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FORTY-NINE

T he bastard was lying. Roxton had to be lying. Everyone said that his experiences on Fever Island had affected his mental balance.

But that did not explain how he had come to learn about the journal and the photographs and the business association with Cobb. There was only one explanation—Roxton had, indeed, gotten into the safe. The high walls, the fierce dog, the modern locks—all for naught.

Fulbrook was still shivering with rage when he climbed out of the cab and went up the steps of his house.

He banged on the door several times and swore when no one responded.

It was nearly three in the morning. The servants were in their beds but that was no excuse.

Bloody hell. Someone should have come to the door.

Lazy bastards. He would fire them all in the morning.

He fumbled with his key and finally got the door open. He moved into the dark, empty hall. He tossed the hat onto the polished table but he was in too much of a hurry to bother with his coat.

He rushed down the corridor to his study. At the door of the study he paused again to take out another key. He stabbed the damned lock three times before he finally gained access to the room.

He turned up the lamp. A flicker of relief went through him when he saw that the safe was still locked. Perhaps Roxton had been bluffing. Still, how could he have known about the photographs and the journal?

He crouched in front of the safe and spun the combination lock.

Whatever small hope still flickered within him was snuffed out when he got the door open.

The journal and the photographs were gone.

In a subtle but exquisitely cruel taunt, the bastard had left the several thousand pounds’ worth of banknotes behind.

He went to the desk and collapsed into the chair.

He buried his face in his hands and tried to think.

It was difficult to imagine that Cobb would dare attempt to murder him.

The American needed him. But he had to get away from London before the blackmail victims discovered that he was the one who had extorted certain financial and social favors from them during the past year.

Roxton was right about one thing—some of the men he had blackmailed were dangerous.

He had to think. He had to escape. He had to protect himself.

He raised his head and unlocked the top desk drawer. The pistol was still inside. At least the bastard had not taken it. Another insult, no doubt.

He checked to be certain the gun was loaded and then he slipped it into the pocket of his greatcoat.

Lurching to his feet, he went back to the safe and scooped out handfuls of banknotes. He stuffed the money into his pockets.

He considered waking a member of the staff to pack his clothes and then concluded that he did not want to waste even that much time.

He left the study and went upstairs to his room. Halfway down the hall he stopped in front of Valerie’s door. It was closed.

An acidic rush of rage flooded through him. This was all her fault. She was the one who had explained the properties of the ambrosia plant and painted a beguiling vision of how it could be used to make a fortune and control powerful people. He wanted nothing more than to strangle her.

Rage briefly overcame his panic. He tried the doorknob. When he discovered that the door was locked he hammered the wooden panels with one fist.

“Valerie, you stupid bitch.”

There was no response.

Sanity returned in a searing flash of urgency. He did not have time to break down the door. He would deal with Valerie later.

He hurried down the hall to his own bedroom. It took some time to find a suitcase. Packing was servants’ work. How was he to know where the travel necessities were stored?

He stuffed a few essentials into the case and slammed the lid shut. Hefting the bag, he went out into the hall and made his way down the stairs. Belatedly it occurred to him that he should have instructed the cab to wait. No matter. He would find another one soon.

He let himself outside and started walking quickly toward the far end of the street. He listened fearfully but the steady rain muffled the sounds of the night.

A man in a greatcoat and carrying an umbrella appeared in the glow of a streetlamp. The figure came toward him. Each step appeared chillingly deliberate.

Terror ripped through him. He fumbled with his pistol.

A moment later the figure in the greatcoat went up the steps of a large town house and disappeared through the front door.

The relief that swept over Fulbrook was so intense that he was not aware of the presence behind him until a gloved hand slapped across his mouth. The knife slashed open his throat before he could understand what had happened.

He crumpled slowly onto his back. Through glazing eyes he looked up at the face of the figure bending over him. He tried to speak but he could not get the words out.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you,” Cobb said. “But a better financial opportunity has presented itself. I’m sure you understand.”