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NINE

S he escaped the gloom-filled Fulbrook mansion promptly at three. Escape was not too strong a word, Ursula told herself. There was an ominous sensation about the household that was difficult to put into words. No wonder Anne had often referred to the mansion as a mausoleum.

She went quickly down the steps into the heavy fog. Preoccupied with mulling over her first impressions of the Fulbrook household and its inhabitants, she did not notice the sleek black carriage waiting on the other side of the street until Griffith raised his gloved hand to get her attention.

“No need to hail a cab, Mrs. Kern,” he called across the width of the quiet street. “We’ll see you home.”

Startled, she came to a halt. “What on earth?”

But the door of the carriage had already opened. Slater, dressed in a high-collared greatcoat and boots, got out. He crossed the street toward Ursula. Light glinted on the lenses of his spectacles, making it impossible to read his eyes.

“I see your new client allowed you to leave on time,” he said. “Excellent. I was concerned we might be obliged to wait upon Lady Fulbrook’s convenience.”

He took Ursula’s arm, his strong, leather-gloved fingers tightening around her elbow. It was the first time he had touched her in a deliberate manner. She was caught off guard by the jolt of intense physical awareness that shivered through her.

He did not grip her tightly but she sensed the power in his hand.

Perhaps it was just the relief of being free of the Fulbrook household, at least for now, that stirred her senses.

But she suspected the real reason she was suddenly a little lightheaded with excitement was the knowledge that Slater had come for her today.

The spark of pleasure faded when common sense and logic poured icy water on the tiny flame.

It was, she knew, highly unlikely that Slater was here simply to escort her back to the office.

In the short time that she had been acquainted with him she had learned that, despite appearances, there always seemed to be something else—possibly something quite dangerous—going on underneath the surface.

She dug in her heels, literally, refusing to move toward the carriage. Slater was forced to stop, too.

“What are you doing here, sir?” she asked. “And pray do not tell me that you felt obliged to protect me from the necessity of traveling by public cab. I have been climbing in and out of cabs for years all by myself with excellent success.”

“Could we perhaps discuss this matter when we are both inside the carriage? There is no need to stand out here in the street in full view of whoever is watching us from inside the Fulbrook household.”

“Good heavens. Someone’s watching us?”

Automatically she started to glance back over her shoulder.

“Best not to let anyone know that we are aware that we are being observed,” he said. “Also, it would probably be a good idea not to make it look as though I am kidnapping you. It would, perhaps, be useful to give the impression that we are very good friends.”

She hesitated, wondering if he had spent so much time out of the country that he did not know that the phrase very good friends was a euphemism that was often employed to describe an illicit relationship.

She studied his hard, unreadable face and concluded that he knew exactly what he was implying.

She was quite certain that Slater always knew precisely what he was doing.

Whatever the case, the last thing she wanted to do was cause Lady Fulbrook or anyone else inside the mansion to wonder if she was engaging in a public quarrel in the street.

“Very well, sir,” she said. “But I will want an explanation.”

“Of course.”

Slater steered her across the street to the carriage. Griffith greeted her as enthusiastically as if she had just returned from a long voyage.

“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Kern,” he said.

“And you, as well, Griffith.”

Ursula collected her skirts, went up the steps of the vehicle and sat down inside.

Slater followed her into the shadows of the interior.

Griffith stored the steps and closed the door.

He vaulted up onto the box, moving with an amazing agility for a man of such enormous size, and shook out the reins. The carriage rolled down the street.

Ursula looked out the window. She thought she saw a curtain shift in one of the windows of the Fulbrook mansion. A chill went through her.

“It seems you were right, Mr. Roxton,” she said. “I believe someone may have been watching my departure.”

“It’s possible that the observer was motivated by simple curiosity,” Slater said. “But given your suspicions, we must assume the worst.”

She looked at him through her veil. “ We must assume the worst?”

“I have decided to assist you in your investigation.”

“Why?” she shot back. “The last time we spoke you made it perfectly plain that you were opposed to my plan.”

