A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“In the course of your work as Sherlock Holmes?”

She nodded again, still distracted by the way his fingers grazed the notches and swirls atop the ornate chair.

“Be more specific.”

With some regret, she looked away from his hand. “I can’t. I can’t say anything beyond what I’ve already said.”

“You think this will anger me?”

If nodding could reduce extra chins she would have whittled hers down to only one point two. “But it does not harm you in the not-knowing.”

Their eyes met, his cool and dark. “Are you asking me to trust you?”

“I’m letting you know that I’m in the middle of something that you will not like, if you knew what it was.”

His eyes narrowed. “There are a great many things I don’t like. But losing a polo match, for instance, is not the same as my house burning down.”

She could only repeat herself. “I can’t say anything beyond what I’ve already said.”

He was silent.

“I’m sorry,” she heard herself murmur.

Soundlessly his fingers tapped the crest rail on which they rested, each one by turn. “Years ago, you said something to me. I don’t remember it word for word, but in essence, you told me that men, even otherwise sensible men, fall under the illusion that they will be able to find a perfect woman. That the problem lies not in the search so much as in the definition of perfection, which is a beautiful female who will integrate seamlessly into a man’s life, bringing with her exactly the right amount of intelligence, wit, and interests to align with his, in order to brighten every aspect of his existence.”

She remembered that conversation, one of the most disharmonious they had ever held, on the subject of the future Lady Ingram.

“You warned me against believing in that illusion—and I was highly displeased. I didn’t say so at the time, but as we parted, I thought that you’d certainly never be mistaken for a perfect woman. It was beyond evident you’d never fit readily into any man’s life, and no one could possibly think that the purpose of your life was to be anything other than who you were.

“At the time, those were not kind thoughts. They flew about my head with a great deal of scorn—venom, even. My opinion of you hasn’t changed, by the way. But nowadays I think those same thoughts with much resignation but even more admiration.” Their eyes met again. His were still the same mysterious dark, but now there was a warmth to them, a deep affection tinged, as he said, with much resignation but even more admiration. “I’m sure I’ll fly off the handle and accuse you of all kinds of perfidy once I learn what you’ve been up to, but let it not be said that I don’t know who I’m dealing with. We disagree often, and that is a fact of our friendship.”

He reached across the table and took away the berries and the dish of condensed milk. “But for your penance, and because I’m hungrier than you, these have been confiscated.”



She watched him eat. How did preferences arise? Was it due to the arrangement of features or the modulation of voice? Certainly it couldn’t be argued that Lord Bancroft was less wise or less powerful than Lord Ingram. Yet one brother invoked in her a bland and rather aloof approval, while the other . . .

“Little did you know, these were forbidden fruits,” she told him. “And I will extract payment in exchange.”

“Huh,” he said in response.

“I believe there is a darkroom in this house. And I believe you, time permitting, develop negatives for Bancroft. I would like to have a copy of a photograph.”

“Which photograph?”

“A clear image of the face of the victim from the house in Hounslow.”

He put down his fork. “Why do you want it?”

She explained, omitting Lady Ingram’s name and general background. He listened with some incredulity. “You understand it isn’t likely for the man to be your half brother.”

“I do understand that. Yet I am compelled to think so, unless proven otherwise. I’d like a photograph, so that I can show it to those who actually did know him. That way I’ll know for sure, one way or another.”

“You shouldn’t further involve yourself in this matter. If it’s as you said, and Moriarty or his associates are involved . . .”

“I’m only trying to find out if he was my brother.”

“And what will you do if he does turn out to have been just that?”

“Then I’ll ask that Bancroft get to the bottom of the matter urgently. I am not going to rush out and hunt down the killer myself, if that’s what you are worried about.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.”

“So many promises of late.” He viewed her with patent suspicion. “Wait here.”

He returned a few minutes later with an envelope. “Don’t abuse my trust.”

“I won’t.

She reached for the envelope, but he didn’t let go. “This isn’t what you apologized for, is it?”

“No.”

“You aren’t looking me in the eye.”

She looked him in the eye.

He looked away, unable, for some reason, to hold her gaze.

She took the envelope from him. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll see myself out.”



Mrs. Watson was, in fact, a longtime subscriber to the soup kitchen on Great Windmill Street. As a supporter, she had toured the facilities. Based on this meager familiarity, she took for herself the task of finding out when Mrs. Burns would be there again. At first she considered simply sending a note, but in the end she decided to go in person, so that she could speak of some experience as a volunteer when she did meet Mrs. Burns.

She couldn’t be entirely sure, but there didn’t seem to be anyone following her around—which was a relief. Her luck held at the soup kitchen. The harried woman in charge of the staff took one look at her and said, “It’s a good thing we have Mrs. Burns here today, mum. She’ll tell you what needs to be done.”

Mrs. Watson was already perspiring by the time they were halfway across the large kitchen. She had dressed lightly, knowing that kitchens were infernally hot places. Still, the heat and humidity struck her like a large brick wall to the chest, making her gasp for breath.

“Mrs. Burns”—the woman stuck her head into a room that led off from the kitchen—“I’ve a subscriber here to volunteer. Can you show her what to do, please?”

Her tone was pleading. Mrs. Burns, behind a pile of turnips, did not appear particularly honored by the request. But she rose from her stool, let the woman present her to Mrs. Watson, and welcomed her. When the woman had rushed off, she asked whether Mrs. Watson could peel turnips with a knife without injuring herself.

Mrs. Watson hesitated. As a child, she had regularly helped in the kitchen at home. But as a firmly middle-aged woman, she had not performed menial tasks for some time.

“If you can’t peel vegetables, I suppose I could set you to brushing and washing them, but that’s rougher work.”