by Amanda Quick
“Lord Bradley.” Lady Pennington chuckled. “Yes, I have done my best to terrify her with that threat in an effort to get her to be careful here in town. She is a very spirited young lady.”
“Obviously she takes after you in that regard, as well, madam.”
“Yes.” Lady Pennington stopped smiling. Her mouth pinched into a grim line. “But I will not see her life ruined because of her lively spirit. Are you quite certain that Euston will no longer be a problem?”
Beatrice took the calling card out of her pocket and examined it again. The name on the card was simply Mr. Smith. The raised seal was an elegantly embossed image of a heraldic lion.
She thought about the certainty in Joshua Gage’s voice when he had assured her that Euston would disappear.
“Something tells me that Richard Euston will not trouble you or your family ever again,” she said.
Three
Joshua gritted his teeth against the flaring pain in his left leg and hauled the groggy Euston up into the carriage.
Henry, his face shadowed by a low-crowned hat and the collar of his heavy cape, peered down from the box.
“Ye sure ye don’t want some help, sir?” he asked.
“Where were you when I had to carry the bastard out of the garden and down the lane a few minutes ago?” Joshua asked.
“Didn’t know we were going to have to get rid of a body tonight, sir. Like old times, eh?”
“He’s not dead. Not yet, at any rate. And no, this is not like old times.”
“Whatever you say, sir. Where we taking him?”
“To a nice, quiet place near the docks where he and I can have a private conversation,” Joshua said.
“Ah, so he’ll be going for a late-night swim after you finish talking to him, eh?”
“Depends on the answers I get from him.”
Joshua dropped his burden onto one seat and lowered himself cautiously onto the opposite leather bench. Another jolt of pain shafted through his leg when he reached out to seize the door handle.
“Damned leg,” he said aloud. But he said it in a whisper.
He was losing focus again. He inhaled slowly and pulled on his years of training to distance himself from the nagging pain. When he was back in control he tightened his grip on the door and pulled it shut.
Euston groaned but he did not open his eyes.
Joshua gripped the hilt of the cane and used the stick to rap the ceiling of the cab twice. The vehicle rolled forward.
He considered whether a scarf mask was required and concluded that it would not be necessary. The interior carriage lamps were unlit and the curtains were drawn across all but a narrow slice of one window. What little light entered the cab would fall on Euston’s face, not his. He had learned long ago how to remain in the shadows.
He sat back and contemplated the manner in which his carefully laid plans had been overtaken by events, in particular the unanticipated actions of Miss Beatrice Lockwood.
He had not set out that evening with the intention of assisting in the foiling of an attempted abduction. Beatrice had been his quarry from the start. But matters had taken a decidedly unexpected twist.
He pondered what he had learned about her in the course of their very short meeting. He had only spoken to her for a few moments back in the garden, but he had always been rather good when it came to assessing the character of others in a short span of time. In the past his life had often depended on his skill in that department. His intuition in such matters was certainly not infallible. The bad leg and the scar were proof that when he did fail he did so in a rather spectacular fashion. No halfway measures for the Messenger, certainly.
But he was quite sure of at least one conclusion about Beatrice Lockwood: She was going to be a much more complicated problem than he had anticipated.
He kneaded his sore leg absently while he thought about her. His initial impression could be summed up in a name, he thought. Titania. Like the fairy queen of myth and legend and Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Beatrice was a force to be reckoned with.
The lagoon-blue eyes, delicate features and the air of fragile innocence had not fooled him for a moment. Nor had the unfashionable gown. He had long ago been trained to look beneath the layers of a disguise. Beatrice was an excellent actress—he gave her full credit for her playacting talents—but she had not deceived him.
She had, however, succeeded in surprising him. He was not sure how he felt about that singular fact. It was certainly not a good thing, but for some reason he felt the stirring of something that had been locked in ice deep inside him for a year. Anticipation. He was looking forward to the next encounter with Beatrice Lockwood.
But first he had to finish the business that had arisen so unexpectedly tonight.
Four
Shortly after two-thirty in the morning the Pennington carriage stopped in front of a small town house in Lantern Street. A single lamp glowed at the top of the steps, next to the front door. A footman handed Beatrice down from the cab.
“Are you certain you wish to be set down here?” Lady Pennington asked. She eyed the door of the office through her monocle. “The Flint and Marsh Agency is closed. The windows are dark.”
“Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh live above their offices,” Beatrice said. “I shall wake them.”
“At such a late hour?” Daphne asked.
“I promise you, they will have a great interest in what occurred this evening,” Beatrice said.
“Very well, then,” Lady Pennington said.
“Good night, Miss Lockwood,” Daphne said. “Thank you, again, for saving me from Mr. Euston.”
Beatrice smiled. “You owe your thanks to your grandmother. She is the one who suspected that something about Euston was amiss.”
“Yes, I know,” Daphne said. “One more thing before you go. Do you think that perhaps you might teach me how to fire a small pistol like the one you carry? I would so love to have a gun of my own.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Lady Pennington asked sharply. “What is this about a pistol?”
