Garden of Lies(74)

He heaved Hubbard’s body into an empty crate and closed the lid.

The disposal completed, he collected the lantern and went outside into the fog. He had told the driver of the hansom to wait two streets away.

Revolver in hand, he started walking.

The city of London considered itself to be socially more polished than New York, culturally superior in every way that mattered. But he failed to see the appeal. He detested the fog, the filthy, dangerous streets and the damned accents that made it next to impossible to comprehend cab drivers, shopkeepers, servants and upper-class snobs alike.

His ship could not sail soon enough, as far as he was concerned. He would be very happy to see the last of London.





FORTY-ONE




Next time we really ought to find a bed,” Slater said.

Next time. Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne, the simple words lightened Ursula’s spirits. She watched Slater lever himself up to a sitting position on the black silk dressing gown. He moved with the lazy masculine grace that did interesting things to the muscles of his chest and her insides.

Next time implied a future together, she thought. She tied the sash of her wrapper while she considered the implications of the delicious words. Realistically, she had to accept that it might be a very limited future. Lady Fulbrook had tried to warn her about the dangers of falling in love with a man who was far above her on the social ladder.

But Slater was very different from any other man she had ever met and the obstacles to an extended future with him were also very different. Nevertheless, for the first time she dared to hope that those obstacles might not be insurmountable.

Slater eyed her as he got to his feet. “The thought of a bed amuses you?” He scooped up the dressing gown. “Perhaps you prefer desks and cold stone floors? If so, I’m willing to oblige.”

She made a face, aware that she was blushing furiously. “I have nothing against the notion of using a bed for this . . . sort of thing.” She waved a hand at the dressing gown.

He studied the damp spot on the black silk with a thoughtful expression. “I find this sort of thing, when done with you, invariably interesting.”

She turned away to find her slippers. “I’m surprised that the type of physical exercise we just engaged in doesn’t have a confounding effect on your well-ordered thoughts.”

“It most certainly does,” he said very softly. “It dazzles my mind utterly. Indeed, when we are engaged in this type of exercise I cannot think of anything else except you.”

The sensual humor in his words made her turn quickly. He was smiling his rare, wicked smile—the smile that never failed to make her catch her breath.

“Oh,” she whispered. She fell silent, at a loss for words.

“The fascinating thing is that afterward I find I have moments of great clarity,” he continued. There was an edge on his voice now. The cold fire of knowing lit his eyes. He dropped the dressing gown on the floor and reached for his trousers. “I think I know what those numbers in the journal mean. You are brilliant, Ursula.”

He seized her by the shoulders and gave her a fast, triumphant kiss.

“Absolutely brilliant,” he said.

He released her and headed for the door. “Hurry. I’ve got to get back to Mrs. Wyatt’s journal.”

She suppressed a little sigh. He was no longer talking about her or their relationship. The champagne bubbles dissipated. She followed him to the door.

“What is it that you believe has been clarified, sir?”

He opened the door, evidently unaware of her dry tone. “I attempted to read the journal before I slept tonight but my mind was not entirely clear.”

“Hardly surprising, given that you were nearly murdered tonight.”

“I knew I was looking at something important. I should have seen it right from the start.”

She followed him out into the hall. “Kindly explain yourself, sir.”

“There are some odd figures in the income column. The entries are cryptic but they don’t appear to be fees for the usual brothel services. There are also some mysterious items listed under expenses. I think I understand now. Mrs. Wyatt was buying a quantity of the drug from Rosemont and selling it to some of her own, personal clients.”

“She was dealing the ambrosia on the side?”

“I think so—which may explain why Cobb had her killed. Well, that and the fact that she knew too much about the British end of the business.”

“Cobb saw her as competition?”

“In a small way.” Slater opened the door at the top of the stairs. “But Cobb’s real problem is Fulbrook. I can see so much more of the pattern now. And it’s all because of you.”

“Me or the exercise?” she asked very politely.

“You.”

At her bedroom door he stopped long enough to hoist her off her feet and gave her another jubilant kiss.

He set her back down just as abruptly and went down the hall, heading for his own room.

“By morning, I should have this mostly sorted out,” he said over his shoulder.

“How very nice for you, sir. Perhaps you would be so good as to reveal your deductions to those of us who are still muddling through the fog.”

But she was speaking to an empty hallway. Slater had vanished into the bedroom.