“You can’t be sure of that.”
“No, yet I’m surer of that than I am of Mr. Finch being at Château Vaudrieu at all.” She studied him some more. “Who would risk his life to infiltrate the dungeons of Château Vaudrieu, if such a place exists, to rescue Mr. Finch? I take it you would consider it your obligation?”
He didn’t say anything. But yes, he would.
Her eyes bored into his. “Who taught you that your life was so cheap? And why did you allow yourself to be sent on missions where you had only your wits to keep you alive? You are not a tool to be deployed at the whim of some reckless master, and you don’t have to prove your worth by leaping at every task other people are too afraid to do.”
He flinched. “I don’t know.”
But perhaps he did know. His irregular parentage, his failed marriage, his opportunistic and cold-blooded brother—everything contributed. But they would all have been irrelevant if he hadn’t burned with the desire to be not only above reproach, but indispensable.
He needed to be needed.
Looking back, more than Lady Ingram’s beauty, it had been her seeming vulnerability that had drawn him to her. How he’d loved being her knight in shining armor. And when that had turned to dust, he’d become a willing instrument for Bancroft: Bancroft might have needed only a brave fool, and he’d often felt worse for letting himself be used, but still, he’d been needed.
Holmes sighed. “Keep Mrs. Watson in mind, will you? We can’t afford to divert resources to a different objective on the night of the ball. She needs all of us, including you, to stay on task.”
He studied her once-again smooth and composed countenance. Surely she knew that if she said she needed him, he would . . .
Pledge his devotion the way a knight of yore would to his liege lady, ready to slay dragons. Alas that he should be born in the wrong age and his liege lady preferred to confine him to her bed and direct her own artillery unit, should firedrakes appear in the sky.
Not that she wouldn’t be the first to remind him that the ladies of yesteryear, whose fathers, husbands, and brothers were often away for years at the Crusades, had been they themselves as tough as dragon hide and accustomed to command.
He looked down for moment at his lap. “I’ll speak no more on Mr. Finch. And I’ll concentrate on the task at hand.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “We couldn’t possibly do this without you.”
And just like that, he was ready to build her a French bakery brick by brick with his own hands.
Mrs. Watson poked her head into the parlor. “Ah, there you two are. Shall we to dinner?”
* * *
At dinner Lord Ingram learned that the ladies had been busy. In the day and a half since they had returned to London, not only had they cracked the cipher, they had also visited an art expert, a stage magician’s ingénieur, and not one but two stage costumers. In addition, Mrs. Watson and Miss Olivia had attended to various needlework and alterations and Holmes had spent time with Mr. Lawson, Mrs. Watson’s groom, from whom she learned lock picking this past autumn.
“You’ve done the bulk of the work,” he said in admiration and with a measure of self-reproach. “I’m afraid I’ve spent my time playing either a Roman legionnaire or Margaret of Anjou’s favorite adviser.”
“And that’s as it should be,” said Holmes. “You can’t—and shouldn’t—always do the bulk of the work.”
“But if this is Moriarty, then we can never prepare enough.”
“And since we can’t, whatever we can do will have to suffice.”
She was right. They could never do everything. He exhaled. “Does Mr. Marbleton know that we might be entering a Moriarty lair?”
Holmes glanced at her sister. “Not yet—that’s something better relayed in person. But I did cable him today and ask him to take another look at Château Vaudrieu. And our ally already paid a visit to Monsieur Sylvestre.”
Monsieur Sylvestre, the young scion and current owner of the Van Dyck piece they’d been tasked to steal, who might have put it up for sale most reluctantly.
“Did he get the response he wanted from Monsieur Sylvestre?”
“No, but he did tell Monsieur Sylvestre that we will wait until the day after the ball and not a minute longer.”
Lord Ingram looked toward Miss Olivia, who was eating her peas slowly, one by one, and said to Holmes, “I’m looking forward to that day, when this will be behind us.”
Now Miss Olivia was only moving the peas around her plate. No doubt she also longed to be done with their task, but that would also mark the day she must start for home.
“Mr. Marbleton, I believe, has plans for all of us to meet again, now that we know a forged letter from Mrs. ‘Openshaw’ works to extract Miss Olivia from home,” he went on. “He was speaking very enthusiastically about Andalusia in southern Spain.”
Some color came into Miss Livia’s pale cheeks. “Andalusia—is that where the Alhambra is?”
“Among many other beautiful sights, yes.”
“That is a marvelous idea,” enthused Mrs. Watson. “You devised a magnificent scheme, Miss Olivia, to come and visit, but we haven’t been able to show you a proper good time. Let us make it all up to you next time.”
