Garden of Lies(46)

He had not breathed easily until he had heard the explosion. He had been several streets away at the time, cowering in a doorway. The muffled rumble had given him some comfort and reassurance. No one could have survived such a conflagration. Mrs. Kern was dead and everyone connected with the Olympus Club would assume that he, too, had died in the fire that had destroyed the shop.

One final transaction and he would be out of the dangerous business he had entered a year ago.

Concocting the drug had made him a wealthy man but no amount of money could calm his nerves. He had been in a perpetual state of anxiety for months now. He looked forward to retiring to a quiet seaside village. If he got bored, he would go back into the perfume and soap business. But never again would he distill the damned drug. His nerves could not take the strain.

True, for years he had done a brisk little side business peddling his own uniquely powerful laudanum products and cleverly disguised arsenic “tonics.” But it had all been quite discreet. His customers had consisted primarily of wives who were desperate to rid themselves of difficult husbands and heirs who wished to speed the passing of a relative who had the misfortune to be standing in the way of an inheritance. He had always been careful to accept only clients who came to him by referral.

But his life had changed after he had agreed to take on the business of concocting the ambrosia. In addition to the dangerous people involved, the chemicals required to craft the drug were highly volatile. He could not wait to put it all behind him.

The clatter of hooves on paving stones behind him made him stop. He turned and watched a dark carriage roll toward him out of the fog. The vehicle looked anonymous, just one of many such hired conveyances on the street. But there was a small white handkerchief fluttering from the whip. That was the signal.

He set down one of the suitcases, yanked a white handkerchief out of his pocket and hailed the carriage somewhat hesitantly. It rumbled to a halt in front of him. The door opened. An intimidatingly large man in a heavy greatcoat, his features shadowed by the brim of a stylish hat, looked out from the dimly lit interior of the cab. He carried an ebony walking stick trimmed in gold. A gold ring set with onyx and diamonds glittered on one hand. He appeared to be in his early forties and not ill-favored. There were likely women who would notice such a man but in Rosemont’s opinion there was something about Damian Cobb that put one in mind of a great beast of prey.

“You must be Rosemont. Allow me to introduce myself. Cobb, at your service. It’s about time we met. We have, after all, been business associates for several months now.”

Rosemont had known all along that Cobb was an American and that he lived in New York so the accent did not come as a surprise. But the harsh, whispery quality was unnerving. One could dress a villain in fine clothes and polish his manners but that did not make him any less dangerous. Quite the opposite, Rosemont thought.

“I’m Rosemont,” he said, making a fierce effort to sound confident and assured.

“Please join us. This is my valet, Hubbard. We will complete our business and set you down wherever you wish.”

For the first time Rosemont saw that there was another man sitting in the shadows across from Cobb. Slight of build, with thinning hair and possessed of a face so gaunt one could almost see the skull beneath the skin, he appeared a mere shadow of a man. Hubbard was the perfect valet, Rosemont concluded, remarkably unremarkable in every aspect except for the subtle perfection of his sartorial style. From his elegantly knotted four-in-hand tie and turnover collar to the cut of his coat and his elegant walking stick, Hubbard was a model of refined fashion. Not that anyone would ever take much notice of him, Rosemont thought. He could almost bring himself to have some sympathy for the valet. He knew what it was like to be easily overlooked.

Hubbard inclined his head a fraction of an inch, acknowledging the introduction, and examined Rosemont with eyes so lacking in warmth they appeared reptilian.

“Allow me to take your bags, sir,” Hubbard said. There was an oddly strained quality to the words, as though he was endeavoring to put a dignified polish on an accent that had obviously come from the American streets.

Rosemont handed both suitcases up into the carriage and climbed in after them. He sat down next to Hubbard, putting as much distance as possible between them.

“You may convey me to the railway station,” Rosemont said. “I’m leaving London tonight.”

“I understand,” Cobb said. He raised his walking stick and tapped the roof of the cab twice. The vehicle rolled forward. “I think we had best close the curtains while we complete our business. I have been assured that London is a far more civilized city than New York, nevertheless, I have always found it best to err on the side of caution. Hubbard?”

Without a word Hubbard responded. Deftly he closed the curtains with a minimum of quick, efficient movements. Rosemont found himself mesmerized by the valet’s leather-gloved hands.

“Thank you, Hubbard.” Cobb looked at Rosemont. “I got your message. Why the sudden panic?”

Rosemont tore his eyes away from Hubbard’s hands, which were now folded quietly on top of his walking stick. The valet was as motionless as a spider waiting in a web.

Compose yourself, man, Rosemont thought. This will soon be over and you will be safely away from this dreadful business. He drew a shaky breath.

“A very fashionable widow c-came to see me today,” he said. He tried to steady his voice. “She was asking after Miss Clifton.”