A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

In fact, it was imperative that he not have any idea of them.

But could she truly agree to his capricious demand? Was it really so important that she must enter reluctantly into marriage—marriage—in order to obtain what she needed?

This was where their ideal-on-paper match unraveled. Charlotte was not without a streak of ruthlessness. But if she had cold water flowing through her veins, then Lord Bancroft had glaciers in his. And the thing was, she had no doubt he would hold her to her promise, even though she would consider any agreement to have been extracted under duress.

So on the one hand, decades with a man she would not have chosen on her own, the thought of which made her lungs feel as if they had been caught in a hydraulic press. And on the other hand . . . something far, far worse?

“Agreed,” she said, looking him in the eye.

Sometimes one must pay one’s debts—and hers were both deep and extensive.

Lord Bancroft allowed himself a small smile. He was surprised, no doubt, but also very, very pleased.

“But,” she added, “I stipulate that our accord will only prove valid should what you give me turn out to be useful.”

“And how would I know that?”

“Oh, you will know, my lord.” She returned his smile, because sometimes she had an iceberg or two drifting through her veins, too. “And since you are demanding so much of me, I will also need to borrow a man who has your complete trust.”



The intercepted telegram Lord Bancroft gave Charlotte—or rather, the copied text, which she checked against the original three times to make sure there had been no mistranscribing—was dated two days before she had discovered the secret of the house in Hounslow.

Which meant that she didn’t need to consult the archive room at the Times again—or even work to decipher any additional small notices in the back of the paper: Because of Lady Ingram’s inquiry, Charlotte already had all the small notices from around that time recorded and decoded in her notebook.

And the fact that the telegram had a date written in plaintext gave credence to her idea that those who received encoded messages needed to know when it was composed, so they would know which keyword to use to solve the cipher.

The newspaper notices that used Encyclopedia Britannica or the First Folio as a point of departure all arrived unambiguously at a single word in those pages. But with the biblical verses, she wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed. Since the verses themselves weren’t encrypted, it made sense, given the secretive nature of Moriarty’s organization, that the keywords wouldn’t be words visible in the advertised verses themselves.

But if a verse served as a pointer, what did it point to?

And many among them shall stumble, and fall, and be broken, and be snared, and be taken.

Isaiah 8:15.

She tried the first and last word of the chapter, followed by the first and last word of the Book of Isaiah, none of which decoded anything.

The title of the book? Still nothing.

She rubbed her temples. Of course she was going about it the wrong way: She was solving for a Vigenère cipher. The books in which the keywords would be found had changed at least twice in the past ten years. Yet she was still assuming that the basic cipher form had stayed the same.

What would it have changed to? Since the clues to the keywords now had a less opaque veil over them, it should follow that the cipher itself had graduated to one that was even more difficult to solve.

A Wheatstone cipher? Those, without knowledge of the keyword, were practically impossible. But she did have keywords at hand—or candidates, at least, if her chain of reasoning had been correct so far. She drew up a five-by-five square, divided the letters of the cipher text into pairs, and went to work.

And when she had verified, late at night, that indeed ISAIAH served as that ten-day period’s keyword, she laid her head down on her desk.

Then she sighed, consulted her notebook again, pulled out a sheaf of paper, and began to write.





Twenty





TUESDAY

Livia continued to be amazed at herself.

The Friday before, after her euphoria over having never committed incestuous thoughts, not even accidentally, had faded somewhat, she’d worried that the pages she’d produced had resulted solely from the emotional abyss she had been thrown into. That if she felt more like her normal self—not that there was anything enviable about it—she wouldn’t be able to pen another word.

But the story had continued apace. The murderer had sent an old woman to claim the sentimental item he’d left behind at the scene of the crime. She’d managed to escape pursuit by Sherlock Holmes. And now a Scotland Yard inspector had come to tell Holmes that they had arrested someone—obviously the wrong someone—on circumstantial evidence.

She set down her pen and flexed her fingers. From time to time she thought longingly of Charlotte’s typewriter. But then again, it wouldn’t be of as much use to Livia. That thing was loud. And Livia’s best—or at least her most uninterrupted—writing time had proved to be early morning, before her parents rose.

A maid entered the breakfast parlor, bringing with her the early post. Livia gave the pile a cursory glance, not expecting anything, but the typewritten name on the topmost letter clearly said Miss Olivia Holmes.

And when she opened the thick envelope, she discovered not a letter, but a large, hand-illustrated bookmark, depicting a young woman in a white dress reading on a park bench.



Charlotte arrived at Mr. Gillespie’s office at the hour specified by Parsons, the secretary. Parsons, his face already a few shades past florid, insisted that she enter into Mr. Gillespie’s office.

“I have no business with Mr. Gillespie,” she said quietly. “I only need a quick question answered from the diary you keep for the office.”

“But I have instructions from Mr. Gillespie to show you in.”

Charlotte folded her hands around the handle of her parasol. “Is that so? If Mr. Gillespie is so eager for my company, he can come out and see me here. You may convey my sentiments to him.”

“Will you . . . will you remain here?”

“Of course. You haven’t answered the question I came for.”

Parsons blinked rapidly, then sidled away, turning back to look at Charlotte every few steps. By and by he returned, and along with him came not only Mr. Gillespie, but Sir Henry, Charlotte’s father, with the groom Mott in tow.

“Enough of this nonsense, Charlotte,” Sir Henry bellowed. “You will leave with me right now.”

“Ah, Father. How do you do? Mr. Gillespie. Mott.” Her hands tightened on the parasol. She couldn’t be entirely certain of Mott’s loyalty in this matter, but even if he were to stand neutral, she still faced three grown men. Mrs. Watson’s weighted parasol, however well made, would not prove sufficient to safeguard her freedom. “Unfortunately, Father, I’m quite busy today and must decline your invitation.”

“Charlotte.” Her name was a growl.