A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Miss Holmes took a small bite of her muffin. In a different young woman this gesture might be interpreted as delicacy of comportment, but Mrs. Watson suspected that Miss Holmes was only trying to prolong the pleasure of a single muffin, since she wouldn’t be indulging in another one.

“We are in no danger of that,” she said. “Even if I stand in the middle of Trafalgar Square and solve problems on the spot, there will be a large segment of the population who will believe that I am being supplied answers by secret means—and by men, of course.”

“But don’t you wish credit for your accomplishments?” asked Penelope.

Another tiny nibble on Miss Holmes’s part. “I’ve only ever wanted to put my abilities to use—and be respectably compensated for my work.”

Her equanimity could be interpreted as laudable maturity, for one whose circumstances had changed greatly of late. But Miss Holmes was also not prone to the kind of careening emotions most people either took for granted or suppressed from habit.

In fact, sometimes Mrs. Watson had the impression that Miss Holmes examined a situation as a dressmaker might measure a customer, and then cast an eye over a catalog of responses the way the dressmaker considered bolts of silks and velvets.

It was not calculation so much as . . . The closest analogy Mrs. Watson could think of was that of a foreigner who didn’t learn English until an advanced age. Through perseverance and a great deal of practice, the foreigner had achieved a passable grasp of the syntax, grammar, and vocabulary of this mishmash of a language. But a conversation would always be a trial, what with all the idioms and quirks of usage just waiting to ambush the non-native speaker.

“Miss Holmes,” said Penelope, leaning forward with eagerness, “given that you are about to have more clients, would you be willing to put me to use this summer? I’d be delighted to show people up to the parlor at Upper Baker Street and bring in the tea tray. I, too, have a resolute lack of contempt for domestic mysteries and quotidian oddities.”

Mrs. Watson sucked in a breath. She wished Penelope had asked her first before posing the question directly to Miss Holmes. But more importantly, the business of Sherlock Holmes was not all domestic mysteries and quotidian oddities: Mrs. Marbleton’s recent case, for example—suffice to say it did not involve little old ladies befuddled by noises from the attic.

“And, of course, my true ambition is to play Sherlock Holmes’s sister,” continued Penelope. “I might not have appeared on stage professionally, but my aunt can testify that I staged performances for her in the nursery and made for a convincing Juliet—and an even better Lady Macbeth.”

Miss Holmes glanced in Mrs. Watson’s direction. “Mrs. Watson is in charge of the assignment of duties. I am sure she’ll let you know, should we need an assistant on Upper Baker Street.”

“Aha, you saw through my scheme. I was hoping to bypass my aunt’s strictures.” Penelope grinned cheekily at Mrs. Watson. “But I see now I must level a mountain with nothing more than a soup ladle. It’s a good thing I have a temperament built for Herculean tasks.”

Without waiting for Mrs. Watson to respond, she rose. “I’d better go change into my walking dress. We’ll need to hurry if we want to get in our daily constitutional before it rains again.”

Left alone at the table, Miss Holmes continued to nibble while Mrs. Watson nursed her cup of tea. She felt uneasy. A note from Lord Ingram had come this morning, letting her know that Miss Holmes had seen through their deceit—that Mrs. Watson hadn’t stumbled upon an exiled Miss Holmes by accident, but had been tasked by Lord Ingram to help this young woman in need.

But Miss Holmes hadn’t said anything about the matter, nor had Lord Ingram expected her to. I do not believe she holds it against us—certainly not against you, he had written. But I felt her disappointment: She had averted disaster because of whom she knew before her fall from grace—and not because life had turned out to be fundamentally gentler than she had supposed.

Mrs. Watson hadn’t known Miss Holmes as long as Lord Ingram had—she could not sense either ire or disappointment in the young woman. And this made her anxious. She held Miss Holmes in the highest regard and was loath to alienate her, however unintentionally.

But how to broach the subject? How to reassure Miss Holmes that her affection and camaraderie were genuine without coming across as protesting too much?

Miss Holmes finished her muffin—and everything else on her plate. “If you will excuse me, ma’am,” she said with her usual placidness, “I will also change and get ready for our walk.”



“Did you see the article in the paper about Sherlock Holmes?” asked Inspector Treadles’s wife as she worked his necktie.

He had. “No, I must have missed it. What did it say?”

Alice flattened her lips. “Nothing worth reading, really. Quite snide about his everyman—and everywoman—clientele and their less-than-shocking problems. Shouldn’t it be a given that the general public doesn’t wade hip-deep in dramatic criminality?”

She patted the finished knot and looked up at him, her hazel eyes more green than brown. “And that official from the Yard who gave the statement doesn’t come across any better. One would think Scotland Yard would be more grateful.”

He had been the official who had given the terse statement. That she did not know it only made her remark cut deeper.

“What else could anyone from Scotland Yard say besides something bare-bones and obvious?”

Did he sound defensive? Or more defensive than he ought to be?

Her gaze was curious, baffled, and—was it possible? Was there, however slight, a trace of suspicion? “I believe I’ll write to Miss Holmes and let her know that I think the article is utter rubbish.”

No, you will not write her.

He swallowed the words.

By the end of our meeting I knew I would never think lightly of her again, he had confessed to his wife shortly after encountering Miss Holmes for the first time. But he had never told Alice the truth—that there had been no Sherlock Holmes, ever, only a woman possessed of a brilliant mind.

A woman who was no longer acceptable in polite society.

But why should he be so cruel? Why not let Alice enjoy the illusion of the great consulting detective, flexing his deductive prowess from his sickbed, tenderly surrounded by a gaggle of concerned women?

She cupped his face. “Is something the matter?”

Mere weeks ago he had thought himself the most fortunate of men. He had the favor of his superiors, the respect of his subordinates, and the love of the most perfect woman alive. Not to mention a direct line of transmission to Sherlock Holmes—a magnificent boon for his career.

To be sure, God had chosen not to gift him with children. Nevertheless, he had been filled with gratitude for everything he had been given. And then Sherlock Holmes had turned out to be a woman with loose morals and no remorse. And Alice, Alice had let it be known that she had aspired to helm Cousins Manufacturing, the great industrial firm that had been her father’s life’s work.