Fifteen
The great hall of the Alverstoke mansion was awash in dark energy. The currents swirling around the massed collection of Egyptian artifacts set Beatrice’s senses on edge.
Massive stone statues of Egyptian gods, goddesses and demons, many adorned with the heads of animals, gazed down on the crowd with implacable stares. Canopic jars, scarabs and ankhs were arranged on tables. Detailed miniatures depicting everyday life in the ancient land—a fishing boat complete with tiny men casting nets, a house with a walled garden—were set out on shelves. Glass-topped cases held brilliant pieces of jewelry—pectorals, collars and earrings.
Beatrice shivered and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She had positioned herself on a banquette in a corridor just off the great hall. A cluster of potted plants shielded her from the view of passersby. From her vantage point she could watch the elegant guests through a veil of palm fronds. With the exception of Hannah, most of Alverstoke’s guests appeared unaware of the heavily charged atmosphere, at least not consciously aware. They chatted with one another and drank their host’s expensive champagne while they marveled at the antiquities.
But it seemed to Beatrice that much of the laughter was off-key and the conversations a bit too loud. There was a nervous undercurrent in the room.
She was concentrating intently on trying to keep an eye on Hannah—not an easy task in the crowded chamber—when another kind of awareness feathered her senses.
She turned quickly and saw an elderly, thickly bearded gentleman emerge from a dark passage behind her. He wore gold-framed spectacles. His evening coat and trousers were sadly out of date. He leaned heavily on a familiar ebony-and-steel cane.
“Alverstoke’s decorator appears to have gone mad with the Egyptian motif,” Joshua said.
“Good heavens, sir, you gave me a start.” Beatrice glared at him. “Kindly refrain from sneaking up on me like that. It is very hard on the nerves.”
“Something tells me that your nerves are strong enough to withstand the occasional surprise.” He peered through the palm fronds at the entrance to the reception hall. “Where is my sister?”
“The last time I saw her she was near the large statue of Osiris talking to a gentleman.” Beatrice turned back to search the crowd. “There she is in the blue gown.”
“I see her. She is chatting with Ryeford. They are old friends.” Joshua paused to examine a dagger with a gilded hilt that was on display in a nearby glass-topped case. “I assume that there has not been any communication from the extortionist?”
“No, but it’s about time you showed up,” Beatrice said. “Where have you been? I was starting to wonder if something had happened to you. We have not discussed the method I am to use to contact you if we do receive the villain’s instructions.”
“When,” Joshua said. He spoke in an absent tone, his attention on the dagger.
Beatrice went blank. “What?”
“I said when you receive the villain’s instructions, not if. He will make his move here, quite possibly tonight. Tomorrow night at the latest.”
“How can you be certain?” she asked, curious. He sounded so sure of himself.
“It’s a logical conclusion. The house party lasts only three nights. The blackmailer will want to take advantage of the crowd.” Joshua raised the lid of the case. “This is a very interesting blade. I wonder if it is genuine.”
He reached into the case.
“Do not touch that,” Beatrice snapped before she could stop herself.
He glanced back at her. “Why not?”
“Because it is, indeed, genuine.” She regained her composure. “It was used to kill on more than one occasion, and it is stained with some very unpleasant energy.”
He studied her intently. “You’re telling me that you can detect such details with your paranormal senses?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I believe in the powers of a lively imagination,” he said politely.
She sniffed. “Why do I bother? You are quite right, sir, go ahead, pick up the dagger. It’s no concern of mine.”
He gave her a thoughtful look and then, very deliberately, he closed his fingers around the gilded hilt. The false beard and bushy brows concealed his expression but she could have sworn that she saw his eyes heat a little when his fingers came in contact with the ancient blade. She was quite certain he had experienced a small, psychical jolt. She also knew that he would never admit it.
She waited, expecting that he would put the blade down and close the lid of the case. Instead he held the dagger up to the light of a wall sconce to examine it more closely.
“Interesting,” he said.
He admired the dagger a moment longer and then put it back into the case with some reluctance. She knew then that he had, indeed, received a paranormal shock of some sort from the relic, but not the kind that sent chills of dread down the spine. Holding the dagger had quite the opposite effect on him. He had experienced a flash of excitement.
Joshua closed the lid of the case and made his way to the banquette. He lowered himself onto the velvet cushions and stacked his hands on the handle of his cane.
“Where are your rooms?” he asked.
“Your sister and I are in the east wing on the floor above. Mrs. Trafford was given the bedroom at the far end. My room is directly adjacent to hers. We both face the gardens.”
“Excellent. I can see your windows from the cottage. The simplest methods are usually the best. When Hannah receives instructions from the blackmailer, light a candle and set it on the windowsill. I will send three flashes with a lantern to let you know that I have seen your signal. We will meet in the library.”
“How will you get into the house?” she asked. “I’m sure the doors will all be locked after everyone goes to bed.”
“I am somewhat of an expert when it comes to that sort of thing,” he said.
