“Yes,” she murmured. “I do believe you are quite all right. I have some matters to see to. Shall I send Forêt up?”
* * *
Mrs. Watson, sitting on an opulent, canopied bed, could not stop herself from shaking, not even in front of Miss Charlotte. Every time she thought of poor Mr. Marbleton, of how ice-cold and confused he had been, fresh tremors would seize her.
Miss Charlotte had informed her that Lord Ingram did not appear to be suffering any lingering effects from his unplanned night swim. And that Mr. Marbleton, too, had awakened and dined, and was now luxuriating in a bath with a French novel that Miss Olivia had selected from Hôtel Papillon’s library.
Still . . .
“My God,” Mrs. Watson murmured to herself. “But what if we’d been less fortunate? What if something had happened?”
She’d been repeating those questions—and using the Lord’s name in vain—for goodness knew how long. Miss Charlotte had asked whether she wished to see the gentlemen for herself. But how could she face them again, after having put them in such danger?
And she was so cold, almost as if she, too, had fallen into that frigid lake. She pulled the covers more tightly about herself, but she knew it wouldn’t help, not as long as a glacier of fear and guilt advanced inexorably inside her.
After a while Miss Charlotte left. Mrs. Watson, at first relieved to no longer have an audience for her wretchedness, soon felt bereft, her misery doubling, tripling.
But two minutes later her young friend returned with a knitting basket and retook her seat near the foot of the bed. She didn’t say anything, only knitted.
At an extraordinarily even tempo. One could keep time by counting the unhurried clicking of her needles.
Gradually, the gentle rhythm mesmerized Mrs. Watson. And gradually, she, who had not slept in more than thirty-six hours, closed her eyes and lost herself in welcome oblivion.
* * *
Livia was astonished at herself, in that she hadn’t devolved into a blubbering mess that needed to be scraped from the floor. After Mr. Marbleton’s bath, they had spent some time reading aloud to each other from the French novel she’d chosen for his amusement. And then she’d been content for him to shoo her out so she could get some rest.
She didn’t feel sleepy yet, only dull and uncoordinated. She walked slowly, occasionally bracing a hand on the wall.
Someone took hold of her arm. “Did you eat?”
Charlotte.
Livia nodded, though she could no longer remember what she had eaten.
“And how is Mr. Marbleton?”
“When I left him, he was planning to read a little more,” answered Livia, smiling to herself. “Lord Ingram?”
“He’s fine. Monsieur Forêt is looking after him.”
Livia had a vague memory of someone urging a plate on her, reminding her that she must keep up her strength. That would have been Monsieur Forêt. The implication of Charlotte’s words sank in a moment later. “You weren’t with Lord Ingram just now?”
“I was with Mrs. Watson.”
Livia’s heart pinched. “How is she?”
“Racked by guilt that the gentlemen went into danger for her cause—and that the outcome could have been much worse.”
Livia rather thought that she, too, would have been tortured by her conscience. After all, Mr. Marbleton wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for her. Instead she was simply glad that he had recovered. Every cell in her body sang with relief, leaving no room for self-recrimination.
Or maybe she was simply too tired to feel anything else.
“Mrs. Watson ought to be proud of herself,” she said. “You should have seen her ministering to the gentlemen. They are far better off than they would be otherwise.”
“One can always count on Mrs. Watson in an emergency,” said Charlotte. “But at the moment, she is far from appreciative of herself.”
Livia shook her head and allowed herself to be guided by Charlotte, as she was too muddled to remember which room she had been assigned. But when they stopped before a door, a thought dropped into her head and knocked her sideways.
“Charlotte, you don’t suppose—you don’t suppose Mrs. Watson will call the whole thing off tomorrow, do you?”
If she did . . . Livia didn’t know how she’d feel about that.
Charlotte opened the door for her. “At the moment,” she said, “I believe that is what Mrs. Watson intends to do.”
Nine
Mrs. Watson opened her heavy eyes. Her neck was stiff. Her right hand, caught under her body during the night, had turned numb. And somewhere in the back of her mind throbbed a dull yet persistent dread.
She blinked a few times. Light seeped into the unfamiliar room from behind curtains. Her travel alarm clock, on the nightstand, read a quarter after eight.
So late.
Memories rushed back. She bolted upright and flung aside the covers—she must see how the gentlemen were doing this morning. Then she dropped her head into her hands. Her entire body sagged. No, she couldn’t face them, not after having put them through so much danger and suffering.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Yes?”
“A letter for you, Madame Watson,” came Forêt’s soft voice. “I’ll put it in under the door.”
A letter for her? Here? Even Penelope didn’t know she was in town.
She scrambled off her bed, pulled on a dressing gown, and went to the door. When she picked up the envelope, she recognized the handwriting immediately. Mr. Mears’s.
Dear Mrs. Watson,
I hope this letter finds you, Miss Olivia, and Miss Charlotte well.
Her Highness the Maharani of Ajmer called just now. I told her that you were out of the country, as you authorized me to do. She asked if you had gone to France and I said I could not comment on the specifics of your itinerary.
