A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

The desire didn’t originate with Alice, but with Sherlock Holmes—he didn’t want a woman to do his work better than he could. But Alice . . . ever since he learned that she once—and perhaps still—harbored ambitions that had nothing to do with their home life, he had not been the same man.

He wanted to be so wildly successful that she would never dream of running Cousins Manufacturing again. He wanted to give her so many children that she never had the time again. But God did not seem to want the latter for them. And the former—would he really write a report full of deception just so he could be one step closer to his next promotion?

He didn’t know.

And this frightened him above all else.



It was past eleven and Charlotte was in a bit of a mood. It did not happen very often, but when it did, when that strange restlessness came upon her, she was not very well equipped to handle it: It was something that could not be reasoned away—or crushed under an avalanche of cake.

She paced in her room for a while. Then dressed again and slipped out: She might as well reread A Summer in Roman Ruins, and that book was currently gracing Sherlock Holmes’s shelves.

18 Upper Baker Street was dark. She reached for a light. The gas flame flared, illuminating the steps.

A small sound came from above. The house cooling down at night and contracting? A mouse in the attic? She climbed up and walked into the parlor.

“Good evening, Miss Holmes.”

The stair sconce lit an amber slice of the room and left dark shadows elsewhere. The greeting came from the shadows.

She turned toward the voice. “Mr. Marbleton, I presume?”

A soft chuckle. “I see Sherlock Holmes’s genius is real.”

“No genius required. We’ve conversed before, however briefly. I don’t forget voices.”

She turned on the lamp affixed near the door. Mr. Marbleton stood next to the grandfather clock, a pistol in hand.

“Some tea for you—and Miss Marbleton? Does she need the attention of a physician?”

“How—”

“I can smell blood in the air—and you don’t seem injured.”

Stephen Marbleton exhaled. “Miss Marbleton is fine. The bullet only grazed her shoulder. I cleaned the wound with your fine whisky and bandaged it with some boracic ointment.”

Charlotte nodded—a doctor would not be able to do much more than that. She entered the bedroom, where Miss Marbleton lay quietly asleep. “Did you give her some of Sherlock’s fine laudanum also?”

Mrs. Watson had made sure they had the usual assortment of tinctures and patent medicines that graced a convalescent’s bedside.

“I did. Thank you.”

She laid a hand on the young woman’s forehead. No fever. But then, the wound was very recent. They wouldn’t know for some time whether it would become infected. She left Miss Marbleton to her rest, set a kettle to heat on the spirit lamp, and put a few madeleines on a plate. “Have the two of you dined?”

“We have. But madeleines are most welcome. Will you share some with me?”

Most native English speakers would not be able to immediately name the shell-shaped, fluted little cakes. But Stephen Marbleton had a soup?on of an accent—which hinted not so much at foreign origins as significant portions of life spent abroad. “I serve madeleines for me—you’ll need to be quick and ruthless to have a chance at any.”

He smiled. She did not return the smile. He was young—younger than she. Left-handed, obviously. Had lived in hot climes not long ago. Enjoyed fiction. Was a little vain about his clothes, but not so much that it interfered with practicality.

“Were you the one who alerted the police about the body in Hounslow?”

The bobbies had gone running to the place because they had received a telegram concerning iniquitous goings-on in the house.

He shook his head a little, but not in denial. “Of course Sherlock Holmes would know that.”

The clock gonged the half hour, then carried on with its tick-tocking.

“Thank you most kindly for letting us stay,” he said.

“Tell me why you impersonated Mr. Finch,” she said at the same time.

He sighed, sat down across from her, and reached for a madeleine. “Mr. Finch has something we want.”

“Who are we?”

“My family—my parents, my sister, and myself.”

“Your mother is Mrs. Marbleton?”

“Yes.”

“Your father?”

“Mr. Marbleton, of course.”

“And who is Mr. Marbleton, in relation to Mr. Moriarty?”

“They are not the same man, if that is what you are asking.”

Charlotte nibbled on a madeleine. “I take it then that you weren’t responsible for the death of the man currently known as Richard Hayward. But you didn’t learn of it by accident.”

“We were watching the house. The house wasn’t particularly important—and hadn’t been for some time. The man who lived there performed unsavory services for a fee. He’d been working for Moriarty for a while but was the kind of underling happy not to know anything about why he was asked to do what he was asked to do. Nevertheless, he was one of our few leads.”

“Your mother doesn’t know more about Moriarty’s organization?”

“She left him decades ago.”

“And she does not cooperate with him in a mutually beneficial manner?”

“Not that I know of.”

She eyed him. “Not a terribly reassuring answer.”

“I know a great deal of my mother’s life. Moriarty has been hunting us for almost fifteen years and we can’t afford secrets. Any ignorance—any mistaken assumption allowed a foothold—can lead to disaster for the entire family. That I do not know of something should be a reassuring enough answer.”

A strong retort. She would not consider her mind completely put at rest, but the reason he gave was certainly specific enough. She took the kettle from the spirit lamp and poured hot water into the teapot.

“How did Mr. Finch come into anything of value to you? Was he working for Moriarty?”

“He was.”

She had hoped, when it turned out that Mr. Finch might be alive after all, that he would also turn out to have no connections to Moriarty. Of course she’d always known that it was a vain hope, but still.

“Since when? And how did he find Moriarty—or vice versa?”

“I don’t know when he started working for Moriarty. I do know that Moriarty has a preference for those who are tainted by illegitimacy—they tend to be hungry for success, and ruthless because the world has been ruthless to them. No one misses them very much when they disappear and there’s always a ready supply of young, eager men born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“So when you said he has something you want, you mean he has something of Moriarty’s.”

“That is correct.”

“What is it?”

“We don’t know precisely. What we know is that a dossier exists concerning plans to be put into motion next year. The plans vanished at the same time as Mr. Finch and Mr. Jenkins, otherwise known as Richard Hayward. Moriarty is extremely displeased about the disappearance of the plans and the betrayal of his subordinates.”

“How do you know all that?”

His smile was bitter for one so young. “The less you know about it, the better.”

“All right. This Mr. Jenkins, was he also illegitimate?”