Garden of Lies

by Amanda Quick

  He pulled on a pair of trousers, took his dressing gown off the wall hook and picked up the key ring he kept beside his bed. He left the bedroom and went downstairs. Opening a door off the kitchen, he descended a set of stone steps into the basement.

  The vaulted chambers beneath the ground floor of the house were very old. Much of the masonry work was medieval in origin but there were other sections that dated from the days when the Romans had controlled Britain. It was easy enough to distinguish the two eras if one paid attention. The Roman construction work was orderly and refined—the bricks well made, uniformly shaped and aligned with great precision. In comparison, the masonry of later generations was nothing short of sloppy. Nevertheless, it had all stood the test of time. He wondered if modern construction would hold up as well centuries from now.

  At the foot of the underground steps he picked up a lantern and lit it. He continued down a low-ceilinged stone corridor and stopped in front of a thick wooden door.

  Selecting a key on the iron ring, he opened the door, moved into the chamber and set the lamp on the small table near the door.

  The glary light illuminated the pattern of blue tiles set into the stone floor. The tile path formed an intricate, convoluted pattern that eventually led to the center. Some would have said that it looked like a maze. But a maze, with its many pathways that ended in dead ends, was designed as a puzzle, created to confuse and bewilder. His labyrinth had only a single entrance and one true path that eventually brought the seeker to the center of the complicated design.

  The very act of walking the labyrinth was a form of meditation requiring concentration and focus. The exercise helped him to see patterns hidden in chaos.

  Here in this chamber there were no stone walls and no paintings lining the path so he created the illusion in his mind. He tightened his concentration until he could see only the ribbon of tiles beneath his feet.

  When he was ready he walked the path through the invisible caverns of his mind. He could hear the whispers of the old dread that had threatened to rob him of his sanity. The unnerving voices were always there, waiting for him, when he began the journey. It did no good to try to suppress them. Instead, as he had been taught, he acknowledged them from the perspective of a disinterested onlooker and returned his focus to the pattern.

  Time did not matter when he walked the labyrinth. If he tried to hurry the meditative process he would not see the pattern. It was only when he ceased to care about finding the answer that it would come to him.

  He concentrated on each tile, noting how it was connected to the one that had gone before and the one that came after. With each step he went deeper into his thoughts, deeper into the complex pattern.

  And then he was there in the very heart of the labyrinth. He opened his mind and saw a truth that he had known from the start—Ursula Kern might be on the verge of putting herself in harm’s way.

  He contemplated another glittering shard of knowledge—allowing Ursula Kern into his life came with a degree of risk. She had the power to alter the balance of his carefully constructed world. The truly harrowing part was that the prospect of taking the risk thrilled him.

  The words of the Master of the Labyrinth whispered through his mind. “There are many paths to many answers. Some paths must be walked alone but other journeys cannot begin unless one has a companion of the heart.”

  He picked up the lantern and let himself out of the chamber. He paused to lock the door and then he went up the stone steps.

  There was something to the gossip about exotic rituals in the basement of his mansion. Not all of the rumors about him were wrong.

  SEVEN

  Lilly Lafontaine banged the delicate china cup into the saucer with so much force, Slater was mildly surprised that both the cup and the saucer survived the impact.

  “I cannot believe what you just told me,” Lilly announced. “What on earth did you do to my Mrs. Kern that caused her to terminate her employment with you?”

  Slater winced. He was on the far side of the drawing room, standing near one of the tall Palladian windows but Lilly’s voice had been trained for the theater. It was rich, resonant and inclined toward melodramatic undertones even when she whispered. When she was annoyed—as she was now—she could infuse her words with enough power to reach the cheap seats in the last row of any theater in London.

  Lilly’s drawing room complemented her strong voice. It was decorated in a lavish, ornate style that put Slater in mind of a stage set or a very expensive bordello, depending on one’s taste in interior design. Heavy crimson velvet draperies were tied back with thick gold tassels. The background color of the patterned carpet matched the red drapes. The graceful settee and the gilded chairs were covered in red velvet and satin.

  A portrait of Lilly, done at the height of her career as one of the most celebrated actresses in London, hung above an elaborately sculpted marble mantel. She had been a raven-haired beauty in her younger days—her fine-boned features enhanced with mischievous eyes and a glowing personality that had evidently attracted everyone in her orbit, male and female alike.

  There had been a time when most of the wealthy, distinguished gentlemen in town had vied for an invitation to Lilly’s exclusive salons. Edward Roxton, heir to a fortune and a title, had been among that crowd of men.

  Edward had been married when the liaison with Lilly had begun. Ten years ago the first Lady Roxton had died, leaving Edward without a legitimate heir to the title and the fortune. Although everyone knew that he would do his duty by the family name, there had never been any question of him besmirching the distinguished Roxton lineage by marrying an actress. In the eyes of the Polite World it would have been tantamount to wedding a courtesan. He had, instead, married a young woman of impeccable breeding. The second Lady Roxton had fulfilled her marital obligations, providing Edward with an heir and a spare—Slater’s two legitimate half brothers.

