Did this we include Livia? She looked from Charlotte to Mrs. Watson and back again, but neither seemed inclined to offer any clarification.
“This . . . this trip to France, is it imminent?” asked Livia, not feeling courageous enough to ask outright whether she would be part of it—or left behind.
France. How she longed to see France. To be anywhere, really, on a journey of freedom. But would she be in the way? It was one thing to bring up a tea tray to 18 Upper Baker Street, quite another to take part in an actual mission.
“It will be soon,” answered Mrs. Watson. “No later than the day after tomorrow.”
Again, no elucidation on what role she was to play, if any.
Charlotte was daintily eating a potted beef sandwich. Mrs. Watson gazed into her tea, her forehead creased. Livia’s deductive powers might not approach Charlotte’s in scope or trenchancy, but the situation before her was hardly opaque.
Whatever they intended to accomplish in France would be difficult, very possibly dangerous. And they didn’t know what to do with Livia. Charlotte must have left the decision to Mrs. Watson, given that they were under Mrs. Watson’s roof and that their task concerned Mrs. Watson’s friend. And Mrs. Watson was reluctant either to tell Livia to stay put or to involve her in a perilous undertaking.
“How long will this trip last?” she asked.
She could wait, if they would be gone for only a day or two.
“A good fortnight,” said Charlotte. Livia’s heart fell. She’d kept telling herself and anyone who would listen that she planned to stay away from home for as long as possible. But that wouldn’t be wise. She shouldn’t be gone for longer than two weeks, three at the very most—not if she wanted more such excursions in the future.
If she stayed behind, Charlotte and Mrs. Watson would be away for most of her visit. On the other hand, she had very little appetite for danger and no useful skills. She didn’t even have Mrs. Watson’s reservoir of experience or Charlotte’s nerves of steel.
“I would like to go with you,” she said. “I don’t know whether I’ll be able to make any contributions, but I will do what I can. And I do know that I’ll be much happier with you in France.”
“It will be dangerous,” said Charlotte.
Mrs. Watson nodded—slowly, as if she were unwilling to admit that to herself.
Livia wiped her suddenly damp palms on her skirt. “If it isn’t too dangerous for you, it can’t be too dangerous for me.”
Charlotte took another bite of her sandwich. “It’s true that we aren’t speaking of life-threatening dangers. But we know very little about where we are going or what we will find when we get there. And given our relative inexperience as cat burglars, a stint in a French jail isn’t out of the realm of possibility.”
Livia sucked in a breath. Cat burglars?
Mrs. Watson gasped, too. “I’ve been fretting about the consequences to my friend if we don’t succeed, but not yet the consequences to ourselves. Miss Olivia, in that case, perhaps you—”
“No!” cried Livia. “In that case, I shall be that much worse off if I remained in England. I will worry until I make myself sick, especially if—especially if—”
Especially if Mr. Marbleton went with them.
Mrs. Watson looked beseechingly at Charlotte, who said only, “We will abide by your decisions, ma’am.”
Livia went to Mrs. Watson, sank to her haunches, and took Mrs. Watson’s hands. “Please, ma’am, I shall be extremely unhappy—not to mention tormented by the most terrible thoughts—if I were to stay behind. Please, Mrs. Watson, let me come with you.”
Mrs. Watson shut her eyes tight for a moment, then she pulled Livia to her feet. “Very well, then. Let’s all go together. But you must promise me, Miss Olivia, that your own safety will be your first and foremost concern.”
“I promise. Thank you, ma’am!” Livia cried, smiling hugely. “Thank you! Thank you!”
Her euphoria evaporated somewhat when no one else smiled.
Five
The house near Portman Square had been outfitted some years ago by Lord Bancroft Ashburton, Lord Ingram’s brother, when the latter thought Charlotte would accept his proposal and become his wife. Charlotte, however, hadn’t learned of it until this past summer, after she’d lost her respectability. Livia, by turn, learned even later and still remained unsure that it wasn’t a fable.
A house that Charlotte thought to be “slightly extravagant”? Charlotte, who had never met a garish color combination she didn’t immediately wish to add to her own wardrobe?
Though Livia had prepared herself, the anteroom itself made her jaw drop, with its gilded mirrors and dozens of red-and-white chinoiserie plates set inside a large niche painted a brilliant shade of coral.
“It’s too much! Too much!” she hissed, as soon as the maid who had opened the door for them left to announce the Holmes sisters and Mrs. Watson. “How can you like this house, Charlotte? Are you sure that you are not actually color-blind?”
“I forgot to tell you?” said Charlotte mildly. “After you accused me of being color-blind the first few times, I performed some tests and determined that there is nothing the matter with my sight.”
“But there is already so much red and coral on this side, and that is all green.” Livia pointed an accusing finger at the opposite wall, behind one large gilded mirror.
“It’s a nice green.”
“It’s a wrong green,” said Livia, half shuddering.
And it was worse, so much worse, beyond the anteroom. By the time they reached the drawing room, which featured enough tassels, fringes, and flounces to outfit every bordello in London, Livia was slack-jawed with dismay. “Charlotte, this is a brothel and a circus.”
