A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

He would always listen, when she had something to say. That he did not voice aloud, because she already knew.

Tea was laid out under the dappled shade of a large whitebeam. A casual observer would have remarked on the rustic prettiness of the scene. A gingham tablecloth over an old picnic table; the chubby, unadorned tea service; a vase of wildflowers, purple, white, and the palest pink.

He wished he could enjoy the setting. He wished he hadn’t been so blind. He wished he could wake up tomorrow and his only problem would be a cold, quietly hostile marriage.

He poured for Holmes and asked, because he’d rather think about something other than the shambles his life had become, “Would you really have said yes to Bancroft’s proposal, because he gave you the example you needed?”

“It was a gamble. I wagered that I would prove to be right and rid Bancroft of a great danger to his organization. In which case he would owe me and be in no position to enforce a ridiculous bargain.”

Her voice was calm and uninflected, but he had the sensation that she hadn’t been nearly so sure. That he heard a relief equal to that of a mountain climber who had been saved from the ravine by her rope, and who was even now still breathing hard.

“But that’s all moot,” she went on. “Bancroft has withdrawn his suit.”

“He has?” This was news to him. “Why?”

“Apparently I’m too valuable to waste on matrimony—and I thought I had terrible opinions on marriage.” She selected a slice of buttered toast. “Now let me ask you something. Were you the one who recommended to Bancroft that he propose to me again?”

“The exact opposite—I advised against it.” The memory made him smile slightly. “When Bancroft told me he wished to try his luck again, I said he should court you without asking for your hand.”

“Why not?” she asked, spreading jam on the toast.

“No one who asks you to marry him will ever be successful. When you’re ready to marry, you’ll tap the fellow on the shoulder and make the request yourself.”

Her jam spoon stilled. “I understand a little better now how people become unnerved to be known so precisely.” The breeze lifted a loose tendril of her hair and pulled it across her lips. She brushed away the offending lock. “But I’m glad someone knows me to this extent.”

He raised a brow. “Someone?”

She looked toward the sea, shining and almost as blue as the sky, before her eyes met his. “All right. I’m glad you know me to this extent.”



Livia couldn’t stop talking about her story. “And Sherlock Holmes—my Sherlock Holmes—he’s taken on a life of his own. I don’t think he eats. I don’t think he sleeps. He’s quite the rude, superior fellow. And for the life of me, I can’t get enough of writing him telling other people they’re idiots.”

“I know someone who would love to tell a great many people that they’re idiots,” said Charlotte.

“Me?” Livia resisted the urge to giggle, but she couldn’t stop the giddy feeling spreading over her. “Goodness, I think you’re right.”

In the light of the carriage lanterns, Charlotte smiled. “And you aren’t particularly enamored of either food or sleep.”

It was Livia’s last night in London. Somehow she’d finagled permission from her parents to attend an evening lecture. The lecture wasn’t the point. The point was to meet Charlotte there and say good-bye to her beloved sister.

They’d sat in a tea shop that was open late until they could no longer reasonably pretend that the lecture hadn’t ended yet. And now they were being driven home by Mott. Livia was too bashful—and fearful, and overjoyed—to mention the not-brother who had sent her the beautiful bookmark, so she asked, “Are you sure it’s safe for you to be so close to the house?”

“Ah, I see now I haven’t told you about my encounter with Father at Mr. Gillespie’s office.”

As Charlotte recounted what had happened, Livia alternated between gasping and cackling. “So, all that training with canne de combat, and you end up using a derringer.”

“One must be adaptable.”

“And what exactly are you trying to extract from Father with your hundred quid a year?”

“You, of course,” said Charlotte softly. “You and Bernadine.”

And just like that, Livia’s eyes filled. She wrapped her arms around Charlotte. “I’m sorry. I know it makes you antsy to be hugged too long. But I’ll miss you badly. And I so want your plan to succeed—and I’m so afraid of wanting it too much!”

Charlotte patted her a few times on the back. “It’ll be all right. We’ll find a way.”

Livia forced herself to let go. The carriage came to a stop. She wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and took Charlotte’s hands in her own. “I believe you. I believe we’ll find a way.”



Charlotte had told Livia that Mott would take her home. Mott, however, proceeded directly to the mews, opened the doors of the carriage house, lit the lamps, and drove the brougham inside.

Exactly as she’d instructed him in the note she’d pressed into his hand, when he’d helped her up into the carriage.

The carriage house doors were closed and bolted. Mott pulled off his gloves and opened the door of the town coach. “Miss Charlotte.”

She allowed him to help her down and studied him as if seeing him for the first time. “Hello, brother.”