The Mystery Woman (2 page)

S
ome months later . . .

“Dreadfully warm in here, isn’t it?” Maud Ashton remarked. She fanned herself vigorously with one gloved hand and used the other to raise a glass of lemonade to her lips. “It’s a wonder that the ladies do not faint dead away on the dance floor.”

“Yes, it is quite warm,” Beatrice said. “But the dance floor has the French doors that open out onto the garden. The dancers have the benefit of the cool evening air. I expect that is why they are not collapsing from the heat.”

She and Maud, both hired companions, were ensconced on a banquette in a quiet alcove just off the ballroom. The bitterness embedded in Maud’s voice was unmistakable. Beatrice was not unsympathetic. She had spent only a short time in the other woman’s company tonight, but that was long enough to hear a great deal of Maud’s unhappy story. It was a sad tale but not an uncommon one among those who were condemned to careers as paid companions.

Maud had made it clear that she had suffered a fate worse than death—a catastrophic loss of social status due to her husband’s bankruptcy. Following his financial crisis, Mr. Ashton had sailed for America to make his fortune in the Wild West. He had never been heard from again. Maud had found herself—alone and middle-aged—saddled with her husband’s debts. There had been no choice but to become a professional companion.

Maud’s world had once been very different. Her marriage to a wealthy, upper-class gentleman had given her entrée into the fashionable crowd that she was now obliged to watch from afar. There was a time when she, too, had worn elegant gowns, sipped champagne and waltzed until dawn beneath glittering chandeliers. Now she was forced to content herself with a position on the fringes of Society. Professional companions accompanied their employers, who were often widows or spinsters, everywhere—soirées, country-house parties, lectures and the theater. But, like governesses, they were virtually invisible to those around them.

The world could be a harsh place for an impoverished woman who faced it alone. There were very few respectable options when it came to employment. Maud had every right to be resentful of her fate, Beatrice thought. But on the other hand, evidently no one had vowed to hunt her down for unknown reasons. No one had murdered an innocent man in the process of that hunt.

“I vow, this ball is interminable,” Maud grumbled. She checked the watch that dangled alongside a small bottle of smelling salts from her chatelaine. “Dear me, it’s only midnight. We’ll likely be here until three. And then it will be on to another ball until five. It’s enough to make you want to jump off a bridge. I believe I’ll just have another nip of gin to liven up this dreadful lemonade.”

She reached into her satchel and took out a flask. When she started to pour the gin into the lemonade, however, the glass slipped from her fingers. The contents splashed over the dull gray skirts of Beatrice’s gown.

“Oh, dear,” Maud said. “I am so sorry.”

Beatrice stood quickly and shook out the heavy folds of her gown. “Quite all right. No harm done. It was an old dress.”

She owned newer, more expensive and far more fashionable gowns, but she reserved the oldest dresses in her wardrobe for those times when she was on assignment from the Flint & Marsh Agency.

“How clumsy of me.” Maud whipped out a handkerchief and made a fuss, trying to blot the damp patch of the gown.

Disaster struck in the blink of an eye. The unnerving tingle on the back of Beatrice’s neck was the only warning she got that something had gone badly awry.

She whirled to survey the dance floor. Daphne Pennington had vanished.

In other, more normal circumstances, the situation would not have been unduly alarming. It certainly would not be the first time that a reckless young lady had slipped out into the gardens for a few stolen kisses.

But tonight the circumstances were anything but normal. What made the situation a thousand times more ominous was that the man with the cane and the scarred face had also disappeared.

She had become aware of him a few minutes before when she had sensed that she was being watched. She had immediately searched the crowded room to see who might be looking at her. No one
ever
looked twice at a paid companion.

She had locked eyes with the scarred man leaning on an ebony-and-steel cane. It was a nerve-shattering encounter because deep down she had experienced a strange, intense sense of recognition. But she was positive she had never met him in her life.

He was not the sort of man a woman could forget. It wasn’t the violent slash that had destroyed the left side of his fierce, sharply planed face or the fact that he used a walking stick that made him so memorable. Rather, it was the impression of power that emanated from him. She was quite certain that there was a steel core inside the stranger and implacable promise in his eyes. She could easily envision him with a fiery sword instead of the cane.

For a heartbeat or two, during which she could not breathe, he had regarded her with a steady, focused gaze. Then, as if he was satisfied by whatever he had seen, he appeared to lose interest. He had turned and moved off down an empty hall. It was clear from the hitch in his stride and the stiffness in his left leg that the cane was not a fashionable affectation. He depended on it.

She had started breathing again but her senses remained unsettled. Her intuition told her that she had not seen the last of the man with the cane. The realization was deeply disturbing but not nearly as unsettling as the knowledge that some part of her
wanted
to encounter him again. She told herself it was because she needed to know what it was about her disguise that had caught his eye. Her objective, after all, was to remain invisible.

But in that moment she had to stay focused on her assignment. Daphne and the scar-faced man were not the only ones who were now missing from the ballroom. Daphne’s dance partner, Richard Euston, a handsome young gentleman who had been introduced to Daphne by a friend of the Pennington family, was also gone.

The situation was deteriorating rapidly.

“Excuse me,” Beatrice said. “It appears Miss Pennington has taken herself off to a withdrawing room. Perhaps she tore her gown or wore a hole in her dancing slippers. I must go and see if she requires my assistance.”

“But your dress,” Maud exclaimed anxiously. “It will be ruined.”

Beatrice ignored her. She picked up her satchel and went swiftly along the hall.

