“If God doesn’t want people to lie, he shouldn’t have given the best liars such earnest and innocent faces,” murmured Lord Ingram.
For a quick second, it was almost all incandescent pleasure in her heart. She smiled into the dark. “Precisely. Since God obviously intended for me to prevaricate, to do otherwise would be to thwart His purpose. And so I’ve learned that Mrs. Marbleton currently resides at Claridge’s, as that was where her purchases were delivered.
“Here’s something else I suspect about Mrs. Marbleton: She and I might have a great deal in common. The kind of reversal of fortune she suffered, which caused her to fall from the lap of ease, if not of luxury, straight into a scullery—I can think of very few other instances. Even if she lost her parents and had no older siblings who could look after her, what about aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents? What about family friends? What about more genteel employment as a governess or a lady’s companion?”
“You are saying that she, having been caught in a compromising position, chose to run away?”
“There can’t be too many of us. And I’ll wager someone like Lady Avery or Lady Somersby would know the circumstances surrounding every last one. If you write an anonymous letter to—since Lady Avery is already involved in the Sackville case, let’s spread the wealth and send it to Lady Somersby, and tell her that a lady who has had a tremendous fall from grace years ago has returned to London and can be found at Claridge’s. I dare say within two days we’ll have her identity.”
“No.”
His answer was quiet but implacable. Charlotte tilted her head. “Why not?”
“You’ve not thought the matter through, Charlotte. Setting Lady Somersby loose on this woman and having the former announce her true identity from the rooftops? Should Mrs. Marbleton happen to be in real danger of any kind, you will do her a great disservice.”
“Oh,” said Charlotte. She truly had not thought the matter through.
“However, there is a premiere performance at Covent Gardens. I can still make the intermission if I hurry. Since it’s a night to see and be seen, one of our Ladies of Gossip should be there.”
“Make sure you aren’t too obvious. Don’t let them realize that you’ve approached them only to ask this question.”
He scoffed. “Haven’t you deduced that these days they approach me, and not the other way around? They’re still trying to find out what happened to you, and anyone who knows you to any extent is subject to regular interrogations.”
Charlotte, for the moment, had forgotten about her own scandal altogether. “What do you tell them?”
He leaned back in his seat. Once again she felt the impact of his gaze. What did he think when he looked upon her? What did he want? What pain or pleasure unfurled in the deepest part of his heart?
“I tell them that I don’t know anything,” he said quietly. “And that I never expect to hear from you again.”
When Charlotte returned to Mrs. Watson’s house she found her business partner in the parlor, wrapped in a man’s smoking jacket and nursing a glass of claret.
“Chateau Haut-Brion, the ’65 vintage.” She held up the darkly scarlet liquid to the light. “My husband adored this wine. When we married, we bought four cases, with the intention of opening a bottle each year for our anniversary.”
Mrs. Watson turned around. “Would you like to have a glass, Miss Holmes?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Charlotte, sitting down.
The wine that John Watson would never taste again was velvety yet potent. Mrs. Watson refilled her own glass and took a long draught.
“I don’t usually have reason to consider myself terribly naive. But goodness how naive I’ve been, to think that this would be all fun and games.
“I keep wondering what must be going through Mrs. Marbleton’s mind,” Mrs. Watson said, her gaze focused on some distant point. “After the telegram came, informing me that my husband had been killed by a stray jezail bullet, I refused to believe it. I thought they had mistaken a different man for him, that he might be injured and lying somewhere delirious, even that he’d been captured by the Afghanis and held in a dreadful prison—but I couldn’t contemplate his death. Couldn’t accept it until men from his regiment, men who saw him die before their own eyes and laid him to rest in Kabul, came to offer their condolences.