A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“I didn’t tell you this,” continued Miss Holmes, “but after the Sackville case, I went to Somerset House and looked into her marriage record, since the desire to escape from her husband seemed the most likely reason for her to counterfeit her death. His name is Moriarty. I wrote to Lord Ingram and asked if he knew anything about this man.

“He in turn asked Lord Bancroft. And according to him, Lord Bancroft was discomposed by the mention of that name and warned Lord Ingram in no uncertain terms to refrain from getting mixed up in any business with Moriarty.”

“And you think it’s this Moriarty fellow who is having the house watched?”

“It seems to me the most logical hypothesis.”

Mrs. Watson waited for Miss Holmes to continue. After a while, it became obvious that Miss Holmes was waiting for a reaction from her.

“I hope she stays safe, Mrs. Marbleton,” she said, using the alias Sophia Lonsdale had given them.

Miss Holmes studied her. “You aren’t worried for yourself?”

Before Mrs. Watson could answer, she shook her head. “Of course, what was I thinking? You worry primarily for others.”

“Not out of altruism, mind you. I worry about others because I don’t know whether they’ll be able to handle the difficulties life drops into their laps. As for me . . .” Mrs. Watson shrugged. Her niece was grown, her mate dead, her servants looked after in her will. What did it matter to her that Sophia Lonsdale’s husband wished to watch her doors for some time? “As long as it doesn’t affect you or Penelope.”

“I expect nothing will happen to either Miss Redmayne or myself. Or you, for that matter.” Miss Holmes fell quiet for some time, not the opulent silence that seemed to be her natural habit, but a contemplative one. “For which I am grateful, as you are an indispensable advisor.”

Mrs. Watson was feeling a little sorry for herself. Widowed, in the autumn of her life, her only relation away much of the year. But oh, such warmth radiated through her at Miss Holmes’s words, as if she’d swallowed a drop of sunfire and now glowed from within. True, certain beloved phases of her life had come to an end, but with Miss Holmes’s arrival, a whole new vista had opened up. And for one who had tended her years with care, autumn need not be a season of scarcity or regret—but one of harvest and celebration.

She leaned forward an inch. “Have you an hour to spare, Miss Holmes?”



Charlotte was curious. Mrs. Watson had asked not only for an hour of her time, but also whether she had some garments in her possession that allowed for easy movement. Her tennis costume had been packed by mistake for the London Season—tennis was a game for the country—and had remained in the suitcase and come with her on exile.

(As her wardrobe consisted solely of ensembles useless to anyone but a lady of leisure, it hadn’t mattered whether she brought tennis costumes or dinner gowns. The more pieces she could stuff into her luggage, she had reasoned, the more assets she could have to sell as a last resort.)

Mrs. Watson was waiting for her in the largely empty room that had once been Miss Redmayne’s nursery, in a close-fitting blouse and a skirt that did not narrow toward the knees. “I’d assumed earlier that you must be familiar with the operation of firearms, as you were raised in the country. But are you, Miss Holmes?”

Charlotte nodded. The Holmeses didn’t have a game park of their own, but most every autumn her parents managed to obtain an invitation to a shooting party. “Shotguns, yes. Rifles also, for target shooting. One time my father let me fire his revolver.”

“Excellent. However, you’re not likely to be walking around London, or anywhere else, for that matter, with a rifle. But a lady usually has a parasol on hand, which will serve, in a pinch.”

Mrs. Watson handed Charlotte a walking stick. “This is not a parasol, obviously. But I love my parasols too much—and I’m sure you do, too—to subject them to such abuse when there isn’t actual danger. Walking sticks, on the other hand, are sturdy things that can take a beating.

“My grandfather was a fencing master. He lived with us for a while in his old age and amused himself by instructing my sister and me in the use of canne de combat. I arrived in London confident of my ability to defend myself. But the first time someone grabbed me from behind, I froze. All my practice in swordplay had been somewhat stylized—en garde, prêts, allez, and all that. But in real life no one waits for you to be in proper stance, and they are not going to come at you only from the front.

“What you want, then, is to train yourself to overcome that moment of paralysis as quickly as possible, dig your elbow into the kidney of your assailant, and, while he loosens his hold momentarily, turn around and hit him as hard as you can, generating the blow not by flicking your wrists, but by putting your full body behind it.”

Charlotte tested the balance of the walking stick in her hand. It was made of malacca, light but strong. “This isn’t about Moriarty, is it, ma’am? His agents are not likely to snatch me off the streets.”

“No,” Mrs. Watson admitted. “As much as you might consider yourself a free woman, Miss Holmes, you are still a fugitive from your family.”

“So it’s my father you are recommending that I whack as hard as I can.”

“Or his agents—while thinking of queen and country, of course.”

Charlotte couldn’t help smiling. “I feel sorry for the second man who grabbed you from behind, ma’am.”

Mrs. Watson winked. “Oh, you should feel sorry for the first one, too. I broke one of his fingers.”

Mrs. Watson started with the basic stances. “You need to learn how to stand so that you are steady and connected to the ground—and difficult for anyone to shove aside or push down.”

The positions made Charlotte’s legs ache, those limbs that never had to do anything more strenuous than a few turns about a ballroom.

“Now the most important thing is to hold on to your weapon,” warned Mrs. Watson.

Charlotte gripped harder at the walking stick in her hand.

“Now parry this.”

Charlotte raised her stick to block Mrs. Watson. She wasn’t sure what the latter did, but the sticks banged together and the next thing Charlotte knew her stick was flying across the room—the thankfully sparsely furnished room—crashing into the mantel with a fierce clank.

And her hand vibrated painfully from the contact. “Ow!”

Mrs. Watson tsked. “You didn’t hold on to your weapon, Miss Holmes.”

Charlotte retrieved her stick. “I could have sworn I held on with a death grip.”

“Granted, your average assailant might not know as many clever ways of disarming an opponent. But a man can still knock away your stick by dint of superior strength, unless you take advantage of leverage. You must become more proficient with your weapon, Miss Holmes.”

And becoming more proficient was not a pleasant process.

“Oh, my.” Charlotte was already huffing and puffing after a quarter of an hour. “I don’t know that I can keep up for much longer.”

“Come, Miss Holmes. Think of it as staving off the arrival of Maximum Tolerable Chins. After you exercise, you can indulge your appetite more freely.”