A ruined dress would be a disaster for most paid companions whose wardrobes were extremely limited, but it was the least of her concerns tonight. It was time for her to earn the excellent salary that the Flint & Marsh Agency paid her. She prayed she was not too late.

Daphne and Euston had been dancing near the French doors when she had last seen them. It was likely that they had slipped out of the room via that route.

Daphne’s grandmother, Lady Pennington, was on the far side of the ballroom chatting with three other ladies. There was no way to get to her to tell her what had happened without wasting precious time forging a path through the crowd.

Beatrice had studied all of the exits from the ballroom an hour earlier when she and Lady Pennington and Daphne had arrived. At the time she had concluded that if someone was intent on compromising Daphne, as her grandmother feared, the villain would most likely lure his victim out into the night-shrouded gardens.

At the end of the dimly lit hallway Beatrice opened the door she had noted earlier. She stepped out into the summer night and paused briefly to orient herself.

A high wall surrounded the extensive gardens. Colorful lanterns illuminated a section around the terrace, but she stood in an unlit area near the gardener’s shed. The gate that opened onto the narrow lane behind the grounds was not far away. Anyone attempting to abduct a young lady would no doubt have a closed carriage waiting. The ballroom terrace was some distance away from her position. If she moved quickly she could get to the gate before Daphne and her abductor reached it.

If
she moved quickly and
if
she was correct in her conclusions. So many ifs. It was quite possible that she was mistaken. Perhaps Daphne was at that very moment enjoying a light flirtation with the very attractive Mr. Euston, who intended no harm.

But that did not explain the disappearance of the scarred stranger. Her intuition told her that it was not a coincidence that he, too, had vanished.

She set her satchel beside the step, whisked up the hem of her gown and removed the small stocking gun from the dainty holster strapped just above her knee. She hurried toward the gate along an aisle formed by two rows of tall hedges. Her gray dress helped her blend into the shadows.

When she neared the gate she heard the muffled sound of a horse stamping a shod hoof in the lane on the other side of the wall.

She came to the end of the twin hedges and stopped. In the moonlight she could see that the gate was partially open. As she feared, a small, fast carriage stood waiting. There would be a second man with the vehicle.

At that moment she heard the soft thud of rapid footsteps coming toward her through the garden. Whoever had taken Daphne would arrive in a matter of seconds. She could not deal with two villains simultaneously. It occurred to her that if she managed to close and lock the gate, the man with the carriage would not be able to come to his associate’s assistance.

She rushed toward the gate and got it shut before the driver of the carriage realized what was happening. She slammed the lock into place and whirled around just as Richard Euston burst out of the shadows.

Euston did not see her at first because he was concentrating on keeping a grip on Daphne, who was struggling valiantly. Her hands were bound in front of her and there was a gag in her mouth.

Beatrice aimed the small gun at Euston. “Release Miss Pennington or I will shoot. At this range I cannot miss.”

“What the bloody hell?” Euston stopped abruptly. His astonishment turned to anger. “You’re just the companion. What the devil do you think you’re doing? Open the gate.”

“Let her go,” Beatrice said.

“The hell I will,” Euston said. “She’s worth a fortune. Drop that silly little gun. We both know you won’t pull that trigger. You’re a paid companion, not a bodyguard.”

“I never bluff,” Beatrice said.

She cocked the pistol and aimed the barrel at Euston’s midsection. He seemed stunned that she actually intended to shoot him, but he recovered quickly and yanked Daphne in front of himself to use as a shield.

A shadow emerged out of the darkness behind Euston, who never saw the black-gloved hand that wrapped around his throat and tightened briefly.

Unable to breathe, let alone speak, Euston released Daphne and struggled to free himself. But it was finished in seconds. He collapsed, unconscious, to the ground.

The crack of a whip sounded on the far side of the high wall. Hooves clattered and carriage wheels rattled on paving stones. The vehicle took off in a frantic rush, the driver evidently having realized that something had gone very wrong with the abduction plan.

Daphne rushed to Beatrice’s side. They both watched the man with the ebony-and-steel cane move into the moonlight. Beatrice kept the weapon aimed at him.

“Is it common for paid companions to go about armed?” he asked. His voice was dark and low and stunningly calm, as if he was accustomed to confronting pistols. As if he found her an interesting curiosity.

“Who are you?” Beatrice asked. “If you think to take over where Euston left off, you had better think again.”

“I assure you, I have no intention of abducting Miss Pennington. You are the one I wish to speak with.”

“Me?”
Shocked, she could only stare at him, something akin to panic sleeting through her.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he continued in that same calm, controlled tone. “Joshua Gage, at your service. We have mutual friends in Lantern Street.”

She experienced an almost overwhelming surge of relief. He was not referring to her days with Fleming’s Academy of the Occult. This was about Lantern Street. She forced herself to concentrate, trying to remember if she had encountered anyone named Gage in the course of her work for Flint & Marsh. She came up blank.

“Whom do you know in Lantern Street?” she asked warily.

“Your employers, Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh, will vouch for me.”

“Unfortunately, neither is conveniently at hand to provide introductions,” she pointed out.

“Perhaps this will do.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and took out a card. “I realize you cannot make this out in the moonlight, but when you return to the ballroom you will be able to read it. If you take it around to Lantern Street in the morning, Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh will recognize the seal. Tell them Mr. Smith’s Messenger sends his regards.”

“Who is Mr. Smith?”

“My former employer.”

A strange feeling whispered through her, stirring her senses. She suddenly got the disturbing premonition that taking the card would change her life forever in ways she could not begin to imagine. There would be no going back.
Ridiculous,
she thought.