After some hesitation, she declared that she was headed to Paris herself and asked that you please call on her at Hôtel de la Paix in Place Vendôme, at your earliest convenience.
My best wishes for your health and well-being.
Yours truly,
Mears
P.S. Miss Holmes is getting along well enough, in case her sisters worry.
Mrs. Watson clutched the letter and closed her eyes.
This was perfect. She would dress and head out immediately. And when she saw the maharani, she would apologize for biting off more than she could chew and that would be the end of it.
* * *
Miss Charlotte, already dressed for going out, rose from a chair in the foyer. “Good morning, ma’am. May I join you to call on the maharani?”
Mrs. Watson stopped in her tracks. How—
“I understand there has been a letter from home,” said Miss Charlotte. “Had there been a true emergency, Mr. Mears would have cabled. I assume, since he used the post, that the maharani called at our house and told him she would be coming to Paris?”
This was—excellent. On her own, Mrs. Watson’s resolution might waver. But with Miss Charlotte along, Miss Charlotte, who had been against being involved in the maharani’s problems from the beginning, Mrs. Watson would be sure to hold the line.
“You are correct. And yes, please join me,” she said. “Have you seen the gentlemen this morning? How are they?”
“I have not seen Lord Ingram, who has gone for a walk. But I did see Mr. Marbleton in the library just now, whispering to Monsieur Forêt, arranging for a bouquet of flowers to be delivered to my sister.”
Such a romantic. And how could she ever have faced Miss Olivia again, if anything had happened to him? “It’s good to know that they are up and about.”
“They are doing well. And they are grateful that you knew exactly what to do in a case of incipient hypothermia.”
Mrs. Watso
n immediately experienced another lashing of her conscience. “But they should never have been put in that situation in the first place.”
“From what I understand, ma’am, you never suggested that they visit the estate at night and climb over the fences. The gentlemen did what they saw fit. They are grown-ups—or, in Mr. Marbleton’s case, almost of age. And they are fully capable of choosing their course of action.”
Mrs. Watson did not say anything, and Miss Charlotte did not persist.
Their walk to the hotel passed largely in silence.
* * *
The maharani opened the door herself.
At Mrs. Watson’s surprised look, she said, “I left my servants behind.”
She looked different. Not soft or open by any means, but not as rigid or closed as she had been in London. In fact, as her gaze landed on Mrs. Watson, her eyes were almost . . . welcoming.
When she saw that her caller had not come alone, however, her jaw tightened, slightly but noticeably. Mrs. Watson glanced quickly at Miss Charlotte. The latter, who missed nothing, did not appear at all bothered that their hostess didn’t want her there.
Mrs. Watson debated what she ought to say. In the end, after everyone sat down, she opted for, “I understand you called after I left London, Your Highness. Was there some instruction you wished to relay?”
If she immediately announced she no longer planned to rob Château Vaudrieu, then she wouldn’t hear what the maharani wanted to say. And Mrs. Watson had to admit, to herself at least, that she was terribly curious.
The maharani cast a look at Miss Charlotte, a not-so-subtle reminder that she wished the young woman would absent herself. Miss Charlotte reacted not at all. Mrs. Watson squirmed a little on the inside, even as her pulse accelerated.
“I only sought to thank you,” said the maharani after a while. “My astonishment at finding out your involvement with Sherlock Holmes—alongside the temporary embezzlement of my jewelry—was such that it overrode all my other reactions. It wasn’t until well after you’d left that it occurred to me what a gargantuan task you’d taken on.
“If it were remotely easy, I’d have found some way to do it myself. But it isn’t easy at all.” The maharani gazed at Mrs. Watson, her eyes dark, starlit wells. “I’m deeply moved by your gallantry.”
Mrs. Watson’s heart thudded, even as she was towed under by a tide of dismay. Dear God, how did she tell a woman who’d crossed the English Channel to express her gratitude that her gallantry had just reached its limits?
Her expression—and her uncomfortable silence—must have conveyed enough of her dilemma that the maharani looked away for a moment. “I see. You came to tell me that you have reconsidered your choice.”
Mrs. Watson cursed herself. How could she hurt and disappoint the maharani again? Her heart and her throat burned, but she had no choice. “Please understand, Your Highness. If it were only myself involved, I wouldn’t need to practice as much prudence. But I’m entirely out of my depth and entirely reliant on friends. Some of those friends have children, others ladies whom they love dearly. And now that I see the dangers before us—”
She shook her head. “I can risk myself, but I am finding it increasingly difficult to risk my friends.”
The maharani said nothing, her eyes once again shuttered.
Mrs. Watson wished she could dig a hole and bury herself. “But I also loathe the threat of exposure hanging over your head like the sword of Damocles. Perhaps—perhaps if you could reveal the nature of the letters you wish to retrieve . . .”
“No, I have no desire to reveal that.”
“Then, may I—may I make an assumption?”
“I cannot stop you.”
Mrs. Watson winced at the coolness in that answer. “It’s quite a vulgar assumption, of course. But the world is not a fair place, and women must pay a heavy price for certain infractions that do not seem to affect men at all.”