“Oh, right, you were a professional spy.” She kept her own tone just as dry. “Must have slipped my mind. I suppose lock-picking skills were a requirement for the position.”
“You don’t think much of my former profession, do you?”
“I give it the same degree of regard that you give my former career. Face it, sir, you and I were both in the business of manufacturing illusions for the purpose of deceiving others. I am still in that line.” She gave his beard and unfashionable attire a dismissive look. “And evidently so are you.”
He absorbed the accusation and then inclined his head. “You are correct, Miss Lockwood. We appear to have a great deal in common.”
“Not a great deal, merely a talent for deception. I trust your skills have not grown rusty. It would be awkward for your sister and me if you got caught breaking into this house tonight.”
“I will try to avoid embarrassing you both.” He contemplated the artifacts around them. “I wonder how many of these antiquities are fakes?”
“Some, certainly.” She adjusted her shawl again in a futile attempt to ward off the chill. “But not all.”
Joshua’s eyes sharpened behind the lenses of the spectacles. “Do you have some expertise in Egyptian antiquities?”
“None whatsoever, Mr. Gage. But I do not need any to sense the dark energy that is infused into several of these pieces. I suspect you feel it, yourself, but you no doubt choose to explain away the sensation with some forced bit of logic.”
He was amused and also, she thought, curious.
“Exactly how would I do that?” he asked.
She moved one hand in a small gesture. “Perhaps you tell yourself that you are on edge simply because you are in the middle of an investigation. You are, therefore, in a state of acute awareness. That generates a certain level of excitement which, in turn, explains any odd sensations you are feeling.”
“A reasonable chain of logic if not for the fact that it’s founded on a false premise.”
“In addition, that there is a personal aspect to this case neatly explains some of your reaction. You are here to save your sister from a blackmailer. To do that you are obliged to work with a woman you do not entirely trust. That is bound to affect your nerves. You prefer to be in complete control of a situation. I am supposed to be a pawn in your game but you cannot be sure that I will prove reliable.”
“Ah, now there you are wrong, Miss Lockwood.”
“Really?” She did not bother to conceal her disbelief.
“You are most certainly an unpredictable element but I do not consider you to be a pawn,” he said.
“Is that so?” She tipped her head slightly to one side. “How do you see me?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He hesitated, as though struggling with the answer. “I am still evaluating your role in this affair.”
He sounded so serious she almost laughed aloud.
“As it happens, I still have a great many questions about you, as well, sir,” she said smoothly. “Nevertheless, you make my point. You can explain away your unease without resorting to the paranormal.”
“In other words, you cannot prove that there are currents of paranormal energy emanating from some of the genuine artifacts in this room.”
“No,” she said. “Furthermore, I see no reason to try to prove the existence of the paranormal to you. Your low opinion of me is, of course, quite crushing, but in the long run it does not matter.”
The corner of his mouth edged upward. “I merely said that you possess a lively imagination. That does not mean that I hold a low opinion of you. I am crushed, in turn, to hear that my opinion of you is of no particular significance.”
“How could it possibly matter, sir?” she said politely. “After all, when this case is over we will each go our own way and never meet again.”
“You sound as if you are looking forward to the end of our short acquaintance.”
“I’m sure you are, as well,” she said.
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not looking forward to a parting of the ways.”
He sounded vaguely surprised by his own words.
“I find that hard to believe, Mr. Gage.”
“Unlike you, I have found our brief association to be . . . stimulating.”
Startled, she eyed him with growing suspicion. “Rubbish.”
“I’m very serious.” He massaged his thigh in an absent manner and concentrated his attention on the crowd. “You are a very refreshing female, Miss Lockwood.”
“Refreshing?”
“I am not sure how to explain myself.”
“No need to explain, sir,” she said. “I quite understand.”
His false brows rose. “You do?”
“Your problem is simply that you have been living a rather boring life for the past year. You had no business retiring to the country while still in your prime in the first place. Really, what were you thinking?”
His amused, teasing manner vanished in a heartbeat. The ice was back in his eyes.
“Who the devil do you think you are, Miss Lockwood, to be handing out advice and asking personal questions?”
She was startled by the uncharacteristic edge in his voice. True, it was barely discernible, but it was there, like a shark under the waves. In the course of her short acquaintance with Joshua the one thing she had learned was that he was a master of self-control. This was the first time she had seen any indication that he might occasionally allow himself to reveal a flash of anger or impatience.
Then again, she reminded herself, he had acquired all that ironclad self-mastery for a reason. A man of strong passions needed to be able to control those passions.
Perhaps the more intriguing question was why she was relishing the knowledge that she could draw him out of the shadows, even for a moment. Baiting a tiger that lived inside a self-imposed cage was a risky game. It was the tiger, after all, who possessed the keys.
“I happen to be your associate in an investigation, Mr. Gage,” she said. “And do not forget that this partnership of ours was formed at your suggestion.”
“That does not entitle you to pry into my private affairs.”
“I wasn’t prying, I was making an observation.”
