A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Treadles would never have guessed. She was intelligent and well read, not to mention competent and organized. But ambitious? Ambitious far beyond her lot?

Of course there was no danger of her running Cousins Manufacturing—she had been candid about her father’s refusal to consider her for the business. And in any case, the firm was now in the hands of her brother.

Yet her revelation had sent him through various stages of shock, anguish, and grief. Why do you want things I can’t possibly give you? Why must you desire power and unwomanly accomplishments? And are you, in the end, also not who I thought you were, not the one I loved and respected?

“Of course nothing’s the matter,” he said, after a delay perhaps a fraction of a second too long. “Why do you ask that?”

She worried a corner of her lower lip, as if wondering whether to say anything. “You’ve been a little distracted lately.”

“Sometimes I come back from work a bit tired.”

She studied him another moment, then smiled and kissed him on his cheek. “In that case, we’ll make this Sabbath a true day of rest.”

He couldn’t be sure whether she believed him—or chose to let it go for the moment.

She walked to her vanity table and put on her Sunday hat, an elaborate confection as architecturally complex as a Gothic cathedral. “Oh, I almost forgot. A note came from Eleanor while you were in your bath. Barnaby isn’t feeling well. She asks that we postpone our Sunday dinner until next week.”

Barnaby Cousins, the man currently at the head of Cousins Manufacturing, and his wife, Eleanor, were two of Treadles’s least favorite people. And the feeling was mutual. While Mr. Mortimer Cousins, his estimable late father-in-law, had been alive, the entire family had met each week after church for Sunday dinner. After his death, the joint Sunday dinners had become less and less frequent, once a fortnight, once a month, and now, once every two months.

“Are we going to meet quarterly henceforth?” Not that Treadles minded not seeing them, but still, the insult of it.

Alice slid a long pin through the crown of her hat; her eyes met his in the mirror. “That was also my first thought. But when they’ve wanted to bow out of Sunday dinners before, they’ve always said that Eleanor wasn’t feeling well. This is the first time Barnaby has been cast in that role and a part of me wonders whether it’s true, that he really is ill.”

Treadles shrugged into his coat. “You’re not going to drag me to call on him, are you?”

“No, but I might, in the evening.” She smiled at him again. “You put up your feet and enjoy your day off, Inspector.”



Charlotte Holmes stood before the window of her room and took in the greenery of Regent’s Park across the street. A soft mist drifted across the lake, which was just visible beyond a colonnade of mature trees, heavy with rain and foliage.

She relished a good winter downpour, but she enjoyed a summer shower almost as much—that is, when she had a proper roof over her head and no pressing concerns about losing said roof.

Odd to realize this, but she was in a finer town residence than any she had ever occupied.

Her father, Sir Henry Holmes, baronet, had once owned a house in London. But that was sold well before Charlotte had her first Season. Every year Charlotte’s mother, Lady Holmes, lamented the loss. Oh, how much better it would have been to arrive at one’s own house, rather than a hired property.

The houses they hired were in more fashionable parts of the town than Mrs. Watson’s, but that made them expensive—and never large enough for Lady Holmes’s needs. A dinner of more than sixteen was out of the question and proper balls were daydreams. The best they could do for dancing was to push all furniture out of the drawing room and pray that gentlemen who dared to waltz were skillful enough not to crash their partners into other guests.

Those houses did not offer views or the latest advances in plumbing. And certainly not electricity, which she was still slowly coming to terms with. Her parents never employed a cook as fine as Madame Gascoigne or a butler as efficient as Mr. Mears. She had, in fact, never had a room to herself.

Charlotte had the unnerving sensation that she did not deserve such good fortune—or at least, that she hadn’t earned it. And she did not know how to reconcile herself to the fact that the seed of this good fortune had been bestowed upon her by Lord Ingram, whose aid she had not sought, even in her most desperate hour, because she had not wished to be indebted to him.

But now she was, always and forevermore.

The rain had started only after they’d returned from their walk, during which Miss Penelope Redmayne, with steadfast cheerfulness, worked on Mrs. Watson’s resistance. Mrs. Watson remained resistant. Charlotte had maintained—without any effort, it must be said—her complete neutrality.

At the moment Mrs. Watson enjoyed a respite from Miss Redmayne’s determined appeal: The ladies were at church. Charlotte had not been to church since she ran away from home. God likely wouldn’t mind if she stepped inside His house—Jesus voluntarily associated with women of less-than-pristine repute—but His followers tended to be less magnanimous.

In any case, she had a prior appointment, one she hadn’t mentioned to Mrs. Watson.

Umbrella in hand, she made her way to 18 Upper Baker Street. The house belonged to Mrs. Watson and was usually let to a tenant. But recently it had been turned into a dwelling for the fictional Sherlock Holmes, who was stricken with a mysterious illness that left him bedridden and incommunicado by ordinary means, leaving his sister as the oracle with whom his clients must consult, in order to gain his great and terrible insights.

Normally Charlotte played the role of the sister, though Mrs. Watson had also, on occasion, taken the part.

The parlor of 18 Upper Baker Street was of a good size, furnished with comfortable chairs clustered around a fireplace. The air held whiffs of whisky and tobacco, enough to hint at a masculine presence, but not so much as to put one in mind of a public house. There was also the scent of convalescence, of camphor and linseed oil. And floating serenely above it all, the fragrance of flowers, courtesy of the fresh bouquet that always bloomed on the seat of the bow window.

At precisely eleven o’clock, the doorbell rang—Lord Bancroft, like his brother, possessed exquisite punctuality, one of the few traits they shared.

“You look well, Miss Holmes,” he said, as he settled himself into the seat she offered, his tone somewhat surprised.

Charlotte had timed a kettle to boil over the spirit lamp for his arrival. Now she warmed a teapot and set two spoons of first-growth Ceylon leaves to steep. “Thank you, sir.”