A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Charlotte panted. “Well, in that case, I might find some additional willpower.”

With ten minutes to the hour, Mrs. Watson took pity on Charlotte and declared the day’s session finished. Charlotte leaned against the wall. Her arms ached—even the one that wasn’t holding the stick. Her legs ached. Her whole body ached.

“And you will ache worse tomorrow morning.” Mrs. Watson grinned.

Charlotte moaned.

“Now, Miss Holmes,” said Mrs. Watson, not even breathing faster, “when you told me about the surveillance that had been put on this house, you mentioned Lord Ingram’s observations. Did I miss his calls?”

“No, he didn’t come in on either day, though I did meet him as I went out the front door this morning.”

“But he did mean to call on us, both times?”

Charlotte hesitated. “It would be reasonable to suppose so.”

Mrs. Watson’s voice grew taut. “You don’t think it’s because he found out about his wife’s visit to Sherlock Holmes?”

Charlotte patted the back of her neck with a handkerchief—and shook her head. “There is something else I need to tell you. Lord Bancroft has proposed.”

Mrs. Watson’s jaw slackened. Then she let out a peal of exhilarated laughter. “I never saw that coming. I mean, the man is odd enough, but I didn’t think he had it in him to buck conventions to such an extent. But this does improve my opinion of him, that he has such good taste in matrimonial prospects. This isn’t the first time he’s proposed to you, if I recall correctly?”

“No.”

“I like him more and more.” Then her face fell. “My goodness, you are seriously considering it.”

“I must.” Bernadine was as blank and unresponsive as Charlotte had ever seen her. Even Livia, as sensitive and vulnerable as she was, was far better equipped to handle life’s vicissitudes. “My disgrace has made things difficult for everyone in my family, but especially for my sisters. Marriage will ‘redeem’ me enough for me to look after them. And if Lord Bancroft guarantees me enough freedom and intellectual stimulation, which he seems well inclined to do, then I must give it every consideration.”

“What—what does Lord Ingram think of it all?”

“I didn’t ask him,” muttered Charlotte. “But I would not be surprised if he was the one who gave Lord Bancroft the idea.”



Inspector Treadles arrived home at almost exactly the same time as his wife.

“Why hullo, Inspector.” Alice smiled as they met on the doorstep of their house. “Welcome home. Long day?”

He exhaled. “And how. Strange new case. Fellow was done in, all right, but we have no idea who he is or why anyone wanted to kill him. I’ve got MacDonald looking to see if someone of matching description has been reported missing, but it might take some time.”

“You always get your man,” said his wife.

He did, but not necessarily without help. And as he’d stood over the dead man, puzzled by the situation, he’d distinctly wished that he possessed Sherlock Holmes’s powers of observation. That he, too, could take one look, and know everything there was to know about a victim.

He kissed Alice on her cheek and said, though without great conviction, “Thank you, my dear.”

They let themselves into the house, a wedding present from his father-in-law. He would have to rise to the position of commissioner, with a housing allowance of three hundred pounds per annum, to have any hope of living in such a fine house on his own income.

“Where were you?” It was almost dinnertime, and he wasn’t accustomed to Alice being out so late.

“At my brother’s.” She sighed. “I saw Barnaby only briefly—he was under morphine. But Eleanor is terrified. Barnaby won’t tell her what’s the matter with him—and he’s also forbidden Dr. Motley to say anything to anyone.

“Surely . . .”

“I don’t think so. But Eleanor is convinced that’s exactly what’s ailing him—that he caught it somewhere and gave it to her, too. I tried to tell her that Barnaby fears the French disease even more than she does, but she was beside herself. In the end I had to give her some laudanum to calm her down—and so I could leave.”

She shook her head. “I’ll need to call on them again—at least to make sure Eleanor is all right.”

A thought occurred to Treadles. “I’m sure Barnaby will be fine in no time. But what if something were to go awry, what happens to Cousins Manufacturing?”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he’ll recover, sooner or later.” Alice frowned. “It’s been a long time since I read my father’s will. But if I remember correctly, if Barnaby were to die without any male issue, the firm would come to me.”

And Barnaby and Eleanor Cousins, like Robert and Alice Treadles, had no children.

None that had survived both the womb and the outside world, in any case.





Ten





SUNDAY

Ever since Charlotte had run away, Livia had been under an interminable interrogation, conducted by ladies Avery and Somersby, Society’s leading gossips. One of the ladies, or both, was always tapping Livia on the shoulder, to ask whether she’d had any news from her scandalous baby sister.

But the moment Livia wanted to find them, they disappeared.

Or at least that was how it felt.

She even asked her mother whether the gossips had left town, only to be told that she was an idiot. “Why would they, when everyone is still in London? Besides, I saw them yesterday.”

Which was patently false as Lady Holmes had suffered from a headache the day before, took laudanum for it, and didn’t leave her bed all day.

But Livia didn’t argue. Arguing with her mother was like arguing with a brick wall. Worse, in fact—at least one could kick the brick wall when one tired of the argument.

“Oh, you stupid girl,” hissed Lady Holmes all of a sudden. “Why did you bring them up? You’ve conjured them.”

Livia couldn’t locate the gossip ladies immediately. It was only after her mother had absconded that she saw them on the opposite side of the Round Pond. They saw her at the same moment and immediately headed in her direction.

When they were about twenty feet away from where she sat, a miracle happened. The young man, her young man, sauntered into view and took a seat on the next bench.

She couldn’t be this lucky, could she? No, not her. Never. Some people won prizes. Some had loving parents. Some arrived home before the rain came down and didn’t need to go anywhere until the sun was shining in the sky again. Livia was always the one who did get rained on, the one whose skirt got mangled in the wringer, the one who stood in line behind the person who would receive the last ladle of punch.