A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Mrs. Woods’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. No doubt in dismay, to be caught at being less than thorough in her selection process. Also, astonishment, at being blamed for Mr. Finch’s less-than-laudable conduct.

But this was how Henrietta derived a large part of her dominance, because those she accused of various shortcomings were often too rattled to defend themselves—and too polite to tell her that she was being an unfair arse.

“I . . . um . . . It must have been a very busy week when Mr. Finch applied for a place. And you must understand, Mrs. Cumberland, he’s a most winsome young man. I never imagined that—”

“That is what references are for, Mrs. Woods, so that we are not so easily guided by mistaken impressions. I am further disturbed to find out, upon inquiring about your place, that according to some sources, you allow overnight female guests. What kind of lassitude is that? Do you uphold no standards here? Is that what my brother has been doing, entertaining women in his rooms instead of going to work, as he properly ought?”

Mrs. Woods’s horror was complete. “Certainly not! These are baseless rumors. I am a Christian woman running a most respectable establishment for Christian men.”

“Then let me see his rooms,” said Charlotte with a severity she did not need to manufacture. “Let me see for myself that it is not crawling with disreputable females.”

Mrs. Woods shot up the stairs with the speed of a racing greyhound. As Charlotte followed in her wake, she reflected rather grimly that this was what she ought to have done in the first place. Why break the law when all she needed was to cast a few aspersions?

Thankfully, nothing had happened the night before. She and Mr. Lawson had sprinted down to the basement, out the service door, and into the waiting carriage. Mr. Mears, witnessing their flight, had needed no urging to get the coach moving. And the fog, which had offered concealment when Mr. Lawson had worked on the service door, had quickly obscured them from potential pursuers.

But Mr. Lawson had been sincerely frightened. Charlotte had been sorry to be the cause. And this morning it had taken rather a lot of convincing for Mrs. Watson to let Charlotte out of her sight.

Mrs. Woods stopped before Mr. Finch’s door and knocked.

“I thought you said he’s out of town.”

“Oh, he is. It’s a habit, ma’am. I always knock. I don’t wish to walk in on my gentlemen without warning and I’m sure they don’t wish it any more than I do.”

The door opened to a largish sitting room, furnished with oriental motifs that would have been the height of fashion when the regent had been the first gentleman of Europe. There was a smaller room that seemed to serve as a study, with a blank notebook sitting on top of a desk.

Mrs. Woods threw open the bedroom door with great drama. “See, no women here at all!”

She proceeded to show Charlotte the attached private bath with the same trembling energy. Charlotte pushed her lips to one side, as if saying, Very well, but I remain skeptical in the greater scheme of things.

What she truly wanted was to have a look at the photographs. At last Mrs. Woods had presented all the spaces in the rooms that could possibly—but didn’t—contain a disreputable female. Charlotte, with a very Henrietta-ish tilt of the chin, headed straight for the mantel.

The photographs were small, one and a half by two inches. All were of scenery and only scenery.

Charlotte stared.

“Surely, Mrs. Cumberland, there can be nothing the matter with his pictures.”

Except Charlotte had seen these photographs before.

Recently.

When she went through Mrs. Marbleton’s rooms at Claridge’s, Mrs. Marbleton being the alias of Mrs. Moriarty, née Sophia Lonsdale.

Two young people, who were registered as her children Frances and Stephen Marbleton, had gone around the country, traveling as photographers. During their travels, they had recorded a great many scenic views, which were practically unidentifiable. But unidentifiable didn’t mean that Charlotte didn’t remember what they looked like.

She dismantled the frames.

“Mrs. Cumberland—”

“Shhh.”

She was becoming worse than Henrietta. But the give-no-quarter persona worked. Mrs. Woods meekly held her tongue.

It wasn’t until she’d taken apart all the frames that she found what she was looking for: In one frame, another photograph behind the one that was on display. And this one did feature people, two men. One standing with his back to the camera, the other looking at it.

Charlotte immediately recognized the person facing the camera. There was a beard, a Newmarket jacket and trousers, even a walking stick, but it was a woman. Frances Marbleton.

She showed the image to Mrs. Woods. “Is this what Mr. Finch looks like nowadays?”

“No, no, that isn’t Mr. Finch. But I’ve seen him before, that’s Mr. Carraway, Mr. Finch’s friend.”

That would explain the woman’s voice in these rooms—Charlotte remembered voices very well, but the only other time she had heard Frances Marbleton, the latter had spoken in a broad Cockney accent, with a nasal twang to boot. And it could very well have been her the night before, cocking her revolver on the other side of the door.

“Mr. Finch is still of medium height, slim build, brown eyes, and hair with a slight hint of red to it?”

“Yes. He’s grown a beard in the time he’s been here, but yes, that’s how I would describe him.”

Charlotte set down the photograph.

Were Stephen Marbleton and Myron Finch the same person? She supposed it was possible. She didn’t know anything about Mr. Marbleton’s life before or after his brief appearance in hers earlier this summer. He could very well have spent most of his life as Myron Finch, illegitimate son of Sir Henry Holmes, unfortunate suitor of Lady Ingram when she was Miss Alexandra Greville, until he’d joined Mrs. Marbleton as an associate of some stripe.

But that was a slender possibility compared to the overwhelming likelihood that he was not Myron Finch.

It would explain so much, wouldn’t it, if they were two different men? Stephen Marbleton didn’t meet with Lady Ingram because he knew nothing of the secret pact between Lady Ingram and the man he was impersonating. For the same reason he remained in a state of oblivious cheerfulness while Lady Ingram lost a little bit of her mind every day. And of course, then they could have stared right at each other at the Round Pond without either seeing any significance in the other.

But why was he impersonating Myron Finch?

And where was the real Myron Finch?

Where was her brother?

Her hand tightened into a fist. Now she knew why she had felt uneasy about the case. Now she understood her urgency the night before, throwing caution to the wind. Now it became rational, her decision to return as soon as possible to the scene of her failed crime and to persist until she had at last gained entry into these rooms.