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THIRTY-SEVEN

Y ou want me to pack a bag and move to your house now?” Ursula clutched the lapels of her wrapper at her throat. “It’s the middle of the night, Slater. I don’t understand.”

They were standing in the front hall of her house. Slater’s greatcoat dripped rain on the black-and-white floor. At the foot of the steps a carriage waited, the interior lamps turned down.

“The assassin came for me less than forty minutes ago,” Slater said.

“At this point I cannot be certain who he will go after next, assuming he is still capable of murdering anyone. I think I broke his arm. But that is not enough of a guarantee. I want you in my house. It is much more secure. My locks are excellent. There are more people around to keep an eye on things.”

Ursula stared at him, trying to get past the first shock. “Are you telling me that someone tried to murder you tonight?”

“Yes,” Slater said. He did not bother to conceal his impatience. “You need only bring what you need for tonight. Your housekeeper can pack the rest of your things tomorrow.”

“You were nearly murdered tonight?”

Slater frowned. “It’s all right, Ursula. I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”

“Is that all you can say?” Her voice was rising. “You were nearly killed. Because of me. Because of my investigation.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Pack a bag. I’d appreciate it if you would not dither about.”

“I’m not dithering, damn it. I have just sustained a great shock to my nerves. There’s a difference.”

“Really?” The edge of his mouth curved faintly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Bloody hell.” She swung around and marched up the staircase. “I shall be down in fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t worry,” Slater said, “I’ll wait. Oh, and you needn’t concern yourself with the proprieties.”

She stopped halfway up the stairs. “And why is that?”

“Webster has been dispatched to collect my mother. She will act as a chaperone.”

“Lilly Lafontaine. Playing the role of chaperone. Something tells me she will find that endlessly amusing.”