The Mystery Woman (Ladies of Lantern Str - By Amanda Quick Page 0,2

he had assured her that both the lock and the panel were quite stout. Sooner or later the Bone Man would get through the inner door but with luck she would have the time she needed to escape.

A fist pounded on the rear panel of the wardrobe.

“You cannot hide from me. I never fail.”

She lit the lantern. The glary light illuminated the stone passage in hellish shadows.

She hitched the pack higher on her shoulder and fled into the darkness.

She was certain of one thing—she would never forget the terrible energy that seethed in the footprints of the Bone Man.

Two

Some 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