  As the sole offspring of the decades-long love affair that had existed between Lilly and Edward, Slater had been born with an entrée into two very different worlds. His mother’s extensive connections in the theater and the less-than-respectable classes of society known among the elite as the demimonde ensured him a welcome in that sphere.

  The fact that his father had always acknowledged him and had provided him with both an upper-class education and a sizable inheritance had been enough to guarantee that he would be received in most upper-class circles. True, the inheritance had been cut off for a time, but that situation had changed dramatically upon the death of Edward Roxton. In his new position as the sole trustee of the Roxton fortune, Slater knew that most of Polite Society was happy to welcome him into its drawing rooms and ballrooms.

  But it was his complete lack of regard for the opinion of the Polite World combined with the mystery of his long absence from London that rendered him fascinating to those who inhabited the more rarified reaches of the social universe.

  “Kindly lower your voice,” he said. “You know I am a great admirer of your talents but I have had enough theatrics from my household staff to last me a lifetime. Mrs. Webster is going about her duties as if someone in the family just died. I’m surprised she isn’t hanging crepe in the drawing room. Mr. Webster and Griffith are acting as if they suspect me of having committed a grave crime.”

  Lilly brushed all that aside with a grand wave of one beringed hand but she did moderate her voice.

  “What reason did my Mrs. Kern give you for leaving her post?” she asked.

  Slater drank some of his coffee while he considered how to answer the question. He had been expecting it. During the course of the twenty-minute journey from his house to Lilly’s elegant little town house, he had considered any number of answers. None that did not include the truth seemed sufficient, however. And he was not about to reveal Ursula’s intentions to investigate her friend’s murder—not until he obtained her consent.

&nb
sp; “She is not your Mrs. Kern,” he pointed out. “In fact, I have the impression that Ursula Kern does not belong to anyone except herself. She is a very independent-minded female.”

  “Which explains why I like her so much, of course,” Lilly said. “I interviewed any number of secretaries before I heard about the Kern agency. I knew as soon as I met her that I wanted her and no one else to take down my plays and transcribe them on a typewriter. As the proprietor of the agency, she accepts very few private clients, herself, you know. I thought she would be perfect for you and she did me the great favor of agreeing to take you on.”

  Slater raised his brows. “Please do not tell me that you were matchmaking.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Lilly said. “I know how you feel about that sort of thing.”

  The denial sounded firm but the cool, quick response was a bit too smooth, Slater decided. His mother had almost certainly tried to do some matchmaking. He decided this was not the time to tell her that, for once, she might have succeeded, at least in part. The sweet, hot ache of desire that gripped him the first time Ursula walked through his door had shaken him to his core. But he had seen the wariness in her eyes and had told himself that he would have to take things slowly and cautiously.

  Now, it seemed, he had destroyed his original strategy by engaging in a quarrel with the very woman he had hoped to seduce. But if surviving Fever Island had taught him anything, it had made him very, very good at not giving up on an objective.

  After Ursula had walked out yesterday he had spent what was left of the afternoon concocting a new plan. It wasn’t much as strategy went and he had learned the hard way that very few plans worked as intended, but any plan was preferable to none at all.

  “Mrs. Kern explained that one of her secretaries was found dead recently, a probable suicide,” he said. He preferred to stick with the truth in so far as it was possible. It meant that one had to keep fewer balls in the air at any given time. “Evidently she feels obliged to assume the secretary’s duties with a long-standing client until other arrangements can be made.”

  “Why doesn’t Ursula simply send one of her other secretaries to the client?” Lilly asked. “Why does she have to be the one to take over the dead woman’s responsibilities?”

  “You will have to ask her that question if you want an answer.” Slater set his cup and saucer on a small table. “All I can tell you is that she informed me she had to terminate our arrangement until further notice.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you,” Lilly said. “I think you do have some notion of why Ursula felt it necessary to leave your employ, but you are keeping it from me. Are you certain you didn’t do or say anything that made her feel . . . uneasy in your company? I know you would never deliberately set out to offend a lady but you have spent very little time here in London in the past few years. I’m sorry to say your manners have become somewhat rusty.”

  “I think that if Mrs. Kern objected to my manners, she would have mentioned it quite early on,” he said.

  “Not necessarily. She may have attempted to grow accustomed to your eccentricities but in the end concluded she could not.”

  Slater went still.

  “What the devil do you mean about my eccentricities?” he asked.

  “You know very well what I mean. If you don’t, I suggest you consult the latest edition of The Flying Intelligencer or one of the penny dreadfuls that features you. Ever since you returned to London two months ago, the press has run wild with rumors about your eccentric nature and odd behaviors.”

  “Those damned gutter rags know nothing about me.”

  “Mmm, perhaps not. But that does not stop them from speculating.” Lilly’s tone turned thoughtful. “I wonder if it is the rumors regarding your knowledge of exotic lovemaking techniques that alarmed Mrs. Kern?”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke, Lilly?”

