A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“I move my feet. It’s the rest of me that doesn’t follow soon enough.”

“So there Mrs. Burns was, in that odd household.” Mrs. Watson went back to her account. “The boys should have been in school but there was no money for it. Their father taught them as best as he could, but he’d forgotten most of his Latin and Greek. She said the boys were ignorant. The younger one didn’t care, but the elder one felt bad about it.”

“And their sister? You must have asked Mrs. Burns about her.”

“Mrs. Burns said that her main impression of Lady Ingram at that age was one of frustration.” Mrs. Watson hesitated a moment, almost exposing her weapon arm to Miss Holmes’s attack—the girl might be inexperienced, but she knew how to spot an opportunity. She barely sidestepped Miss Holmes’s stick. “A frustration that approached rage, at times.”

“Lady Ingram would have been about sixteen or seventeen at the time?”

“Seventeen, I think. It was the winter of that year.”

Miss Holmes darted to the side and pushed off against the wall to avoid being backed into a corner. “When I learned that my father’s first fiancée had jilted him for having sired a child out of wedlock, I thought that fathering an illegitimate son in and of itself had been the cause of that rejection—even though most men are not held particularly accountable for such mishaps. It was only later that I realized what must have happened—that he had impregnated a servant while he was courting Lady Amelia Drummond and she rejected him for his faithlessness.

“Given that he married my mother on the day he was originally supposed to marry Lady Amelia—Mr. Finch is at most a year older than Henrietta, my eldest sister. Which would have made him around twenty-three that winter.”

Two young people, both hemmed in by their circumstances. “Do you think Lady Ingram was frustrated because she couldn’t be with Mr. Finch?” asked Mrs. Watson. “And do you think Mr. Finch allowed himself to be recruited by Moriarty because of the frustration of not being able to marry Lady Ingram?”

“I don’t know when Mr. Finch decided to throw in his lot with Moriarty. Stephen Marbleton wasn’t privy to that information.”

Miss Holmes lurched to the left, but not fast enough. Mrs. Watson’s stick connected with her upper arm. Miss Holmes winced.

“You are tiring again, my dear. You need to develop stamina—which will only happen by devoting more time to exercise.” The more mischievous part of Mrs. Watson’s mind wondered whether she couldn’t stick out a foot and trip the young woman, but the more compassionate side decided that before she did so, she must add some paddings around the room. “Have you noticed, by the way, that in recent years, there has been an undercurrent of anger to Lady Ingram—which hadn’t been there when she first came onto the scene?”

“There’s always been an undercurrent of anger to Lady Ingram—just as there has always been one to my sister Livia. Except that Lady Ingram disguised hers far better.”

Miss Holmes threw up a hand to indicate that she needed a breather. She leaned against the wall, her shoulders drooping. “By the way, ma’am, would you happen to have a weighted parasol—or something similar to that?”



“Mr. Gillespie is out visiting a client—and not expected back today,” said his flustered secretary, a young man with a ruddy complexion.

Instead of pointing out that she had seen Mr. Gillespie’s walking stick, emblazoned on top with his initials, in the umbrella stand in the vestibule, Charlotte smiled. “I don’t need to see Mr. Gillespie. I’m sure, as his trusted right-hand man, Mr.—”

“Parsons.”

“Yes, Mr. Parsons. I’m sure you can help me with my simple inquiry.”

“I’m afraid I can’t either, miss. You see, I—I’ve been given permission to close the office early—as of this moment, in fact—to meet my—my mother’s train. She’s coming to town to visit and I don’t want her to be alone at Waterloo Station.”

His color had changed from pink to scarlet in under a minute. Fascinating how some people’s faces betrayed them when they lied, not that she couldn’t already tell from the half-finished letter in the typewriter—among other clues on his desk—that he was very much still in the middle of his working hours.

“Of course you wouldn’t want her to wait by herself,” she said kindly.

“No indeed. But if you’ll come back tomorrow, miss, at—ah—ten o’clock in the morning, I’m sure I’ll be able to help you then.”

She smiled at him again. “I will. Thank you.”



The moment Charlotte had solid evidence that she was correct in her conjecture of how those in Moriarty’s organization encoded and decoded their messages, she had sent word to Lord Bancroft requesting a meeting. And now they were seated once again in the unrestrained drawing room of the house near Portman Square.

She gave an abbreviated account of her work in the Times’s archive room. “I believe I am correct about how Moriarty’s system works. But so far, I have only one point of corroboration, a ten-year-old Vigenère cipher. If you, sir, have in your possession more recent examples of ciphers you believe to have originated from Moriarty, I would like to use them to verify that I am indeed onto something.”

Lord Bancroft sighed. “Miss Holmes, I must count myself disappointed. When I received your note, I’d hoped that you’d be at last giving me the long hoped-for answer to my proposal.”

“Ah,” said Charlotte.

“Indeed. It has been two weeks. And we have known each other for more than ten years. I’m persuaded that you can’t have any qualms about my character, my finances, or my sincerity in the matter.”

“No, I do not.”

In fact, on paper they were a nearly perfect match: He had proved himself to be as unconventional and as cool of temperament as she.

“Now that you understand my initial reaction to the point of your visit, let me address your request.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid you have it backward, Miss Holmes. If you have discovered Moriarty’s modus operandi, then it’s incumbent upon you to disclose said method to me. And I will have my subordinates check to see whether your discovery is valid.”

This was not the response she had hoped for. Lord Bancroft was letting her know, not at all subtly, that a woman who wasn’t about to marry him could not count on continued access to his work. “Will you inform me of the results? And how soon?”

“Only agents of the crown will be informed of the results. However, I can see my way to an exception.”

She knew exactly what that exception would be. She tilted her head. “Do please elucidate.”

“I will furnish what you seek, if I have a firm promise that you will shortly become Lady Bancroft.”

If he knew of the theories that were beginning to coalesce in her head, he would not be so quick to play games with vital information. But the problem was, she was not ready for him to know these theories.