Page 50 of Garden of Lies

Stripping off one glove, she removed a stout hatpin and eased it into the lock. She manipulated the length of metal carefully, pushing the key out of the lock. She heard it clatter when it fell to the floor on the other side of the door.

She bent down to peer under the door to see if the key had landed on the paper—and got a strong dose of herb-scented smoke for her trouble.

Her head swam. It was as if she was floating in midair. A strange, terrifying excitement roared through her. The sensation was so disorienting that if she had been standing she would have lost her balance altogether.

She straightened to her knees, automatically covering her nose and mouth with one hand. When the terrible feeling eased somewhat, she raised her skirts and tore a strip off her petticoats. She tied the fabric around the lower half of her face to serve as a mask. She took a breath and leaned down again to see if she had been successful.

A relief that was even more powerful than the disorienting sensations swept through her when she saw that the iron key had landed on one of the notebook pages.

Gingerly she tugged the paper with the key on it under the edge of the door.

Her heart sank when she discovered the key was warm to the touch. If the heat was already so intense in the back room it might be too late to make it to safety.

She peered through the keyhole and saw that her worst fears were confirmed. The other room was an inferno of dark smoke. She had no idea how long the thick wooden door would hold out against the flames.

She looked across the laboratory at the locked door that opened onto the alley and then she looked down at the key she had just retrieved.

No shopkeeper would bother to install two different locks requiring different keys for doors that locked the same room.

She hurried to the alley door and inserted the key. It turned readily in the lock. The door opened and she was free. She was about to rush to safety when she remembered her satchel.

Whirling, she dashed back across the laboratory and grabbed the bag. Then she hurried through the doorway into the narrow fog-choked alley.

A man in a sweeping black greatcoat raced down the lane toward her.

“Ursula,” Slater shouted.

He wrapped one arm around her and hauled her toward the far end of the alley. Behind them the old building gave one last groan and started to collapse in on itself.

The explosion occurred a short time later, just as Slater got Ursula into the hansom. The horse bolted. Griffith swore and fought to control the animal.

Slater made it into the cab. “Get us out of here,” he ordered.

Griffith did not argue. The hansom took off at a great rate of speed.

Slater looked at Ursula. “What the devil?”

“Chemicals,” she managed. She took great, deep breaths. “The laboratory was full of them. The fire must have set them off.”

TWENTY-TWO

Ido wish that you would sit down, Slater,” Ursula said. “Watching you pace back and forth like a caged lion is making me nervous. I have already sustained a fair amount of stress today.”

They were in her study. She was seated on a stool in front of the fire, drying her hair and drinking the medicinal dose of brandy that Mrs. Dunstan had poured for her.

There had been very few words spoken in the hansom. Slater had locked one arm around her and virtually imprisoned her. For the most part he had simply repeated her name and asked her over and over again if she was all right. She had assured him each time that she was fine while secretly taking comfort in his strength and the warmth and the scent of him.

She was accustomed to being alone but in the aftermath of the near disaster she had to admit to herself that she was very glad of Slater’s company. The sense of intimacy would not last but at the moment it was a blessing like no other.

The moment they walked into the front hall of her town house, Mrs. Dunstan had taken charge, ushering her upstairs and into a warm bath. By the time she emerged, the early dark of a winter night had settled on the city.

She had put on a dressing gown and descended the stairs to the study to dry her hair in front of the fire. She had been shocked to discover that Slater was waiting for her.

She had hesitated in the doorway. The comfortable, loose-fitting dressing gown with its long skirts and full sleeves was quite modest. Indeed, the fashion journals considered such gowns suitable attire for ladies to wear downstairs to breakfast. But there was no escaping the fact that there was a suggestion of intimacy about a dressing gown. The style, after all, had been inspired by the French.

She had walked into the study, thrilled not only by Slater’s presence but by her own daring. The burning look that Slater had given her had warmed her as nothing else could have done. She had unwrapped the towel that bound her wet hair and sat down on the stool in front of the hearth.

Mrs. Dunstan had brought in a tray with a light supper of hot vegetable soup, hard-boiled eggs, cheese and bread. Slater had spoken little during the meal. He had helped himself to some of the cheese and bread and devoted himself to prowling the small space while Ursula dined.

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