A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

The servants had Sundays off—or in any case, the hours after church. Some employers preferred that they be gone from the house if they weren’t rendering actual service. Mrs. Watson gave her staff the freedom to go out and enjoy the city, or to stay in and spend their time reading in bed or socializing in the servants’ hall.

Mrs. Watson had met Mr. Mears, her butler, during her days in the theater, and though he had worked more behind the scenes, he had also acted in a number of productions.

By the time they reached home, Mr. Mears had indeed returned from his outing to Kensington Gardens, where he had spent a pleasurable afternoon sketching the fountains at the head of the Long Water.

Together, they decided that he ought to take on the role of Mr. Gillespie, Sir Henry’s solicitor, visiting Mr. Finch to inquire whether the latter had heard from his wayward half sister. After a short but intense rehearsal, Mr. Mears, now sporting a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, departed for his command performance, with the understanding that the matter was to be kept strictly confidential.

The drawing room fell quiet. Mrs. Watson felt self-conscious. Earlier, there had been photographs taken of her in various stage costumes on the mantel, the display shelves, and the occasion tables. They had been put up when she realized that Miss Holmes would soon find out where she lived—and that she had better match the realities of her house to its description in the tall tale she’d told the younger woman: that she couldn’t find a lady’s companion because respectable candidates took one look at those stage photographs and fled.

But of course she’d had to take those down when Penelope returned. Poor girl had never seen most of them—young people had a remarkable lack of interest in the lives of their elders, preferring them to be like the walls of a house: holding up the roof and keeping out the elements, but otherwise completely ignorable.

The absence of the photographs, of course, underscored the fact that Miss Holmes had not been told the truth, from the beginning, about Mrs. Watson’s involvement in her life. Had still not been told much of anything, though she had no doubt already deduced every last detail.

Was it possible that she was angry at Lord Ingram? Was that why she had decided to help his wife? Mrs. Watson would never attribute malice to Miss Holmes, but sometimes anger, especially anger of the unacknowledged variety, seeped beneath other decisions. All other decisions.

“A penny for your thoughts, Miss Holmes,” she heard herself say.

Miss Holmes, who had been standing by the window, looking out to the park, turned around halfway. “I was pondering the system of territoriality among street merchants—the division of spots, the length of tenancy, and the rules of succession.”

The hawkers? There were always a half dozen of them selling boiled sweets and ginger beer near the entrance to the park. “What I meant is, have you any thoughts on Mr. Mears’s chances of success?”

“He is certain to learn something.”

“Enough to answer Lady Ingram’s query outright?”

“That we will know soon enough.”

“What if this case doesn’t resolve itself quickly?” Mrs. Watson gave voice to her true fear. “What if we must come face to face with Lord Ingram while still carrying on this investigation, on behalf of his wife, for the whereabouts of the man whose existence is the cause of his marital infelicity?”

“The cause of his marital infelicity was his haste and lack of self-knowledge,” said Miss Holmes quietly. “The revelation of his true parentage brought on a paroxysm of self-doubts. Instead of facing it, he opted for marriage and fatherhood, believing they would erase the doubts—highly unlikely that any marriage contracted under such mistaken assumptions would have led to domestic contentment.”

Little wonder that as a younger man, Lord Ingram had not courted Miss Holmes. In fact, Mrs. Watson wasn’t sure that present-day Lord Ingram would have been able to bear this verdict without flinching.

“But otherwise I understand your concern, ma’am,” continued Miss Holmes. “We cannot betray Lady Ingram’s confidence. Yet to keep her confidence appears as if we are betraying Lord Ingram. But please understand that, in this case, appearances are merely appearances. Were he to know everything, the situation would still remain what it is. He cannot undo the past, he cannot prevent Lady Ingram from fretting about Mr. Finch, nor can he demand that Mr. Finch leave his wife alone, since that is exactly what the latter is doing, willingly or not.”

She turned back to the window. “We might as well leave Lord Ingram out of all consideration and carry on as before.”



Dear Charlotte,

You must have seen the execrable article in the paper about Sherlock Holmes. My word. The Sackville case is barely solved—thanks to your insight and audacity—and they would already pour slop on Sherlock Holmes’s good name, because he dares to help ordinary people with problems that perplex them?

I would have ripped the paper and thrown the shreds into the fire, had there been a fire lit. Am now determined to make your nom de guerre a hero for the ages, with such invincible, godlike mental acuity that no one would ever dare publish another word about him in disrespect.

The problem, as always, is that it is easier said than done. Not sure how to proceed on my magnum opus, I turned to reading the work of others, in this case, novels by Mr. Wilkie Collins. And the oddest thing happened.

Mamma and I went to take some air in the park. She fell asleep and I opened one of the books to read, only to have a gentleman return the other one to me, which should have remained securely in my handbag.

But never mind that. He had read both of those books. And we had a brief but gratifying conversation on books and reading.

Of course it would be just my luck that when I at last cross paths with a man I would like to know better, he should turn out to be someone I have no hope of ever seeing again. How I wished you had been there. You would have given me his name, address, and genealogy.

And then he could disappoint me at leisure.

Oh well.

I hope it has been an uneventful Sunday for you.

Love,

Livia

Livia dropped her pen back into the inkwell and glanced at the other occupant of the room. Bernadine sat with her back to Livia, her face practically pressed into the far corner of the room, wordlessly spinning small wooden cylinders that had been strung on a string.

It would feel like an insult if Bernadine was capable of it. Or if she hadn’t already been sitting in this exact same position when Livia had entered the room.