The maharani showed no reaction.
Mrs. Watson girded herself and carried on. “If something of this nature took place, I beg you to please consider that however embarrassing exposure might be, we are perhaps past the age of maximum damage. As long as your son’s legitimacy cannot be questioned . . .”
“As long as he can sit on his throne, it does not matter if I can never show my face in public again?”
“That might be too crude a manner of putting it. But . . .” Mrs. Watson inhaled. “But does your never being able to show your face again outweigh actual lives, Your Highness? That is the calculation I must make here.”
“Then you must make the calculation that seems best to you.”
“Which is why I am hoping, very much, that you will let me know what kind of threat you are dealing with.”
“No, you will not know that,” said the maharani, every inch the queen. “Make your calculations, Mrs. Watson.”
“If I may,” murmured Miss Charlotte, “I have a theory of my own with regard to the maharani’s current difficulties.”
Mrs. Watson had almost forgotten that she was still there, in the same room. The maharani, too, judging by her surprised and visibly irate expression.
“I propose,” continued Miss Charlotte, “that this is not a matter involving, at its core, any kind of affair or liaison.”
It wasn’t?
“That Mrs. Watson should assume so is quite natural. Her place in life has been determined, for better or for worse, by such infractions. Her path in life—one might even say her success in life—has been paved with such infractions.
“But you, Your Highness, have led a very different existence. Your concern, as regent, was power and alliances. Which makes me think that your mistake, for which you are being blackmailed, also concerns statecraft.
“And yet it seems unlikely that your mistake arises from friendships and enmities between your house and other princely houses in the region. For one, letters to that effect have no reason to end up in a French château, among artworks that most likely came from elsewhere in Europe. For another, and this is the more important reason, if your current dilemma concerned schemes against your neighbor, you wouldn’t be so adamant to keep it a secret from us.
“Which leads me to wonder whether you have been conspiring to rid India of its British empress.”
Mrs. Watson leaped up from her chair, ready to defend the maharani against such an unthinkable charge.
“Though in my personal opinion,” Miss Charlotte continued calmly, “you are too seasoned a politician to make such a mistake. Your son, on the other hand . . .”
Surely—surely—
Yet seconds passed. Minutes. And no denial sallied forth from the maharani.
“You are a dangerous woman, Miss Charlotte Holmes,” she said at last. “Even after our last meeting, knowing the theft you arranged from right underneath my nose, I still underestimated you.”
Miss Charlotte inclined her head. Mrs. Watson tried to speak and could not. Did this mean that Miss Charlotte was right? That the current maharaja had rebellion on his mind?
“Please sit down, Mrs. Watson,” said the maharani quietly. “I believe I shall ring for some coffee.”
Mrs. Watson did as she was told, still stunned. Coffee came quickly, via a dumbwaiter that dinged pleasantly as it shunted into place. Miss Charlotte rose, went to the small compartment, and brought back the tray.
The maharani poured and handed a cup to Miss Charlotte. “A cream puff with your coffee?”
“Alas,” said Miss Charlotte, “I already had breakfast. But thank you very much, Your Highness.”
“For you, Mrs. Watson?”
What Mrs. Watson needed was a stiff drink. She shook her head.
The maharani took a sip of her own coffee. “My son began to reign on his own three years ago. After the transition, I left for a pilgrimage tour. I had long wished to see our holy
sites, but the more important reason was that I feared I might be tempted to interfere too much, if I were to remain at court.
“The maharaja had long been impatient to rule on his own. The court and I hesitated because of that very impatience. He had many ideas but we felt that his temperament was not even-keeled enough for the wise application of power.
“This, of course, led to many disagreements. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that we were estranged, but we were no longer close. If I stayed, I would find faults with his decisions and he, having at last wrested power from me, would refuse to listen.”
There was no trace of emotion in the maharani’s tone but Mrs. Watson’s heart ached. How frustrating it must have been, and how exhausting, to know that she must either give up being a mother, or fail her responsibilities to her realm.
“So I went away, to give him time to grow into kingship,” the maharani went on, in that same unaffected demeanor. “I also hoped that his wife, a sensible woman, would prove to be a steadying influence. I returned home after a year to find that he had changed. That he had become both moodier and yet, somehow, more timid.
“His wife told me in secret what happened, because she was frightened not to have the advice of any elders on something so potentially catastrophic. And that was when I learned that shortly after I left, he took up corresponding with someone who claimed to be writing on behalf of the Margrave of B----------. That first letter was followed by precisely ten dashes, never one less, never one more, so he surmised that the name of the title was eleven letters long.
“He’d been tutored in European history and immediately thought of Brandenburg. The title was abolished when the Holy Roman Empire ceased to exist, but because the mark itself had long been ruled by the House of Hohenzollern, the head of that royal household is still styled ‘Margrave of Brandenburg,’ among other things.”
The head of the House of Hohenzollern was the King of Prussia. And since the unification, also the emperor of Imperial Germany.
The Art of Theft Page 13