“It’s a long story,” Beatrice said. “I shall let Miss Daphne tell you the details,” Beatrice said.
She went up the steps of the discreetly marked door of the Flint & Marsh Agency and raised the knocker. It took a couple of raps before a light came on somewhere in the depths of the town house. Footsteps sounded in the hall.
Mrs. Beale, the middle-aged housekeeper, opened the door.She was dressed in a chintz wrapper, slippers and a lace nightcap. She did not look pleased.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning, Miss Lockwood. What are you doing here at this hour?”
“You know I would not awaken Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh unless it was important, Mrs. Beale.”
Mrs. Beale heaved a great sigh. “No, I don’t suppose you would. Come on in, then. I trust no one is dead this time.”
“I did not lose a client, if that is what you mean.”
“I knew it. Someone is dead.”
Beatrice ignored that. She turned back toward the carriage and gave a small wave to indicate that all was well before she went into the front hall. The elegant Pennington equipage rolled off down the quiet street.
Mrs. Beale closed and locked the door. “I’ll go upstairs and wake the ladies.”
“No need to awaken us,” Abigail Flint said from the top of the stairs. “Sara and I are on our way down. Who died?”
“No one died,” Beatrice said. “At least, I don’t think so.”
Sara Marsh appeared on the landing. “Is our client’s granddaughter safe?”
“Daphne is fine, but it was a near thing,” Beatrice said.
“What’ll it be?” Mrs. Beale asked, sounding resigned. “Tea or brandy?”
“It has been a very long night, Mrs. Beale,” Beatrice said.
&n
bsp; Mrs. Beale sighed again, in a knowing way this time. “I’ll fetch the brandy tray.”
—
A SHORT TIME LATER Beatrice sat with her employers in front of a small fire. They all had glasses of brandy in their hands. Abigail and Sara were in their nightclothes, bundled up in robes, slippers and nightcaps.
“Obviously our client was right to trust her instincts when Mr. Euston began to display such a keen interest in Daphne,” Abigail said. “Lady Pennington might not have much in the way of psychical talent but there is nothing like a grandmother’s intuition when it comes to that sort of thing, I always say.”
Abigail was a tall, thin, angular woman of a certain age. She was endowed with sharp features that included a formidable nose and a pointed chin. Her black hair was rapidly going silver. Her dark eyes had a curious, veiled quality that Beatrice was certain concealed old mysteries and secrets.
Abigail’s temperament could only be described as dour. She was inclined to take a pessimistic view of the world and of human nature in particular. When Sara chided her because she went about expecting the worst, Abigail invariably pointed out that she was rarely disappointed.
Her companion in business as well as in life was her polar opposite in both appearance and temperament. Sara Marsh was of a similar age but it was difficult to spot the gray in her blond hair. She was pleasantly rounded in a manner that men—young and old—invariably found attractive. She was cheerful, optimistic and inquisitive.
A keen, self-taught amateur scientist, she was fascinated by the various kinds of evidence left at crime scenes. She maintained a well-equipped laboratory in the basement of the town house where she examined everything from fingerprints to samples of poison brought to her by Flint & Marsh agents.
Mrs. Beale frequently declared that one day Sara would accidentally set off an explosion or unleash poisonous gases that would be the death of everyone in the household.
Both Abigail and Sara possessed what they referred to as a sixth sense. In their younger days they had operated a bookshop that had catered to those with an interest in the paranormal. But a few years ago they had closed the shop in favor of launching what proved to be a successful private inquiry business. The firm of Flint & Marsh attracted wealthy, upper-class clients who wished to commission discreet investigations.
The volumes from the bookshop days now lined the walls of the parlor from floor to ceiling. Many of the books were infused with energy. Beatrice was aware of faint currents stirring the atmosphere of the room.
“Excellent work, my dear,” Sara said. “You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened out in the garden.”
“Euston nearly managed to abduct her and it was my own fault,” Beatrice said. “I allowed myself to become distracted by the spilled lemonade. And when the man with the cane vanished from the ballroom at approximately the same time that Daphne disappeared, I worried that he was involved with the abduction.”
“All in all, a bit chaotic there at the end, but all’s well that ends well,” Sara said.
Abigail snorted. “Doesn’t sound as if things ended well for Mr. Euston. Not that I am overly concerned with his fate. I am very curious about the gentleman who came to your assistance, however, the one with the cane and the scar. That part of your story is extremely worrisome.”
“Yes,” Sara said. “Tell us about him.”
Beatrice struggled to find the right words to explain her reaction to Joshua Gage. “He appeared first in the ballroom. He was only there for a short time but I knew that he was aware of me, that he was watching me.” She hesitated. “Studying me, might be more accurate.”
Abigail frowned. “He should not have taken any notice of a paid companion sitting in the corner of a large ballroom.”
“I know,” Beatrice said. “But he did. What is more, after he introduced himself in the garden and offered to get rid of Mr. Euston he used you and Mrs. Marsh as character references. He then announced that he wished to speak with me tomorrow.” She glanced at the clock. “That would be today, actually.”