  “No, it is not. I am quite serious. Mrs. Kern is a widow so she is certainly aware of what goes on between a man and a woman in a bedroom. But I have the impression that her marriage was short-lived. Her husband died in an accident less than two years after the marriage.”

  “What sort of accident?”

  “I believe he fell down a staircase and broke his neck.”

  “What is your point, Lilly?”

  “I’m simply trying to warn you that any female of limited experience might be shocked at the notion of, shall we say, adventurous lovemaking.”

  Slater groaned. “I cannot believe we are discussing this subject. I don’t think Mrs. Kern walked out on me because of the gossip about me. She is a businesswoman. She was concerned about leaving a client in the lurch.”

  “The client must be quite important.”

  “Lady Fulbrook.”

  Lilly’s eyes widened a little and then immediately narrowed. “Of Mapstone Square?”

  “Yes. Why? Are you acquainted with Lady Fulbrook?”

  “Well, of course I don’t have a personal acquaintance with her, Slater. Women in her world never associate with the women of my world.”

  “I realize that but you always seem to know a great deal about what is going on in upper-class circles.”

  Lilly raised her delicately drawn brows. “I am familiar with the goings-on of a different generation of the Polite World—your father’s generation. Lady Fulbrook is much younger. She was married in her first season. That would have been four or five years ago at most. Created quite a stir when she was introduced into Society, I understand. She is a stunningly beautiful woman, by all accounts. But she does not go about much these days.”

  “Why not?”

  Lilly gave an elegant shrug. “I have no idea. I am under the impression that she has become something of a recluse. I can make inquiries if you like.”

  “I would appreciate it.”

  Lilly gave him a long, inquiring look.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Let’s just say I’m curious about the client who succeeded in taking my place.”

  “I see.”

  Lilly’s expression was not a good sign, Slater thought. She appeared much too intrigued. He searched for a distraction.

  “About Mrs. Kern,” he said, schooling his tone to one of mild interest.

  “What about her?”

  “When did she lose her husband?”

  Lilly considered that for a moment. “Do you know, I’m not entirely certain. But I have the impression it was at least four years ago. Mrs. Kern mentioned at one point that she worked as a paid companion for a time before she opened the secretarial agency.”

  Slater gripped the windowsill. “Yet she still goes about in deep mourning.”

  Lilly smiled faintly. “Very fashionable mourning.”

  “Do you think she cared so deeply about her dead husband?”

  “No,” Lilly said with conviction. “I think she goes about in black because she believes it assures potential clients that she is a very serious businesswoman.”

  He thought about that. “Perhaps you are correct. She is, after all, quite riveting. She would not want her female clients to worry that the men in the household might notice her.”

  “Riveting?” Lilly repeated very casually.

  He looked out the window and saw Ursula with her hair of low-burning flames and her eyes filled with mysteries.

  “Riveting,” he repeated softly.

  Lilly smiled and reached for the pot. “More coffee?”

  EIGHT

  My nerves are quite delicate, Mrs. Kern.” Valerie, Lady Fulbrook, clasped her hands on top of her desk. “I have difficulty sleeping. At unpredictable times and for no apparent reason, I am suddenly overcome with anxiety and dread. I am easily tossed into the depths of despondence by matters that, to those who possess sturdier nerves, would seem the merest of trifles. But I have discovered that writing my little poem
s provides me with significant relief. I was fortunate to find a small publisher in New York that has been kind enough to take some of my efforts for its magazine.”

  “That would be the Paladin Literary Quarterly?” Ursula asked. “I found the address in Anne’s files.”

  “Yes. Paladin doesn’t pay, you understand, except in free copies of the Quarterly. But I am not writing to make an income. It is therapy.”

  “I understand,” Ursula said. “I’m glad that you have found the services of the Kern Secretarial Agency helpful.”

  They were alone in Valerie’s small, private study. A short time ago a dour-faced maid had brought in a tea tray, poured two cups and departed. She had moved like a ghost throughout the process, making almost no noise.

  There was, Ursula noticed, a curiously oppressive hush about the entire household. It was as though the inhabitants were waiting for someone to die.

  Ursula had been to the Fulbrook mansion once before when Valerie had sent a message to the agency saying that she wished to hire a secretary. Ursula always insisted upon meeting new clients personally. She took the precaution for two reasons. First, and foremost, it sent a clear message that the agency was an elite establishment and it expected clients to treat the professional secretaries with respect. The second reason she insisted on an initial face-to-face meeting was so that she could gain an impression of the client.

  This afternoon Ursula concluded that her initial impressions had been accurate. Valerie was a beautiful but fragile flower that could easily be crushed underfoot. Her blond hair was pinned into a chignon that emphasized her pale skin and fine-boned features. She was small and thin but elegantly, gracefully proportioned—a dainty fairy princess. She appeared composed but there was a bleak desperation in her blue eyes. Her voice suited her appearance, weak and faint, as though the slightest breeze would blow it away.

  Valerie was a woman who, in the right gown and endowed with an air of confidence, could have been capable of lighting up a ballroom. But it was clear that she had retreated almost entirely from life.