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TWENTY-THREE

R osemont lurched awkwardly along the fog-and-night-darkened street, a heavy suitcase in each hand.

He was no fool, he thought. He had known from the start of the affair that there were risks—only to be expected in a situation where there was a great deal of money and some very ruthless people involved. He had made preparations for precisely the sort of emergency that had struck today.

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.”

Cobb inclined his head in a sorrowful manner. “Who, I understand, recently took her own life.”

Rosemont knew a small measure of relief.

“So it was a suicide?” he said. “Mrs. Kern seemed to suspect that the death was a case of murder.”

“Or an accidental overdose,” Cobb said. “The newer version of the drug has unpredictable effects on some people. I understand Miss Clifton used the ambrosia.”

“Yes, yes, she did. I tried to warn her but... Well. A suicide or an accident. I suppose that explains things. For a time I wondered... Never mind.”

“What concerns you, Mr. Rosemont?” Cobb asked. “Were you fond of Miss Clifton?”

“She was a very attractive woman and always quite pleasant to me.” Rosemont sighed. “I was just startled to learn that she was dead. I had not heard the news until the widow showed up at my shop today.”

“Such a small death in such a large city is hardly the sort of tragedy that finds its way into the press.” Cobb tapped one gloved finger against the top of his walking stick. “And now you tell me that you wish to conduct one more transaction and then retire from the business?”

“That is correct.” Rosemont straightened his shoulders.

He had committed murder that afternoon and set fire to his own shop.

He was made of sterner stuff than he had ever imagined.

“There is a large quantity of the drug crated and ready for shipment sitting in the warehouse. It should be enough to satisfy your customers in New York until you can find a new chemist to replace me.”

“I see. You really do wish to get out of the business.”

“Very much so. I could not endure another day like today.” Rosemont leaned down and opened one of the suitcases.

He took out the notebook that sat atop the neatly folded clothes.

“I have written down the instructions required to prepare the formula from the raw leaves and flowers of the plant straight through the various preparations—powder, liquid or gas. Any good chemist can produce whatever you wish provided he has a supply of the plant and access to certain chemicals.”

“I see.” Cobb took the notebook. He flipped it open and glanced casually at the formulas and instructions inside. He nodded, satisfied, and closed the notebook. He set it on the cushion. “Who was this woman—this widow—who came around to your shop inquiring about Anne Clifton?”

“She called herself Mrs. Kern. She said she was Miss Clifton’s employer.

At first she tried to tell me that Miss Clifton had recommended my perfumes.

I knew at once that was a lie, of course.

As soon as she showed me the perfume bottle that I had given to Miss Clifton, I realized something terrible had happened.

I only use those bottles for the liquid form of the drug. ”

“Why do you suppose this widow was making inquiries into Miss Clifton’s death?”

“I have no idea. But I soon realized she was in possession of some rather dangerous information.”

The beast came and went in Cobb’s eyes. “What sort of information?”

“She had a list of the dates on which Miss Clifton had come by the shop to deliver the dried plant material,” Rosemont said.

“I see. That is, indeed, rather disturbing. Miss Clifton must have kept a record of her appointments.”

Rosemont widened his hands. “She was a trained secretary, after all. I’m sure she kept very accurate records of a great many things.”

“An even more unsettling thought.” Cobb pondered for a moment and then fixed Rosemont with another piercing look. “I assume you did not divulge any information regarding our business arrangements to Mrs. Kern?”

“Of course not.” Rosemont paused. “Not that it matters. I had made preparations just in case I was overtaken with such a disaster. I locked her in the laboratory and set off an explosion which caused a great fire. She died in the blaze.”

“You are quite certain of that?”

“Positive.” Rosemont longed to raise the curtains to see if they were in the vicinity of the railway station. He glanced at Hubbard’s gracefully folded hands and resisted the impulse to open the shades.

The driver rapped twice on the roof of the cab. The vehicle drew to a halt.

“I believe we have arrived,” Cobb said.

“Thank goodness.” Rosemont gathered his nerve. “As I told you, the final shipment is in the warehouse. I would like my payment now, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m afraid I do mind.” Cobb reached inside his coat.

Rosemont froze. Sweat broke out on his brow. He started to shiver.

Cobb smiled a faint, derisive smile. Very deliberately he removed a gold cigarette holder from an inside pocket.

“Really, Mr. Rosemont. You British have such a low opinion of your former colonials. We are not all western outlaws who go about armed to the teeth. Hubbard, please see our guest to his destination.”

Hubbard unfolded his hands and opened the door. Dank fog carrying the odor of the river swirled through the opening. Rosemont had just taken a relieved breath. Now another wave of panic hit him.

“This isn’t the railway station,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” Cobb shrugged. “You must forgive me. I’m new in town. I find that the streets of London are a maze. Get out, Rosemont. As we are no longer business partners I do not owe you any favors. I’m sure you will eventually find a cab.”

Hubbard kicked down the steps and descended to the ground. He held the door open.

Rosemont scooted across the seat, edging toward the door. He was terrified now, but not of the neighborhood.

“What of my fee?” he managed.

Cobb seemed bored. “Hubbard will see to it that you receive payment in full. Be so good as to get out of my carriage. I have other business to attend to this evening.”

Rosemont scrambled through the doorway and reached back inside to collect his suitcases. He took one last look at the big man in the cab and knew for certain that he was very fortunate to be escaping with his life tonight.

He turned and started walking very quickly. The fog glowed with just enough moonlight to show him that he was in the middle of an unlit street lined with darkened warehouses.

After a moment it dawned on him that Cobb’s carriage had not moved off. A dark, primal terror rose within him. The sense that some terrible beast was closing in on him struck with such force that he stopped and whirled around.

The interior lights of the cab were turned down low but Cobb was visible inside. He was smoking a cigarette, as though he had no urgent appointments. There was no sign of the little spider of a valet.

Rosemont hurried toward the corner. He heard faint footsteps behind him and started to swing around again but by then it was too late. Pain exploded for only an instant when the stiletto sank deep into the back of his neck.

And then there was nothing.