unlikely that someone would even be able to see the wall or the gate unless he or she were quite close.
He took hold of one of the iron bars and vaulted upward. He got the toe of one boot on another decorative bit of iron and reached for the next handhold.
Climbing the gate proved simple enough, much easier than climbing out of the labyrinth caves. There were no shouts of alarm. When he arrived at the top of the wall he reversed the technique, dropping almost soundlessly to the ground.
He pulled up the high collar of his coat to conceal his profile and adjusted the brim of his low-crowned hat so that it shielded his eyes. His black scarf could be converted into a mask for the lower portion of his face if needed but in the fog-infused shadows of the gardens he was quite certain he would not have to use it.
He moved quietly across the grounds, keeping to the deep cover cast by tall, fancifully trimmed greenery. It took him a moment to realize that the hedges were all clipped to form erotic green statues.
Moonlight and the colorful lanterns illuminated the fog with an eerie radiance that rendered the couples he passed into ghostly silhouettes. On the far side of the grounds the great house glowed in the mist, a forbidding castle in a dark fairy tale.
He took care to stay out of the way of guests strolling the gardens but as he drew closer to the mansion it became increasingly difficult to remain unseen. Not that any of the male guests appeared to be focused on anyone other than their female companions, all of whom were remarkably attractive and extremely well endowed.
It soon became obvious that only the men were inebriated. The women laughed and teased and flirted in a practiced manner.
He knew acting when he saw it, Slater thought. The women were all professional courtesans—very expensive-looking courtesans, to be sure. Their gowns were elegant and in the latest fashion.
When he passed near the maze he heard giggles and drunken laughter inside. There were other noises as well—the primal grunts and hoarse groans of men caught up in the throes of lust. The interior of the maze sounded like the upper floors of a bordello.
Slater continued toward the house, stopping a few yards from the lantern-lit terrace. The French doors of a dimly lit ballroom stood open to the night. Inside couples danced and flirted in the disorienting light cast by lanterns encased in shades that were incised with various cutouts. The lamps dangled from wires in the ceiling, shifting, bobbing and rotating in a way that created ever-changing patterns of light and shadow over the crowd.
Slater considered his options. The guests and their courtesans were all attired in a fashionable, formal manner. He had dressed for an evening of discreet observation, not a soiree. He could not risk entering the ballroom. The coat and cap would draw immediate attention. Even if he were to remove them the risk remained. He had spent most of the past ten years away from London and he had not gone out into Society since his return but there were still some who might recognize him even in a darkened room.
On a night when so many guests were being entertained in such a lavish manner there were sure to be a large number of servants bustling about in the vicinity of the kitchen. The rear doors and the tradesmen’s entrance would be open to allow the cool night air into a room that was bound to be overheated with cooking fires.
He made his way along the side of the house that faced the gardens, heading toward the far end where he assumed the kitchens would be located.
Within a few yards he found himself in a section that was obviously not intended for the guests. There were no pretty lanterns in the vicinity but there was enough light from the windows and the moonlight-infused fog to allow him to forge a path through the foliage.
He was nearly at his goal when he heard a woman on the other side of a hedge. She was hoarse with anger and a rising tide of panic but she did not raise her voice. Her accent was that of a respectable lady trying desperately to maintain her composure.
“You’re hurting me, sir. Please let me go. There are rules.”
“The rules don’t apply to the guests. You’re a whore and what’s more, you’re my whore, at least for tonight. I certainly paid enough for you.”
The man’s voice was thickened with drink. Rage seethed just beneath the surface.
“If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll scream,” the woman warned.
But she kept her tone low and something in it told Slater that she did not dare to shout for help.
“You stupid bitch,” the man snarled. “You know as well as I do that if you start yelling you’ll find yourself on the street. You’ll be taking your customers up against the wall in some filthy alley before you know it. Or maybe you’ll end up in the river like your friend a couple of weeks back, eh?”
The observation was punctuated by a bark of harsh laughter.
“Wouldn’t you care for another dance?” the woman asked, trying to sound flirtatious.
“I’ve had enough of dancing. Shut up. We’re going to get into my carriage and you will do exactly what I tell you.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. I can’t. None of the women from the Pavilion can leave the grounds. You know that, sir. The rules—”
“Don’t quote the damn rules to me. You may look and sound like a lady but we both know you’re just a cheap whore.”
“I’m going back into the ballroom,” the woman declared with shaky conviction. “No, you can’t force me to leave the . . . mmph.”
Slater was quite certain that the man had slapped a hand over the woman’s mouth.
“I’ll teach you to defy me,” the drunken man raged.
Slater moved out from behind the cover of a hedge and saw the pair. They were dark shadows in the fog. The man was struggling to control the woman. He had an arm around her throat, choking her. She fought desperately but it was clear she was overpowered.
“Let her go,” Slater said quietly.
The attacker was so startled he released the woman and whirled around. He stared into the glary light, trying to see Slater’s face but that was not possible. Slater was careful to keep his back to the light, leaving his features in deep shadow.
“Leave us,” the attacker hissed. “She’s mine. Go find yourself another whore. I’ve got plans for this one.”
“She’s not interested in your plans,” Slater said.
“You can’t have her.” The man peered at him, trying to see more clearly in the dim light. “Are you one of the bloody guards? If so, you can take yourself off immediately. This does not concern you.”
“I’m afraid you are mistaken.”
The assailant swung one fist in a wild, awkward fashion. Slater easily ducked the blow and came back with a short, hard punch to the gut. He followed it with a quick chopping blow against the side of the man’s head.
The drunkard collapsed, unconscious, on the lawn.
Slater looked at the woman. She watched him warily.
“Thank you,” she said. She sounded grateful but very cautious. “He wanted me to violate the rules. He was trying to take me away in a private carriage. We are not supposed to leave the grounds with any of the guests, as I’m sure you are aware. Mrs. Wyatt is very firm on that point.”
Slater nodded and walked to look down at the unconscious man.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Hurst,” the woman said. She hesitated. “You’re not one of the guests, are you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Because I’m not dressed appropriately?”
“That and the fact that you’re not acting as if you’ve drunk any of the ambrosia this evening. Who are you?”
“A curious spectator.”
“Curiosity can be dangerous here at the Olympus Club.”
“Is that what they call this place?” Slater asked.