A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Once, he’d commented on the high number of marriage proposals she had received in the course of eight London Seasons. She had replied, only half jokingly, that all the credit lay with her bosom. He, on the other hand, was of the opinion that gentlemen, while heartily appreciative of her fine décolletage, were actually besotted by something else: her quality of concentration.

When Holmes gave her attention, she gave with such thoroughness, as if no one else mattered, as if no one else existed. The poor sod might realize, much too late, that she now knew his every last secret. But the next time he was caught in the gaze of her large, limpid eyes, even with those intellectual alarm bells clanging in his head, he still couldn’t help but feel more important, more recognized, more seen than he had ever been in his life.

Not to mention, not every poor sod realized her powers of observation.

Lord Ingram had witnessed, more often than he cared to recall, the expressions of marvel and bliss on the faces of men who had been the recipients of that attention. Then, when she smiled, all the inadequacies they’d ever known were swept into a great big bonfire of strength, confidence, and will to conquer.

“Very good,” she said. “This is somewhere in the vicinity of London, if one assumes that the latitude is fifty-one degrees north. The longitude is close enough to the meridian that east or west shouldn’t matter greatly.”

Lord Ingram also couldn’t recall the last time—if ever—she’d said Very good to him.

“It’s my understanding that at the house near Portman Square,” she went on, “Bancroft has a store of maps, among them highly accurate ones of London marked with longitudes and latitudes to the second.”

Caught in the gaze of her large, limpid eyes, he needed a moment to answer. “He does.”

She smiled again. “Bancroft does have some uses after all.”

Lord Ingram, too busy putting out bonfires, did not reply.



The place indicated by N 51°28'18", E 0°21'22" was close to the mouth of the Thames, in the parish of Chadwell St. Mary. N 51°28'18", W 0°21'22" marked a spot near High Street in Hounslow, a small town that had once been at some distance from London, now swallowed up by that insatiable metropolis.

Two more unremarkable patches of ground could not be found nearby.

“Were you expecting landmarks?” asked Lord Ingram.

Holmes walked slowly around the large map table, the hems of her skirts swishing softly. “I didn’t expect landmarks, but I was hoping for them. After all, any two paragraphs in the English language would give sufficient L’s and O’s to form binary numbers—and any number of binary numbers would result in denary numbers that resemble longitudes and latitudes.”

She promenaded one more round, her fingers trailing along the beveled edge of the table. She had kissed him twice—upending him both times—and he still couldn’t decide whether she enjoyed human contact. But she seemed to be interested in the texture of inanimate objects: the pile of a velvet-covered cushion, the cool surfaces of a stone wall in a field, the smoothness of each individual grape in a freshly snipped bunch.

“I suppose I had better go take a look at these places.”

“It will be almost impossible for us to go to Tilbury and return in less than four hours,” he pointed out. “I have an appointment before then. Better we try the location in Hounslow first.”

She did not fail to notice the pronoun he employed. “No doubt you also prefer that I don’t head to Tilbury on my own afterward, without you.”

“No doubt.”

When she didn’t say anything, he added, “I am not asking to insert myself everywhere you go. But this business originated with Bancroft. Should you prove correct, should there be more to this cipher than even Bancroft knows, then you would be wading into uncharted territory. And it’s only proper to take precaution when entering uncharted territory.”

She came to a stop. “All right. I promise I won’t investigate the other location unless you accompany me.”

A promise? And two smiles before that?

If one disregarded the business with Roger Shrewsbury, Holmes would be considered a sensible person. But her sensibleness didn’t extend to giving him any pledges—he had expected to content himself with knowing that she had heard his words of caution.

“What have you been up to, Holmes?”

She met his gaze. “Only the business of my clients and this Vigenère cipher. Mrs. Watson will tell you that I barely left my room this week.”

The problem when dealing with a once-in-a-generation caliber of liar was that her countenance never lost its earnest innocence—and hers was an exceptionally earnest and innocent face. “You are up to something—you are never this accommodating. Have you found a way to siphon funds from my account to bankroll some misadventures as Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.”

An answer of serene sweetness. He shook his head. “Very well. I won’t inquire too deeply. But I know I’m right.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said, her face bent to the map on the table. “Now shall we to Hounslow?”



He ought to have left well enough alone.

Another man would have been delighted to be smiled at. Another man would have been happy to have extracted a promise. But he’d had to do the uncalled-for and question why. And now the silence had descended.

From time to time, someone at his club would complain about the wife or the fiancée who wouldn’t stop talking and he would have to restrain himself, not to say something biting—and far too revealing—about how lucky the man was.

One could ignore aimless chatter. One could not ignore silence.

His house was often silent, a pointed absence of affectionate speech. He had become inured to it, but it was always a reminder of the mistakes he had made, of hopes and dreams that had become as withered as yesteryear’s gardens.

With Holmes it was different. With Holmes the silence was taut with if-onlys. With hopes and dreams he dared not indulge in, not even in the secrecy of his own heart. Because he was a married man. Because that was an unalterable reality. And because he was afraid to find out that he had read her completely wrong.

That what he had heard in the overtures and codas of their silences, the arpeggios, the crescendos, and the occasional discordance, had all been in his own head. That their two kisses had been mere experiments to her, and her proposal to become his mistress had resulted from mere pragmatism and conveyed more of a desire not to be indebted to him than a desire for him.

That she truly possessed a mechanical heart, no more capable of engaging in higher emotions than an abacus could produce poetry.

Which made it all the more difficult to decide whether there was a new component to the silence today, an uneasiness apart from the usual tension. Was it at all possible, this nuance upon a nuance, or was it as far-fetched as finding an additional code in the solution to a Vigenère cipher?