“And I am both a woman of ill repute and a conjurer of tricks,” said Charlotte. “My tastes are commensurate with my stature.”
“You had the exact same tastes before you arrived at your current stature,” said Lord Ingram, walking in.
“Ha!” cried Livia.
Mrs. Watson chuckled. Even Charlotte smiled slightly. They exchanged greetings and the maid brought in a large tea tray.
“Well, everyone is here,” said Charlotte.
Livia glanced at her quizzically. “But I thought Mr. Marbleton would be joining us.”
Or did he not get their message, after all? But the small notice from Charlotte was in the papers this morning, and he most certainly paid attention to the small notices.
“He has joined us,” said Charlotte.
Livia looked around the room. Was there a piece of furniture large enough to hide him?
Lord Ingram looked amused. Charlotte was examining the plates of cake that the maid was placing on the table. It was Mrs. Watson whose gaze first settled on the maid.
Surely—
The maid laughed. With Stephen Marbleton’s voice. But in reality he looked nothing like this woman.
“How did you know, Miss Charlotte?” he asked.
“Well, for one thing, I’ve never seen a female servant at this establishment before. The appearance of one now, after a number of visits, made me pay closer attention than I otherwise would. Two, I have seen you dressed as a woman before. Even though you’ve made greater changes to your face this time, there is still something familiar about you.
“And three, you have not been subtle about telling us who you are. Or perhaps I should say, you have not been subtle about signaling your true identity to one particular person in this party.”
Livia lifted her fingers to her lips. She noticed for the first time that the pretend-maid was wearing a pendant of moonstone. The first time they met, they’d discussed, among other things, a book called The Moonstone. Later he had sent her a cabochon of moonstone as a present.
Mr. Marbleton smiled. He made for a winsome woman. “Shall I pour tea for everyone?”
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“Please,” said Lord Ingram.
Once everyone had their tea, Mrs. Watson cleared her throat. “Thank you all for coming—to help me. Because this is most certainly something I undertook, and I did so knowing that I could not manage it by myself. That I’d need a great deal of help. Mr. Marbleton, shall I explain something of the circumstances?”
“Lord Ingram has kindly informed me of the general contours of the situation. So if everyone else has been filled in . . .”
He looked at Livia. She gave him a small nod, feeling a surge of warmth in her chest.
“In that case,” said Mrs. Watson, “here is the summary of our task: to liberate certain letters from the back of a portrait by Van Dyck, currently held at Château Vaudrieu outside of Paris, and which will find itself under new ownership in a fortnight, as part of the proceedings at the château’s annual masquerade ball.
“Miss Charlotte Holmes visited the offices of two magazines today and was fortunate enough to be permitted into their archives without a prior appointment. Will you care to tell us what you have learned, Miss Charlotte?”
“I couldn’t find out very much, except that the château changed hands about fifteen years ago. The current owner, a Monsieur Albrecht, is said to be a Swiss manufacturer. His mistress, Madame Desrosiers, lives at Château Vaudrieu and organizes the ball. And her brother arranges for these private art sales.”
“Thank you, Miss Holmes.” Mrs. Watson turned to Lord Ingram. “My lord, after we met yesterday, you made some inquiries, too. Did you learn anything?”
“I did. Given that we have scant time and much to do, we need someone in France immediately. Under different circumstances I would have already crossed the Channel, but now I cannot move as easily. I will head to Paris after I escort my children to my eldest brother’s estate, but until then, I must appoint someone to act on my behalf.
“Fortunately, I have an ally who happens to be passing through France. My cable caught him in Paris, and he has since learned that there will be a reception ahead of the ball for those wishing to submit private bids to view the artworks. He has also found out that when the château was purchased by M. Albrecht, the architect firm of Balzac & Girault redesigned portions of the interior. My ally will pay the firm a visit, in the hope of securing the architectural plans.”
“Your ally sounds inordinately competent—and proficient,” said Mrs. Watson. “We are not speaking of Lord Remington, are we?”
Lord Remington, Lord Ingram’s second-eldest brother, had left for India not long ago.
“No, not my brother, but someone I trust.”
“If he can find the architectural plans, it would be of great help to us,” said Charlotte.
“If they are to be found, he will find them,” answered Lord Ingram. “In addition to my ally, I also cabled the French branch of my godfather’s family.”
The French branch of that family was one of the wealthiest and most powerful in the country.
“I asked for help with invitations to the masquerade ball. I have been assured invitations will be forthcoming. And a house will be waiting in Paris, when we get there.”
“But that’s marvelous,” exclaimed Mrs. Watson, “especially the invitations.”
“You seem to have everything well in hand. Are you sure you will need my services?” asked Mr. Marbleton with a grin.
“We have nothing in hand,” said Charlotte. “We have no plan on how to go about this and cannot formulate one until we see and know more. Which is why, though I cannot tell you what we might need you to do, Mr. Marbleton, I prefer to have you with us. If nothing else, think of it as a sponsored trip to Paris.”
