A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“That sounds promising.”

“Of course I sat down at about nine o’clock in the evening, you see, and intended to read only for a short while before bed. But the next thing I knew, it was dawn. And I had to get ready for the day!”

“Oh, dear!”

“I know, but I don’t regret it. There’s nothing like the pleasure of a book that pulls you in by the lapels and doesn’t let go until The End. God gives us only one life. But with good books, we can live a hundred, even a thousand lives in the time we are allotted on this earth.”

Livia was not prone to feeling such things, but she could kiss the young man for the sentiments he’d so eloquently expressed.

“And what about this one then?” Eagerly she showed him the book in her lap, which she’d only just started. “It’s by the same author.”

“Moonstone? I liked that one, too, but it wouldn’t have kept me up all night reading.” She must have appeared disappointed, for he held up a finger. “However, a good friend of mine prefers Moonstone to The Woman in White.”

“Oh, how fortunate that you know someone who enjoys the same books you do. My father only reads history and my sister only things that impart knowledge. I pestered her for a long time to read Jane Eyre, and she did, finally, but I don’t think she much cared for it.”

Charlotte had little use for fiction: She would rather not deal with people altogether if she didn’t have to, real or imaginary. Livia, on the other hand, actively preferred literary characters to real-life acquaintances: Tom Sawyer stayed forever young, Viola always retained her spunk, and Mr. Darcy could never turn out to be a hypocrite who was also disappointing in bed.

“Well, I thought Jane Eyre was splendid,” said the young man. “What an indomitable spirit in our Miss Eyre. And it turned out all right for her, too!”

“Precisely. I told my sister she needed to be more grateful that such a book exists. So many novels about women either feature stupid women who make bad choices and then commit suicide when it all goes awry, or subject virtuous women to terrible misfortunes and then, to add insult to injury, have them die of consumption anyway.”

He laughed. He had lively brows and warm, dark eyes. “Goodness, I’ve never thought of it that way, but you are absolutely right.”

Livia could only be glad that she was already sitting down—her knees would have buckled otherwise. Nobody, but nobody had ever told her that she was “absolutely right.”

About anything.

And the sensation zipping along all her nerve endings—as if she were taking on solidity and existence for the first time, as if until now she had been an apparition, drifting in the shadows, a mere shimmer under the sun.

From the other end of the bench, her mother snorted.

Lady Holmes and Livia had come to the park together. Lady Holmes, her penchant for laudanum tippling more pronounced than ever in the wake of Charlotte’s scandal, had quickly slipped into open-jawed slumber, her cheeks slack, her parasol listing hard to the right, like the headsail on a capsized sloop.

Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up!

Lady Holmes snorted again and drew a few agitated breaths. Then her entire person slumped further. Livia exhaled, relieved to be spared her mother’s suspicions, thrilled that she wouldn’t drive the young man away with her unpleasantness.

“I mustn’t impose any longer, miss,” said he, inclining his head. “I hope you enjoy both of Mr. Collins’s books. A very good afternoon to you.”





Three





Mrs. Watson was not proud of herself.

She and Lady Ingram had never been introduced, but Mrs. Watson, like Miss Holmes, suspected that Lady Ingram knew of her existence and could recognize her on sight. Therefore, there was no reason for her to be anywhere near 18 Upper Baker Street during Lady Ingram’s call.

Especially since she had been the one to protest that they ought to have nothing to do with Lady Ingram’s problem.

Yet here she was, exactly where she had no business being, rearranging books on the shelves and plumping cushions that were already plenty plump, while Miss Holmes checked on the camera obscura.

A camera obscura was usually a box with a pinhole at one end that allowed in light, which rendered as a reversed and upside-down image. When that image in a box fell upon light-sensitive material, voilà, photography.

Here “Sherlock’s” entire room had been turned into a camera obscura. The wall opposite the door had been painted a thick white, the window fitted with two sets of black shades—in addition to the curtains already in place—to block out all exterior light. The pinhole, an opening the size of a guinea, was set in the center of a round frame that, although made for a picture an inch and a half across, was itself at least six inches wide and so ornate and protuberant that no one ever paid attention to the image it ostensibly displayed.

The frame was one in a group of six, to lessen the chance that it would be noticed. Although Miss Holmes had never been particularly worried about it. She pointed out that their clients already knew they were being observed by someone in the next room, so they could scarcely protest that an unobtrusive method had been devised for said observation.

Penelope was still at the other house, getting ready. Mrs. Watson debated with herself whether to take advantage of her absence and ask a few questions.

Miss Holmes, returning to the parlor, settled the debate for her. “You aren’t certain, Mrs. Watson, that I harbor enough goodwill toward Lady Ingram to truly want to help her.”

On the evening Mrs. Watson offered Miss Holmes the position of a lady’s companion, Miss Holmes had been shocked that the older woman still wished to spend time with her, after Miss Holmes had laid bare not only the facts of Mrs. Watson’s life but the most closely held secret of her heart. Miss Holmes had been sure that no one wanted to be around someone who could see through them so transparently.

Belatedly Mrs. Watson realized that since then Miss Holmes had refrained from practicing her powers of deduction on Mrs. Watson. Until this moment.

“Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I’m not sure I harbor enough goodwill toward her for any philanthropic purposes.”

Miss Holmes pushed the chair that would be offered to Lady Ingram a few feet farther from the pinhole. “I feel no animosity toward her.”

But she is what stands between you and the man you love. Between you and happiness. “I find it difficult to achieve such equanimity. She is the wife of a young man I dearly adore and admire—and she has not made him happy.”

“One could also argue that he hasn’t made her happy,” Miss Holmes said, moving the chair for “Sherlock’s” sister a corresponding distance.