The Mystery Woman (Ladies of Lantern Str - By Amanda Quick Page 0,37

secret, the more risk there is that sooner or later that secret will no longer be a secret.”

“I give you my word I will not tell a soul.”

He did not respond to that. When she looked at him she saw that he appeared lost in thought.

She frowned. “I am well aware that you do not trust me, Mr. Gage. There is no need to be rude about it. I would remind you, however, that I, too, am a professional. Over the years I have kept a great many secrets for my clients both in my role as Miranda and now as an agent for Flint and Marsh. I will hold your secrets close as well.”

“Oddly enough, I do trust you, Miss Lockwood.” He smiled. “Damned if I know why.”

“Do you find me amusing, sir?”

“No. It is myself I am laughing at.”

“Because you have decided to trust me?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” she said, “I have concluded that I trust you, as well, Mr. Gage, and there is no logical reason for it.”

He stopped smiling. “I have a certain reputation in that regard.”

“Perhaps, but that is not what persuades me to trust you.”

He frowned. “Why do you trust me, then?”

She gave him her coolest smile. “Because I can read your energy prints and I am reassured by what I see. But I know you do not accept paranormal explanations so why bother to explain my reasoning?”

“What do you think you see in my prints?”

She widened her eyes. “Are you sure you want a psychical reading from a fraudulent practitioner?”

“I think of you as an accomplished actress, not a fraud.”

She laughed. “A very smooth response. I’m impressed.”

“It’s the truth.” He went back to studying the crowd. “What do you see in my prints?”

“Why do you want an answer from an accomplished actress?”

“I have no idea. Call it professional curiosity.”

She debated the wisdom of giving him the information he sought and then decided there was no harm in satisfying his curiosity. He was no different from any of her clients in her days at the Academy. People—even those who did not believe in her talent—always wanted to know what she perceived in their prints. In this case Joshua would no doubt attribute the results to her lively imagination.

Mildly annoyed, she opened her other senses and studied the fierce energy in the prints Joshua had left on the floor. There were more of his prints on the glass case and the dagger.

Currents of dark, iridescent light in a spectrum of colors that had no names radiated in strong, stable patterns from the residue of energy that glowed on everything he had touched.

“Very well, Mr. Gage,” she said, “I see power, control and underlying psychical stability.”

“What the devil is psychical stability?”

“In my experience, weak or unstable currents in prints usually indicate some degree of mental or emotional strain. We all experience occasional shocks to the nerves. We all go through periods of depression, grief and anxiety, just as we all suffer bouts of physical illness. But certain highly erratic waves that appear to be permanent or very weak are marks of an underlying lack of stability. They are the hallmarks of madness or a total absence of conscience.” She paused. “It is the latter sort I find most frightening.”

“How often do you encounter such prints?”

“They are more common than one might think.” She shuddered. “Believe me when I tell you that I do not go out of my way to look for them.”

“What did you see in the prints of the assassin who murdered Fleming?”

“The cold energy of a man who has no conscience. He not only kills without remorse, he takes satisfaction and pride in the act, perhaps even a perverse pleasure.”

Joshua clamped both hands around the hilt of the cane and looked thoughtful. “Definitely a professional.”

“You never answered my question, Mr. Gage,” she said quietly.

“What question?”

“What in heaven’s name were you thinking when you elected to retire to the country a year ago?”

“I was thinking that I no longer possessed the attributes and abilities that had once made me a good spy.”

“Because of the nature of your injuries?” She glanced at the cane. “Nonsense. I understand that you now face certain physical limitations that would necessitate a different approach to your work, but you still have your analytical abilities.” She surveyed the beard that concealed the scar. “And obviously you still possess a talent for concealing your identity.”

Joshua did not take his eyes off the crowd. “There was