A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Miss Holmes appeared contemplative. “That is certainly one assumption we must now question. I wonder what else we have accepted as given that perhaps we shouldn’t.”

“Good gracious. Do you think we ought to question whether he loved her at all? She said that her family sought to maintain appearances above all else. It’s possible that he was a social climber who didn’t realize that her family’s financial situation was so precarious. It’s again possible that he had maintained this yearly not-quite-contact with her out of a hope that she might stop being so fastidious about the boundaries of marriage and either undertake an affair with him or furnish him with introductions that will allow him into milieus that provide rich targets for a fortune hunter.”

Her heart ached for all the ways it could have gone wrong for the former Alexandra Greville. For all the ways things could go wrong for any woman, really.

“Do you suppose, ma’am,” said Miss Holmes, “that Mr. Mears’s report is sufficient evidence to bring before Lady Ingram?”

Mrs. Watson didn’t know whether it was disconcerting or reassuring that Miss Holmes didn’t seem to feel any pity for Lady Ingram. “I can tell you right now that Lady Ingram will not accept this account. Even I have trouble accepting it and I’ve known Mr. Mears for more than thirty years.”

Again, only the smallest movement in the muscles of Miss Holmes’s face, but Mrs. Watson felt the consulting detective was relieved that the case was not yet at an end. “We will bide our time until Mr. Finch’s return then—and see if he truly is as cheerfully unrepentant as his choices suggest.”

“A week is an eternity for a woman waiting on news of her lover.”

Mrs. Watson saw herself standing on the veranda of her small bungalow in Rawalpindi, after the Battle of Maiwand. It had been a hot day. Waves upon waves of heat and humidity battered her, and yet she’d grown colder with every passing minute.

Miss Holmes studied her, as if she were witnessing the exact same thing. Then she walked to the sideboard, poured a glass of whisky, and brought it to Mrs. Watson. “I’ll see what I can learn in the meanwhile.”



Livia muttered a curse at herself as she slipped out the back door of the house.

Now she regretted telling Charlotte about the young man from the park. Now she wished she hadn’t so blithely left the letter in its designated hiding spot for Mott, their groom and coachman, to post when he went about his duties on the morrow. Why hadn’t she realized sooner that it was a stupid idea to mention the young man at all, let alone state so plainly—in writing, no less—that she wished she could meet him again? She might as well wish to reconnect with the drop of rain that fell exactly on the tip of her nose and made her laugh when she was ten years old.

And she would have about as much chance of success!

At least it was dark and no one would see her: Lady Holmes was already abed; Sir Henry had gone out again. A narrow lane separated the handkerchief-size gardens behind the houses and the row of stables that held the residents’ cattle and carriages. The air was thick with the odors of horse, straw, and horse droppings, topped with an incongruous note of sweetness from a neighbor’s profusely blooming honeysuckles.

She knocked on the door of the Holmes stable and prayed that she wouldn’t have to pound on it with both fists before Mott would hear. To her surprise, the door opened quickly.

“Is everything all right, Miss Livia?” asked Mott.

He was about thirty years old, a man of dark hair, medium height, and somewhat stocky build. Charlotte once mentioned that she thought him nearsighted, but he had yet to drive a carriage into a lamppost.

Livia squeezed past him. It wouldn’t do for her to remain outside the door—she would be that much more easily seen in the light spilling out. “I need my letter back, Mott. You still have it?”

A nonplussed Mott closed the door. “Yes, miss. I’ll fetch it.”

He climbed up to the loft that served as his lodging, the ladder squeaking with his every step.

The place smelled of leather polish, wheel grease, and ammonia. Livia looked around. She hadn’t been in here since shortly after Charlotte ran away, to ask for Mott’s help in getting her letters to Charlotte and vice versa. It was as tidy as she remembered. A town coach—hired for the Season—occupied one side. The other side was taken up by four stalls, but only two were occupied, a pair of fidgety bays that were also hired for the Season. Stirrups and coils of ropes hung from large wooden pegs; an array of brushes, scrapers, and homemade pastes lined an uneven-looking shelf.

Mott came back down the ladder, her letter clasped between his lips.

“Thank you,” she said, when he handed her the letter. And then, without much hope, she added, “Have you spoken to my father about staying on with us?”

Mott, like the carriage and the horses, was hired only for the Season: Appearances must be maintained, and someone had to drive Lady Holmes and her daughters about town. At home in the country, they shared a gardener-groom with their nearest neighbor and drove themselves.

Normally Livia did not inquire into prospects of continued employment for members of the staff. Her parents were not easy or kind and she had become inured to the coming and going of servants. But Mott had been truly helpful this summer.

And he didn’t seem to dislike her, which made him rather extraordinary in her eyes, since most people didn’t care for her particular kind of high-strung self-consciousness. Still, it had been an act of desperation on her part, asking him to speak with Sir Henry about his chances of remaining with the Holmeses beyond the Season. But he was now her only ally and she didn’t want to rusticate in the country for nine months without a single person she could count on.

“He ain’t been in a proper mood lately,” said Mott.

Livia couldn’t disagree with that assessment.

One would think her father would be thrilled to be cleared of all suspicions with regard to the death of his erstwhile fiancée, with whom he had been heard to argue in the hours shortly before her sudden demise. And to learn that it was his good fortune to have been jilted by Lady Amelia Drummond after all, as the Sackville affair had shown her ladyship to have been of singularly questionable character and judgment.

But no, Sir Henry had been furious instead.

According to Charlotte, he felt outraged that a woman of such inferior moral fiber had rejected him. And he was further incensed that as she was already six feet underground, he couldn’t possibly berate her as she deserved.

As a result, there had not been an opportune moment for Mott to approach Sir Henry.

Nor was he very likely to find one before the end of the Season.

“Well, don’t give up hope,” said Livia, more for her own benefit than his.

Mott opened the door for her. “I shan’t, Miss Livia.”



Lord Ingram met his wife on the stairs—he was headed up to the nursery to say good night to his children, and she had just come from there.

“My lady,” he said, keeping his voice free of inflections.