“It was always more enjoyable to watch you eat than to eat myself.” Livia took Charlotte’s face in her hands. “At least you haven’t become too thin.”
“Mrs. Watson feeds me ’round the clock and I haven’t turned anything down. But at the rate I’m going, within the week I’ll reach Maximum Tolerable Chins. Then I’ll be obliged to give up this reckless dining.”
Livia chuckled.
Charlotte took Livia’s hands in her own. “If only there had been an inquest, at least in Lady Shrewsbury’s case.”
Livia sighed.
“Don’t worry.” Charlotte came beside Livia and placed an arm around her shoulder. “Inspector Treadles will get to the bottom of this. He is very good at what he does.”
Charlotte didn’t possess the instinct to comfort. Livia well knew this: When they’d been girls, Charlotte remained in her corner of the room and observed as Livia battled with her sometimes overwhelming feelings of inadequacy and insignificance. But over the years her sister had learned that it made Livia feel less alone, less despair stricken, to be gently stroked on the back. Or embraced. Or patted on the arm.
Really, any kind of contact at all.
And the odd thing was, knowing that Charlotte was not naturally inclined to physical closeness made her touches not less effective, but more—they were not a reflexive reaction to the distress of another, but a considered one.
Livia leaned on her sister and finally gave voice to the fearful thought that tumbled day and night in the back of her head. “What if Inspector Treadles gets to the bottom of it, only to find out that Mr. Sackville’s butler did it?”
Leaving Livia forevermore known as the woman who probably had something to do with Lady Shrewsbury’s death.
Her entire life she had been frustrated by her invisibility. At home she was the last daughter her parents remembered. In Society the women were prettier, livelier, younger, cleverer, or even more pathetic—she knew of at least one instance in which a widower offered for a plain, penniless spinster who would otherwise have to endure a lifetime under the thumb of a tyrannical brother. Whereas Livia always seemed to carry her own special shield of obscurity everywhere she went, behind which she could stand in the middle of a room and not be noticed.
How she’d yearned to be the center of attention.
And how cruel to be taught this way that she ought to be careful what she wished for.
“Inspector Treadles will apprehend real suspects in no time,” said Charlotte. “You have my assurances as a consultant to the Criminal Investigation Department.”
Livia snorted. “This reminds me. I saw the advert for Sherlock Holmes’s services. Are you really taking clients? How do you keep up the pretense?”
Charlotte explained the procedure she and Mrs. Watson had established. “I saw my first two clients this morning. We already made thirty shillings.”
“So fast?”
“Yes. And I have another client lined up for the afternoon.”
She opened her reticule, took out a small pouch, and put it in Livia’s hand. Livia didn’t have to open the pouch to know it was the jewelry and money she’d given Charlotte the night she had run away.
She gave it back. “It’s too early. You don’t know that you’ll still have clients in a week—or a month. And I still have reservations about this Mrs. Watson.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I’m more worried about you now than I am about myself. You take it. Mrs. Watson has invested her own funds to set up Sherlock Holmes’s operation, so she has every motive to keep me around and in good shape until she at least recoups her cost.”
Livia stared down at the pouch. “Oh, Charlotte, what is going to happen to all of us?”
“According to my crystal ball, Mrs. Watson will make a fortune. I will make a name. You will clear your name, as will Papa. And Mamma will feel relieved for a short while and then more aggrieved than ever.”
Oh God, if only. If only. “While we are looking through your crystal ball, can you tell me if I’ll always be stuck at home with Mamma and Papa?”
“Only if you want to be, Livia,” said Charlotte softly. “Only if you want to be.”
“Lady Sheridan, thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” said Inspector Treadles.
Lady Sheridan smiled without warmth. “Your note did not leave much room for refusal or delays, Inspector.”
She was a small, fine-featured woman, her grey hair swept back in a precise and severe chignon. But whereas her husband was hale and vigorous, Lady Sheridan reminded Treadles of nothing so much as her town house, a once-beautiful entity made worn by time and adverse circumstances.