“It has become obvious that there is no point trying to talk you out of the scheme so I have concluded that the most reasonable course of action is to do what I can to help you find the answers you seek—always assuming there are answers to be had.”

“Assuming that, yes.” She drummed her gloved fingers on the seat. “I would appreciate some advice and, perhaps, even your assistance but first I want to know why you changed your mind.”

“I thought I explained. I changed my mind because I realized you would not change yours.”

“Why not simply let me conduct the investigation on my own? Why do you feel obliged to help me?”

An unexpected smile came and went at the corner of Slater’s mouth. “You sound suspicious of me, Mrs. Kern.”

“I do not think you are giving me the whole story, sir. Why this sudden interest in my problems?”

Slater glanced out the window. He appeared to be reflecting on his answer. When he turned back to face her she saw cool determination in his eyes.

“Let’s just say that after some consideration I concluded that I find your project intriguing,” he said.

“I see.”

She had gotten her answer but she was not sure what to make of it.

She was not even certain why she was vaguely disappointed in his reason for assisting her.

But she had to admit that the logic was sound.

It seemed plausible that a man of his nature would be drawn to something as unusual as a private murder investigation.

He had, after all, spent the past few years wandering the world.

Obviously he had been looking for something, although she very much doubted that he knew what he hoped to find.

“How did your first appointment with Lady Fulbrook go?” Slater asked.

She shuddered. “The house is quite grand but it is incredibly dark and gloomy inside. I cannot decide if the atmosphere is so bleak because the lady of the house is depressed or if it is the atmosphere of the place that is responsible for Lady Fulbrook’s sad mood.

Her only solace, evidently, is her conservatory. ”

“You said she employed Miss Clifton to take down her poetry in shorthand and type up the results?”

“Yes. Lady Fulbrook has attracted the attention of the publisher of a small literary quarterly in New York. The title of the poem that she is working on now will give you a fair indication of her mood. ‘On a Small Death in the Garden.’”

“It does not sound like the sort of thing that would lift the spirits,” Slater said. “But poets are supposed to be a moody, depressed lot. It’s a tradition, I think. Is Lady Fulbrook any good at writing poetry?”

“You know how it is with literature and other works of art—the beauty of the finished piece is always in the eye of the beholder. Speaking personally, I am not attracted to depressing poetry just as I am not attracted to books or plays with unhappy endings.”

At that, he actually smiled. It was, she concluded, an annoyingly superior smile.

“You prefer fantastical endings rather than those which illustrate reality,” Slater said.

“In my view there are cheerful endings and sad endings but they are all fantastical by definition—otherwise they would not be classified as fiction.”

That surprised a short, rusty laugh from him. He seemed as surprised as she was by his reaction.

“Very well,” he said. “You established that Lady Fulbrook writes melodramatic poems. Was that all you accomplished today?”

“It was only my first day in the post. I did not expect to discover all the answers in one afternoon. And by what right do you presume to criticize? You are only just now joining the investigation.”

“You are correct, of course. I did not mean to be critical. I was merely trying to gather the facts so that we may form some sort of plan.”

“I have a plan,” she said crisply. “And I think we had best establish one very important fact right now before my investigation proceeds any further. I am in charge of this project, Mr. Roxton. I would appreciate your insights and observations because I respect your intellectual abilities and your extensive experience in finding lost cities and temples and such. However, I will make the decisions. Are we quite clear about that?”

He looked at her for a long moment, as though she had spoken in another language.

She had no clue to his thoughts but she suspected that he was about to tell her he could not possibly assist her on her terms. Well, what had she expected him to say?

He was a man who was clearly accustomed to giving orders, not taking them.

She sat, tense and unaccountably anxious, and waited for him to declare that a truly equal partnership between the two of them would be quite impossible.

“You respect my intellectual abilities and my extensive experience in finding lost cities and the like?” he said.

She frowned. “Yes, of course.”

“Then you will admit that I have something useful to contribute to the project.”

“Certainly. That is why I mentioned my plan to you in the first place. What are you getting at, sir?”