A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

In this he had not changed in all the subsequent years. Another man would have turned on his wife, believing, with sufficient reason, that his affections had been preyed upon. He had continued to extend every courtesy and generosity to Lady Ingram, even as they grew ever further apart, because of this deep conviction: If there was any blame to go around, then some of it must belong to him.

Was it possible that he would absolve himself of that culpability if he should hear something of what Charlotte had learned of his wife? Could Charlotte, in the end, render him this one favor, for everything he had done for her?

Lord Ingram emerged from the silence cabinet. “Would you like to take a walk?”

She blinked. He had never asked whether she wished to go for a walk. “On the heath?”

Hounslow Heath was probably the town’s only claim to fame, other than that it had once been a major stop on the carriage road.

“Yes. It’s a good day and we could both do with more exercise,” he said in all seriousness.

But then the corners of his lips curved.

“Ha,” she said.

“Ha, of course. You will have had a walk with Mrs. Watson today, and fifteen minutes on your feet counts as an active day for you.”

“It must be a sound philosophy, as I am in glorious health.”

“That is called youth and you will pay for your sedentary habits sooner or later. But since I am a terrible friend in this regard . . . would you like to sit for a while? I understand there’s a place down the street that has won some renown for its Devonshire cream.”

“God bless terrible friends. Yes to the Devonshire cream, of course.” She waited until they had left the shop before asking, “What will Bancroft do?”

“Pull a few levers of power. His people, perhaps he himself, will inspect the house. And needless to say, before the end of the day, someone will also have seen to the site in Tilbury.”

“Why are you herding me to a tea shop, then?”

“Bancroft has asked if you wouldn’t mind staying nearby for some time. I have a feeling he plans to further woo you by letting you inspect the site.”

Death was all around them. Modern medicine, for all its advances, had yet to find a way to prevent vast swaths of the population from being felled by everything from influenza to septicemia. Charlotte had viewed the bodies of a number of neighbors and relatives, so she was no stranger to corpses. But this would be a first.

“He would let me view the murdered man?”

Bancroft, by proposing to her the second time, had proved himself no ordinary man. But she had no idea that he was this unconventional. Could they suit each other, after all?

“It is generally agreed upon that Bancroft has no chivalry,” said his brother.

“What about you?”

“Haven’t you always told me that chivalry should only be practiced on those in need of assistance and not on those perfectly capable of assisting themselves?”

“When did you start to listen to me?”

“I often listen to you, Holmes. I don’t always announce it when I do.”

Lord Ingram was the most fair-minded man she knew—and it was a fair-mindedness that arose from a sincere desire to put himself in the shoes of another, unlike her general neutrality, which was composed largely of logical distance.

And sometimes, that logical distance came under assault from irrational sentiments. She had told Mrs. Watson that it would have helped him not at all for Sherlock Holmes to turn down Lady Ingram—and she believed it still, absolutely. But when he was open and honest with her—and it couldn’t be easy for him to be that way . . .

She felt rotten.

“Did it bother you to see Inspector Treadles?” she asked.

He glanced at her askance. “Have you taken up the practice of chivalry? Since when are you concerned as to whether something bothers me?”

“Do excuse me. I meant to say, I saw that Inspector Treadles’s demeanor gave you pause.”

“Only because it was largely directed at you. Has he conducted himself in a similar manner before?”

“I wouldn’t say he’d expressed outright displeasure toward me earlier, but the trend was clear. It was obvious that when he last bid me good-bye, he’d hoped not to see me for a good long while.”

“Why? He owes much of his recent success to you.”

She only looked at him.

He shook his head. “He can’t be this kind of a man, can he? He respects women.”

“He respects women he deems worthy of respect—I am no longer one in his eyes. He is not pleased that he has helped and been helped by a woman he cannot respect. And he cannot think as highly of you as he had earlier, because my lack of respectability seems to have made no difference to you.”

“What kind of a friend would I be if I’d cut ties the moment you were no longer acceptable to the rest of Society? And why should he be offended that I didn’t do it?”

She shrugged. “There are men like my father. It is not enjoyable to number among his female dependents, because he is selfish and because he disdains women in general—or indeed anyone who is any different from him. And then there are men like Inspector Treadles, an excellent person by almost all standards. But he admires the world as it is and he subscribes to the rules that uphold the world as it is. For him then it’s the principle of the thing. Anyone who breaks the rules endangers the order of the world and should be punished. He does not ask whether the rules are fair; he only cares that they are enforced.

“Someone like me, who has broken the rules blatantly without seeming to have suffered any consequences—I am an affront, a menace to the order that he holds dear. Worse, his opinion is immaterial to me and he cannot do anything about it. It must chafe at him. I only hope his wife fares better, if she ever breaks any rules he deems important.”

“But he loves her!”

“I’m sure he does. Let’s remember, however, that he also admired Sherlock Holmes, until he discovered Charlotte Holmes’s transgressions.”

At Lord Ingram’s pained expression, she added, “I am not saying that he is a completely draconian man who will always put his principles above the people in his life. Only that for him, questioning what he believes—what he believes so deeply he doesn’t even think about—would be more painful than breaking his own kneecaps with a sledgehammer.”

Lord Ingram looked as if he was about to reply, but something—or someone, rather—caught his attention. “That’s Underwood, Bancroft’s man.”

Mr. Underwood, large and rotund, moved with surprising agility. He came to a stop at their table and bowed. “Miss Holmes, his lordship awaits you.”



Mr. Underwood also had a message for Lord Ingram, who glanced at it, frowned, and said to Charlotte, “Do please excuse me, Miss Holmes. I trust I’ll have the pleasure of your company again before too long.”

“Good day, my lord—and I do hope so.”

He had given his standard parting line, but hers had been a few words too long—usually she stopped at Good day, my lord. He narrowed his eyes before he bowed and left.

Charlotte followed Mr. Underwood to a waiting town coach.