A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Miss Holmes dug up half a strawberry from the decadent depths of her trifle. “No, only that she urgently needed one.”

“And she sent it to Upper Baker Street? How did she know the address?”

“My guess is via Mr. Shrewsbury. I have heard now that the mystery behind his mother’s death has been solved, he’s told certain parties that he’s been to see Sherlock Holmes. It would not have been difficult for Lady Ingram to ferret the address from him without disclosing that she wanted it for herself.”

A silence fell. Penelope blinked slowly, as if unable to believe what she’d heard. Miss Holmes ate with great solemnity and concentration, giving every appearance of encountering this most familiar dessert for the very first time. Mrs. Watson took sip after sip of water and tried to convince herself that she ought to trust the decision Miss Holmes had already made.

After all, that extraordinary mind was usually allied to a lot of good sense and pragmatism.

“I can’t help but feel that we should not see Lady Ingram,” she heard herself state emphatically. “She is known to us and we are known to her, or at least Miss Holmes is. If hers is a problem she wanted Miss Holmes to know, she would have told Miss Holmes. Instead she chose to put her trust in a stranger. Shouldn’t that tell us that she values her anonymity in the matter?

“What if her concern has to do with Lord Ingram? Does the confidence we owe her outweigh our duties of friendship to him? What if we learn something that he would want to, indeed, deserves to know? Worse, what if his wife’s disclosure should prove detrimental, were he to remain in a state of ignorance?”

Miss Holmes did not deviate from her imperturbable self, but Penelope stared at Mrs. Watson with more than a little concern. Mrs. Watson realized that her voice had risen a good half octave. That instead of giving calmly reasoned objections, she had let herself be carried away on a current of righteous dismay.

For a minute, everyone busied herself eating. Then Miss Holmes set down her spoon.

“By seeking an appointment with Sherlock Holmes, Lady Ingram has already informed me, however unwittingly, that she has a problem. Knowing what I do about her, I have a fair idea of the nature of the problem. Suffice to say that it does not involve Lord Ingram, except in the sense that she is his wife and any problem of hers ought to concern him, too.

“Moreover, by putting her hope in Sherlock Holmes, Lady Ingram makes it clear that she has no one else to turn to. Not at this moment. Not with this problem. If we do not help her, no one will. Purely on a humanitarian basis, it would be cruel to turn her away.

“As for what duties we owe Lord Ingram, since her problem does not relate to him, except peripherally, it would be no moral compromise to keep her confidence.” Miss Holmes looked down momentarily. “Lord Ingram is my friend and benefactor. I wish him nothing but success and happiness. But the estranged wife of my friend is not my enemy. If she were a stranger knocking on Sherlock Holmes’s door, would she have been denied help in her hour of need?”

Unfortunately, Lady Ingram was no stranger. And by accepting her as a client, they would become interlopers in an already unhappy union. As much as she admired Miss Holmes’s principled stance on not abandoning anyone in need, Mrs. Watson could not possibly imagine any scenario in which they ended up doing more good than harm.

But she didn’t know how to change Miss Holmes’s mind without a draconian invocation of authority: I finance this operation, therefore my word is law. She couldn’t see herself acting in such a heavy-handed manner, certainly not on the day after the young woman learned that Mrs. Watson had first helped her at Lord Ingram’s behest. If anything, Mrs. Watson was keen to reassure her that their partnership—and friendship—was genuine, an expression of mutual respect and affection.

Mrs. Watson sighed.

Miss Holmes must have sensed her capitulation. She picked up her spoon, gathered the last bit of trifle from her bowl, and consumed it with her characteristic mixture of gourmandise and wistfulness.

Now she addressed Penelope. “I trust in Mrs. Watson’s discretion. May I count on you also, Miss Redmayne, to refrain from broaching this subject to anyone outside the present company?”

Penelope, to her credit, did not answer immediately. She thought for a while. “I don’t believe I’ve ever made such promises before, but I’m beginning to see now why Aunt Jo doesn’t want me to be too deeply involved in Sherlock Holmes’s affairs: Even when there is no actual danger, the matters that are brought to the attention of Upper Baker Street can be ethically challenging.”

She thought for a moment longer. “But it seems today I’m destined to play a part and I promise you that nothing I learn will be repeated to anyone outside this room.”

“Thank you, Miss Redmayne,” said Miss Holmes. “We are ready for Lady Ingram, then.”



“Excuse me, miss, but is this yours?”

Livia looked up. A young man stood before her, holding out a book.

The rain had stopped some time ago. The clouds, instead of remaining thick and sulky, had parted. And the young man, framed against freshly rinsed trees and a blue-enough sky, appeared as cheerful as any summer afternoon she had ever known.

Livia didn’t mind cheerful people, as long as they didn’t tell her to cheer up, which, alas, they did more often than not. And they probably thought her petulant and ungrateful when she didn’t seize on the chance to burst out of her shell.

She glanced down at the book he proffered. The Woman in White. How odd, she had taken that title from the circulating library two days ago. Had even hauled it to the park, in case the other book she’d brought turned out to be less than engrossing. But her copy was safe in her handbag, wasn’t it?

She patted her handbag and it was, well, not empty exactly but most certainly devoid of full-length novels.

“Ah—yes, I believe that is mine. But I’ve no idea how I lost it.”

Surely it should have been in her bag all this time—nothing else seemed to have fled.

“Not a problem at all, miss.” The young man handed the book over. “An excellent reading choice, if I may say so.”

Livia forgot all about how The Woman in White had magically disappeared. “Do you think so, sir?”

She was sure of very few things in life. And one of those few happened to be the types of books she enjoyed, none of which, alas, were the least bit improving. Charlotte could at least defend her choice of reading as encyclopedic; Livia, well, all Livia wanted was a solid stretch of time away from her own life. And she was surrounded by people who disapproved of such transport.

An excellent reading choice were words that she had never heard spoken in her direction, with regard to her reading choices.

“Oh, yes.” He grinned. His full beard made it difficult to gauge his age—he could be anywhere from twenty-two to thirty-two. The corners of his eyes crinkled but his skin was otherwise smooth and unlined. “I read it a while ago. Sat down and never got up till I was done.”