The Mystery Woman (Ladies of Lantern Str - By Amanda Quick Page 0,8

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.

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