A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“Yes, Father?”

“Must I tell you specifically what is going to happen if you do not come willingly?”

“I’d like to hear it, but I may find it difficult to believe a man who has been known to break his word.”

Mr. Gillespie and the secretary both glanced at Sir Henry, aghast, though she couldn’t tell whether they were shocked by the charge or only that such an accusation had been spoken aloud. Mott, though, seemed to be trying not to give in to nervous laughter.

Her father turned almost as red as the secretary. “You come with us or you will be carried out.”

“I don’t think so.”

She reached into her handbag, pulled out a Remington derringer, and cocked it—she wasn’t one to entrust her safety to only a parasol.

Sir Henry’s eyes widened. Both Mr. Gillespie and Parsons took a step back.

“You will shoot your own father?”

“I will shoot Mr. Gillespie first—not to worry, only in the foot. And then I will shoot you, also in the foot. After that I don’t believe anyone else will be particularly interested in taking me anywhere against my will.” She smiled slightly. “You taught me how to use firearms, Father. You know my aim is excellent.”

A knock came on the door. The four men glanced uncertainly at one another. A knock came again. The men remained paralyzed.

The door opened and in walked Lord Ingram. He took a look around the room and tsked. “Are you trying to take these men hostage, Holmes?”

“Hardly, my lord. And good morning to you.”

“Have you been keeping her?” Sir Henry’s voice was high and harsh.

Lord Ingram turned a face of innocent surprise in his direction. “Sir, I am a married man. And unlike some I can name, I have never betrayed my vows. Miss Holmes is keeping herself, in admirable style, too, as far as I can tell.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why shouldn’t you? Unlike some in this room, I have also never reneged on my word.”

Mr. Gillespie and the secretary swallowed in unison. Mott was seized by a coughing fit. Sir Henry, who had now been accused of untrustworthiness twice in the space of five minutes, stared blankly, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

“Then what are you doing here?” he at last managed to say.

“I am here at my brother’s behest. He has proposed to Miss Holmes and would very much prefer that she remain in London until she can give him her answer.”

“Lord Bancroft wants to marry her?”

“Yes.”

Sir Henry turned to Charlotte, looking as if he desperately needed to throttle someone. “Then why haven’t you said yes, you stupid girl?”

“For the same reason I didn’t say yes to him last time. I’m not enamored of the idea of being married to Lord Bancroft.”

“Even though you could—”

“Even though I could make you happier, you who have no respect for my wishes?”

“Is this all the respect you have for those who raised you?” Sir Henry’s spittle flew.

“No, I have quite a bit more respect for you than that. In fact, I plan to send you and Mother one hundred pounds a year.”

“You can never repay us for the unhappiness you have caused us!”

Charlotte raised a brow. “I take it you do not want the hundred quid a year then.”

“I—I didn’t say that.”

“Do you want it or not?”

“Y-yes.”

“Excellent. But do understand that I’m not giving you this money out of the goodness of my heart. I’ll want something in return.”

Sir Henry wiped a hand across his forehead. “What? What will you want?”

“You’ll see. But don’t worry, it won’t be anything you’ll miss.” She smiled, widely this time. “Now, gentlemen, I came to ask a question of Mr. Parsons and I’d like to get on with that. As I said, it will be a busy day for me and there is no time to waste.”



“Thank you, my lord,” Charlotte said to Lord Ingram, once he had helped her into a hackney.

He shook his head, laughed, and shook his head some more. “At times I have wanted to punch your father, but I’m not sure I’d have shot him.”

“Only in the foot,” she pointed out, “and only if he refused to show any sense.”

“And the poor solicitor?”

“The poor solicitor was a willing party to an attempted abduction.” She sighed. Mr. Gillespie’s participation was hardly unexpected, but the whole affair still sent a chill down her spine. “The problem is that he believed he was doing something good. That forcing a grown woman to be locked up for the rest of her life figured as part of his duty to her father.”

Lord Ingram leaned forward and squeezed her hand. “You know I wouldn’t have stood by and let you rot in the country.”

The contact of their gloved hands lasted a fraction of a second—and the jolt shot all the way to her shoulder. “I know. I’m all too glad to have you for a friend.”

But would he still be her friend, after he had heard what she had to say?

The old silence threatened to descend. On any other day she would have let it. But today she spoke. She asked him about his children. She asked him about the archaeological sites he planned to revisit, now that the Season was coming to an end. She even asked him about the ball he and his wife would be hosting, in honor of her birthday, considered the last major function of the Season. And in turn she told him about her recent cases—as well as Mrs. Watson’s attempt to turn her into London’s foremost swordswoman, which made him laugh.

The hackney was approaching 18 Upper Baker Street when she said, “I’m glad Bancroft sent you today, since I need to speak with you anyway. Will you come for a cup of tea?”

He regarded her warily but only said, “Of course.”

They settled themselves in Sherlock Holmes’s parlor. She made tea and served a plate of macarons, Madame Gascoigne’s latest triumphs, light-as-air meringue biscuits sandwiched together with a delicious filling of buttercream.

And now, the moment of truth.

“I asked for your forgiveness earlier. You are about to learn why I did so.”

He had been stirring his tea without drinking. Now he pushed it aside, abandoning any pretense of interest in refreshments. “I almost don’t want to hear it.”

But he had no choice. She also had no choice.

“Little more than two weeks ago, Lady Ingram came to me. She was upset. She told me that she had loved someone before she married you and that they had a pact to walk past each other once a year at the Albert Memorial, on the Sunday before his birthday.”

His face turned expressionless.

“This year the man missed the appointment. She didn’t know what to do because she didn’t know how to find him. When she saw the article in the papers about Sherlock Holmes, she decided to consult him. Once I learned that the person she was looking for was Mr. Myron Finch, my illegitimate half brother, I had to carry on until I had some notion of his fate.”

He gazed at her. “Did you know who she was before you agreed to see her?”

She exhaled. “Yes.”