A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Mrs. Watson blinked. There was fairness and there was high-minded fairness, but Miss Holmes’s defense of Lady Ingram shot past both and landed directly in false equivalency. “She married him for his money.”

“For a woman raised to be purely ornamental, marriage is her livelihood. If Lady Ingram hadn’t married for money she would have been a fool.”

Mrs. Watson stared at Miss Holmes, who smiled a little. “I do apologize, ma’am. My sister Livia has told me repeatedly how useless I am when she wishes to rail against someone. Instead of echoing her sentiments, I analyze the situation from different perspectives.”

Together they shifted the tea table. “So you truly don’t despise Lady Ingram?”

Mrs. Watson still found it difficult to believe. Or did Miss Holmes feel guilty toward Lady Ingram, because Miss Holmes was now the object of Lord Ingram’s affection?

“For making rational choices for herself? No, I do not despise her. I do not applaud her, but I do not find her decision to marry the richest man interested in her reprehensible.”

“Even if—”

The front door downstairs opened: Penelope had arrived for her performance as Sherlock Holmes’s sister.

“Even if her rational choice hasn’t led to marital felicity for Lord Ingram?” Miss Holmes finished Mrs. Watson’s question, as Penelope bounced up the steps. “Let us not forget that he isn’t without blame in the matter.”

Before Mrs. Watson could protest that Lord Ingram’s conduct had always been above reproach, Penelope sauntered into the parlor.



Lady Ingram was slightly older than Miss Holmes.

In fact, Mrs. Watson knew the woman’s precise age, as her husband had once given extravagant balls in honor of her birthdays.

He still did: Lord Ingram was not the kind of man to publicly repudiate his wife, by either deliberate gestures or the deliberate absence of certain other gestures.

This year’s ball was coming up soon, the last major event of the Season. But Mrs. Watson no longer sent anonymous bouquets in honor of the occasion. Nor did she ask Lord Ingram whether he still gave his wife lavish gifts.

Lady Ingram was still a remarkably good-looking woman. But Mrs. Watson remembered a time when she had been heartbreakingly beautiful, with luminous skin, wide eyes, a perfectly placed beauty mark at the corner of her mouth, and a smile that conveyed just a hint of vulnerability—the sadness of the innocent, upon finding out that the world was a deeply heartless place.

Little wonder that Lord Ingram had been wildly in love with her. He was born a protector and she had aroused every last one of his protective instincts.

She had not aged badly—at mere weeks short of twenty-six she had barely aged at all. But her face had changed: Her lips had become thinner, her complexion chalkier, her jaw squarer and more prominent. And she resembled not so much her older self as a less ravishing sibling.

Or at least upside down she did.

Her inverted image on the wall, almost life-size but not quite, moving, speaking—Mrs. Watson felt as if she were in an uneasy dream.

In the parlor, Penelope was all effusive welcome—the girl was a better actress than Mrs. Watson had given her credit for. Lady Ingram sat down, rather stiffly, in the seat that had been indicated. That lack of suppleness resulted from the birth of her younger child, a back pain that never completely went away.

“Won’t you take some of this pound cake, Mrs. Finch?” Penelope addressed Lady Ingram by her alias. “Very good stuff.”

“Thank you, Miss Holmes. I’m quite all right,” said their caller.

Her voice, at least, had retained its original loveliness, a sweet contralto with a hint of huskiness.

Some back-and-forth on the weather took place. Then Penelope, her image also upside down, part of her skirt almost invisible against the darkly stained wood of the bedstead, set down her teacup and folded her hands in her lap. “You wrote to this address directly, Mrs. Finch. Should we assume you have already spoken to someone who had dealings with Sherlock?”

“That is correct.”

“May I also assume that you know the situation of my brother’s health?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like some reassurance that despite his physical handicap, his mental perspicacity remains undiminished?”

Their caller hesitated.

Penelope did not wait for her answer. “That is a yes, then.”

Hurriedly the ladies-in-hiding pulled up the black window shades and removed the rug that had been pushed up against the bottom of the door to keep out the light that might seep in from the crack. Penelope knocked, and when Mrs. Watson had given a “Come in” in a broad Yorkshire accent, she entered, retrieved a notebook, and returned to the parlor.

Back at her seat, she took a minute to peruse what had been written inside the notebook, which gave Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes time to again block all light from the room. The images on the wall, of Penelope reading with great concentration and Lady Ingram sipping uncertainly at her tea, gradually returned.

“My brother thanks you for your trust,” said Penelope, eventually. “You’ve come on a delicate matter and he would like to assure you, Mrs. Finch, that every word spoken on these premises will be held in the strictest confidence.”

Lady Ingram fidgeted. “Thank you.”

“My brother feels it’s safe to say that you hail from very respectable stock. But that respectability hasn’t always been accompanied by as solid an income. In fact, he hazards that your parents often found themselves in financial straits. But you married well and have known only ease and stability since.”

An upside-down Lady Ingram bolted out of her chair, her head sliding past the skirting board to the floor. “Does Mr. Holmes know who I am?”

“Yours is not an unusual reaction to Sherlock’s powers of deduction,” Penelope answered calmly. “He is able to perceive a great deal based on your attire. Your visiting dress is from the House of Worth—the workmanship is impeccable. A married woman who has a wardrobe from Monsieur Worth has either deep pockets of her own, or very generous pin money from her husband.

“Your dress dates from two seasons ago and has since been altered to keep up with the whims of fashion. Your hat, however, is from this season, Madame Claudette’s, also a first-rate establishment. Which tells us that you have not become less well off, but that you are still holding on to thriftier habits you developed in your parents’ house, that of modifying garments rather than getting rid of them wholesale at the end of a season.”

Lady Ingram sat down slowly. “I see.”

“Given your personal frugality, we can assume that you have not come to see Sherlock on a matter concerning money. Were it a problem about your children or your household, you would not have sent a letter without a return address. Clearly you do not wish for anything concerning this matter to reach your residence. That implies a problem that, if it becomes more widely known, could cause embarrassment, at the very least. Possibly much worse.