“And giving advice.”
“I’m sorry to say that the urge to do so is an unfortunate side effect of my talent,” she said. “I realize that you required some time to recover from the metaphysical as well as the physical aspects of your injuries. However, today in the course of our journey from London, your sister told me that you became almost a complete recluse this past year. It is high time you emerged from your isolation and returned to normal life.”
“I have not lived a normal life for a very long time.”
She waved that off. “You know very well what I mean, sir.”
“Did Hannah tell you why she is being blackmailed?”
Beatrice hesitated and then concluded there was no reason to conceal the truth.
“Yes,” she said.
He nodded. “I thought so.”
“I would remind you that this is not the first time Hannah and I have met. We get along quite well. Mutual interests and all that.”
“A mutual interest in the paranormal.”
“Indeed. But I think Hannah entrusted me with her secret because she felt that, given my own involvement in this affair, I had a right to know.”
Joshua was silent for a moment. “I assume she told you about my part in the business?”
“Yes. I can’t say I was surprised by your role in the affair. You are a professional, after all. I’m just very glad to know that you were there to deal with that terrible man that night.”
“Hannah and her housekeeper were doing very well when I got there, but it is difficult to stand against an enraged man armed with a knife who is bent on murder.”
Memories of the iridescent prints around the dying Roland Fleming sent a ghostly shiver through Beatrice.
“That is what Roland told me that night when he lay dying on the floor of his office,” she whispered. “He said my stocking gun would be of little use against a determined killer.”
“That is especially true when that killer is experienced in his craft,” Joshua said. “You would have gotten only one chance to fire the gun—if that. And if you had missed or if you had not hit a vital spot, which is unlikely with that small weapon—”
“I know.”
“Hannah was right,” he said. “You do deserve to know the truth. But the more people who share a 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 more to my decision to retire than my injuries, although they were a factor.”
“I see.”
He did not volunteer any more information. He just sat very quietly, watching the elegant guests mill around the hot artifacts.
And that was as much as he was going to tell her, she thought. Whatever had occurred in the course of his last assignment had left psychical wounds as well as his physical injuries.
“Allow me to tell you, Mr. Gage, that the reason you are feeling invigorated isn’t because of me,” Beatrice said. “It’s because you have been summoned to consult on a case of great personal importance. It has given you an objective. You needed a suitable goal to bring you out of retirement, a reason to use your talents once again.”
“Invigorated,” he repeated, as if speaking to himself. “You may be on to something. I have been feeling more . . . vigorous lately.”
There was a little heat in his eyes. The woman in her recognized it at once. She was annoyed by the realization that she was blushing.
“I’m not surprised to hear that, sir,” she said, keeping her tone brisk. “It is obvious that, your need for a cane aside, you are possessed of a sound physical constitution and an agile mind. Rusticating in the country for an extended period of time was bound to prove depressing to a man of your nature.”
“An interesting theory,” he said. He paused a beat before adding, “I will admit it was a very long year. In fact, sitting here with you now, I am acutely aware of just how long this past year has been.”
Something in his voice, a hint of sexual innuendo, jolted her senses.
“Yes, well, one way or another, I’m certain we can contrive to muddle through with our partnership because, for now at least, our goals are aligned,” she said quickly.
“As long as that is the case we can work together, is that what you are saying?” he asked.
“Precisely. I do understand that your first priority is to catch the person who is blackmailing your sister. If that person proves to be the same individual who hired an assassin to murder Dr. Fleming and kidnap me for unknown reasons, I will be exceedingly grateful to you.”
“I do not want your gratitude, Miss Lockwood.”
Each word was delivered in ice. Before she could respond, Joshua gripped his cane and pushed himself to his feet.
“Leaving already, Mr. Gage?” she asked. “I do hope it’s not on my account.”
“This conversation has been quite . . . stimulating, but I think we have exchanged enough pleasantries for one evening, don’t you? If we continue along these lines, I fear we will soon be at each other’s throats. And while that might be entertaining in some ways, it would no doubt cause a scene that would interfere with the investigation. Good evening, Miss Lockwood.”
“Good evening, Mr. Gage.”
She could make deliveries in ice, too.
“I will watch for the candle in your window,” he said.
He disappeared back into the shadows of the passage from which he had appeared a short time earlier. For a moment longer she thought she could hear the faint tapping of his cane echoing down the hallway. The sound faded into silence.
When she was certain that he was gone she rose and crossed to the display case that he had opened.
Steeling herself, she raised the glass lid and heightened her senses. The hilt of the blade blazed with the intense energy of Joshua’s prints.
Gingerly she reached inside to touch the gilded handle.
Small shocks of lightning sparked across her senses.
“Damn,” she whispered. “That hurt.”
Hastily she withdrew her hand and lowered the lid.
She had known that the ancient blade was saturated with the dark, seething energy of old violence. But the invisible lightning that danced through her just now was not ancient. It had been laid down by Joshua. Her senses found it very stimulating, very masculine and, yes, quite vigorous.