“Well, I think that clarifies things,” Sara said. “If he knows about Flint and Marsh and if he is aware that you are one of our agents, he must be someone who was involved in a previous case. That’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “But neither of us recognizes his name.”
“Most likely because we never actually met him,” Sara said patiently. “But he obviously knows one of our clients.”
“There was something quite . . . unsettling about him,” Beatrice said.
Abigail frowned. “You say he wishes to talk to you in the morning?”
“Yes. He also said that Euston would no longer be a problem. He was quite clear on that point. To be honest, I am somewhat concerned that Euston might end up in the river.”
“Euston might deserve such a fate but the policy here at Flint and Marsh is to avoid any sort of scandal,” Sara said uneasily.
“Nonsense, bodies turn up in the river all the time.” Abigail brushed the matter aside with a wave of one long-fingered hand. “Euston’s will be just one more.”
Beatrice winced and exchanged a glance with Sara, who gave a long-suffering sigh. Abigail was often inclined to take the pragmatic approach to problems.
“You know very well, dear, that the bodies of gentlemen who move in Society do not turn up all that often in the river,” Sara said. “Euston was not a highflier, but he was known in certain circles. He obviously had some connections. That is how he managed to get himself introduced to Daphne Pennington by a respectable friend of the Pennington family. If he is found dead under mysterious circumstances there will likely be a police inquiry. We all know that Flint and Marsh cannot afford to be connected to that sort of thing.”
“You are right, of course.” Abigail drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “We can only hope that this Mr. Gage will take great care to make certain that Euston’s disappearance will not cause any problems.”
Beatrice cleared her throat. “He did give the impression that he had some expertise in such matters.”
Abigail brightened. “All the more reason not to worry about Euston.”
“I would remind you that Euston was alive when I last saw him,” Beatrice said. “It is possible that Mr. Gage did not go to extremes tonight.”
“What concerns us at the moment,” Sara said, “is his interest in you, Beatrice. You are certain you do not recognize him from your days at Fleming’s Academy of the Occult?”
“Quite certain.” Beatrice drank some brandy and lowered the glass. “Believe me when I tell you that he is not a man that one would be likely to forget.”
Abigail raised her brows. “The scar is that bad?”
“It’s not the scar that makes him memorable,” Beatrice said. “Or the limp, for that matter. You’re sure you do not recognize his name?”
“Quite certain.” Abigail pursed her lips. “Although I suppose he could be a customer from the old days when we owned the bookshop. We had hundreds of patrons over the years. We cannot possibly remember all of their names.”
“I almost forgot, he gave me a card,” Beatrice said. She set aside her brandy glass and reached into the pocket of her gown. “I believe the name on it is that of his former employer. He seemed to think you would recognize it.”
Sara took her reading glasses off the table and propped them on her nose. “Let me see it.”
Beatrice handed her the card. When Sara looked at it her expression abruptly tightened in shock. She traced the lion seal with the tip of one finger.
“Mr. Smith,” she whispered. “But it’s not possible. Not after all this time.”
“Mr. Smith?” Abigail scowled. “There must be some mistake. Let me see that card.”
Sara handed the card to Abigail, who studied it in mounting disbelief that swiftly changed into op
enmouthed astonishment.
“Good heavens,” she whispered. She touched the seal. “Do you suppose he really is alive?”
“We always wondered about those rumors of his death,” Sara said.
Beatrice searched Sara’s face and then looked at Abigail. “Who is this Mr. Smith?”
“Damned if we ever knew,” Abigail said. “We never met him, of course. We dealt with his Messenger.”
Her ominous tone did not worry Beatrice nearly as much as the fact that the card was trembling in Abigail’s fingers. It took a great deal to make Abigail Flint shiver. She tended to live up to her surname.
“I’m sure Smith was not the Lion’s real name,” Sara said. “But that name and the seal were all we knew of him. As Abby explained, when he had dealings with us, he sent his Messenger.”
“Mr. Gage asked me to tell you that the Messenger sent his regards,” Beatrice said.
“Oh, dear,” Sara whispered. “This situation is growing more odd by the moment.”
“Can you describe this Messenger?” Beatrice asked.
“We can’t give you a physical description,” Abigail said. “When we met with him it was always in a location of his choice and he was always deep in the shadows. We never saw his face in the light.” She paused. “But I’m quite certain he did not walk with a limp. What do you think, Sara?”
“There was certainly no indication that he used a cane,” Sara said. “I remember how it always startled us when he spoke to us from the darkness of whatever place he had selected for a meeting. We never heard him arrive and we never heard him leave. It was as if he, himself, was a shadow.”
“Hmm,” Beatrice said. She thought about Gage’s halting stride and the way he leaned on his cane. “Well, accidents do happen. And I imagine that a man in his profession would attract a large number of enemies.”
“Very true,” Abigail said.
“You said this Messenger person worked for Mr. Smith,” Beatrice said. “I don’t understand Smith’s role in all this. Why did he require a messenger?”