“Why not?” Mr. Marbleton turned to Miss Livia. “If nothing else, may I squire you about Paris? Perhaps for a walk in the Jardin des Tuileries, if weather permits?”
Livia thought she would stammer, her heart was beating so fast. But her voice sounded even, as if gentlemen escorting her around foreign capitals was a regular occurrence. “I should like that.”
“And the Louvre, too?”
“If you won’t be too busy.”
“You might both be too busy,” said Charlotte. “But you will come with us, Mr. Marbleton?”
He smiled at Livia. “That would be my great pleasure and privilege.”
* * *
You are a romantic, Holmes had told Lord Ingram shortly before the troubles at Stern Hollow.
He’d protested that he hadn’t been a romantic in a long time.
She’d corrected him. Being disappointed in love does not change a man’s fundamental nature. You are more cautious, you wonder whether you can ever make a good choice, but you do not question the validity of romantic love in and of itself.
She was right. For someone whose own love story had ended catastrophically, he was nowhere as cynical as he should be. He felt no scorn at all toward Mr. Marbleton’s undisguised sentiments, only concern for the obstacles he and Miss Olivia faced. He wanted to shield them from everything that could damage or pollute their affections.
From life itself.
He could see in Mrs. Watson’s indulgent and slightly anxious expression that she felt the same. Holmes, on the other hand, was almost aggressive in her neutrality.
He felt a pang in his chest. What did a man who still believed deeply in “the validity of romantic love in and of itself” do with a woman who believed deeply otherwise?
The company was dispersing. He must first take his children to his brother’s place, but everyone else would take the tidal express service from Victoria Station that evening. Mr. Marbleton slipped out first, via a service door. Lord Ingram accompanied the ladies to their waiting carriage in front, but Holmes surprised him by seeing them off and then asking if he would take her home in a hackney.
“Yes, of course,” he said, his heart thudding.
She was wrapped in a midnight blue mantle with prominent streaks of light green. Pedestrians on both sides of the street craned their necks to get a better look at it. Years ago, the sight of this very garment had made him ask why she chose to array herself in such a cacophony of colors.
His irritation had been building with regard to her wardrobe. She possessed a fine figure and eyes that could fetch a man from across a ballroom. Why did a woman with such obvious assets—and a frightfully perceptive mind to boot—feel the need to wear garish and frequently over-festooned clothes?
She’d looked at him for a minute and said, Unbroken stretches of a single color or texture, especially in clothes and interiors, overwhelmed me as a child. I had to close my eyes to ward off headaches. I’m no longer affected to the same extent, but I still have an instinctive preference for more colors and textures over fewer.
Until then he had thought of her clothes only in terms of the unnecessary attention they’d precipitated—he himself greatly disliked unnecessary attention. It had never occurred to him that those multitudes of hues and trimmings could serve any purpose besides making both men and women whip around for a closer study.
But he’d been arrogant and self-righteous in those days. Rather than feeling ashamed for having been so wrong in his assumptions, he had instead become annoyed by just how strange she was. And by the fact that he was and would continue to be friends with a girl so far from normality she’d need a sextant and an ocean voyage to find it.
“You still have this mantle,” he said softly.
“Livia brought it from home. She hates it, so she knows it must be one of my favorites.”
“It’s striking.”
“You hated it, too.”
Not so much anymore.
A hackney arrived. He handed her up and gave Mrs. Watson’s address.
“What do you think of the situation with the maharani?” she asked, once they were on their way.
This was the discussion he’d expected; still he felt a sharp k
ick of disappointment. Already he wondered whether their days of greater intimacy were behind them; her demeanor, all coolness and efficiency, certainly gave him no hope otherwise. He sighed inwardly, feeling like a child separated from an avalanche of sweets by the largest, thickest display window in the entire world.
“I wish we knew what the maharani is being blackmailed for—and who is her blackmailer,” he said. “That would shed a great deal of light on the situation.”
“I posed those exact questions to the maharani and received no answers,” she said. Then, after a pause, “Mrs. Watson actually named her?”
“Not initially. But I told Mrs. Watson that I must know the exact identity of this friend of hers.” A man became a little more suspicious after his wife turned out to be Moriarty’s agent.
“And did knowing her identity ease any of your concerns?”
“Somewhat. No one meets the queen without a clean dossier. I read hers last night. She was considered a fair and forward-thinking regent who made substantial improvements to her realm. It is solvent and stands in good stead with its neighbors and with the government of India.”
The government of India being the British.
She nodded slowly. “Do you not find it strange that someone like her is being blackmailed?”
Her hat was veiled. The netting did not truly conceal her features, but directed attention to her full lips, the only exposed part of her face. He stared at her mouth a moment too long, before he lifted his eyes to meet her veiled gaze. “No stranger than someone like you becoming one of the biggest scandals of the decade.”
The tiny jet beads on the netting caught and refracted the grey light of an overcast afternoon. “Any theory on what her misstep might have been?”
“My first assumption was that her letters were sent to an illicit lover—and contain embarrassing, possibly lurid passages. But that is too easy a line of thinking when the person being blackmailed is a beautiful woman. You?”
The Art of Theft Page 8