“My goodness, no one around this table owes me anything. I came to spend time with you all and I have done exactly that. But the south of Spain does sound so very enticing.” Miss Olivia placed a hand over her heart. “And so very sunny.”
Lord Ingram glanced at Holmes. Maybe this could be the beginning of their tour around the world, it if was meant to be a real trip.
Holmes, on the other hand, seemed not to be thinking of warm, bright Spain at all. “My lord, after dinner, we will need to consult with you on the architectural plans.”
He sighed inwardly but was already looking forward to poring over the plans with her.
Yes, m’dear. He tried the phrase in his head—and shuddered. No, that would not do at all.
“Over port or cigars?” he asked instead.
And that, at least, got a very slight smile from her. She turned to Mrs. Watson. “You have both, I believe, ma’am?”
* * *
When they adjourned to the late Dr. Watson’s study, Mrs. Watson was the only one to take a cigar, from her fine Cuban collection. Livia imbibed a little port. Lord Ingram, probably too long accustomed to not doing either in mixed company, abstained. Charlotte, too, refrained.
Her vice was the consumption of sweet, delicious foodstuff that was, alas, largely unnecessary for the sustenance of the body. Perhaps because of the current lack of sweet, delicious foodstuff in her life, she found herself more aware of Lord Ingram’s nearness. Of the brush of his knuckle against the architectural plan as he traced a line in thought, the neat, close crop of his hair around his ear, and the set of his chin in the valley between his thumb and forefinger as he considered the locations of fireplaces and chimneys.
Livia and Mrs. Watson, as if by unspoken agreement, slipped out. He appeared not to have noticed their departures, but he must realize that they were now alone.
He did not take advantage of the situation, but moved to where a globe stood and frowned at it. The numbers she’d decoded, if read as longitudes and latitudes, landed them in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, halfway between Cape Verde and the Lesser Antilles, not exactly a useful locale for anyone.
Which was why she had decided that they were not coordinates.
At last he glanced in her direction—and considered her. Would he? she wondered rather idly. Would her dear stick-in-the-mud friend overcome his many scruples to consort with her on this fine night, with a fog rolling in and the outside world disappearing beyond the windows?
There was no lust in his eyes. A slight bemusement, perhaps, as if he were regarding an artifact he’d unearthed, something that seemed to share
a surface resemblance to other objects he’d come across, only to turn out, on closer examination, to be utterly different.
No lust, but a greater and starker intensity to his gaze, that of someone who has lost sleep over his artifact, who pondered its mysteries in every spare moment.
“Do you think . . .” he said slowly. “Do you think I could meet Miss Holmes?”
He was speaking of Bernadine.
“Yes,” she said. “Come with me.”
Bernadine, who had no obligations that she must fulfill, did not keep particularly early hours. Charlotte brought Lord Ingram to her door and went in first. Livia was there and she was surprised to see Charlotte.
“She’s fine,” said Livia. “She’s better here than she was at home.”
“That is not saying much,” answered Charlotte. “Lord Ingram wishes to meet Bernadine. Is it all right if he enters?”
“Yes, of course,” said Livia, though she sounded a little befuddled. It wasn’t every day—in fact, it was exactly never—that anyone had sought an introduction to Bernadine.
Charlotte admitted Lord Ingram, who glanced toward Bernadine, seated at her usual spot before the rack of spinnable objects, and immediately looked back at Charlotte.
She had told him that she and Bernadine shared a great resemblance, but still he seemed stunned to see this alternate version of her, the same hair, the same features, but rail thin, and in a world that contained only herself.
“Bernadine, this is our good friend Lord Ingram, who has come to pay his respects. My lord, my sister.”
Bernadine did not look at either Charlotte or her visitor, but Lord Ingram inclined his head. “A pleasure, Miss Holmes. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
And then, as if he often met with those who didn’t even return his greeting, he turned to Charlotte and said, “Shall we leave Miss Holmes to her occupation?”
Livia came out with them into the hall. “She really is doing much better. She looks . . . more settled.”
“Even though we’ve been away,” said Charlotte.
Even though they’d been away, this was a calm household, with a noticeable undercurrent of cheerfulness. Bernadine responded well to a lack of acrimony in the air.
Livia said her good-byes to Lord Ingram. Charlotte accompanied him to the front door. “The fog seems horrid. I’m sure Mrs. Watson wouldn’t mind if you stayed in a guest room—or at 18 Upper Baker Street.”
“I’ll be all right,” he said. Then, after a moment, “Miss Olivia tends to be anxious. At least now Miss Holmes will be a lesser source of anxiety for her.”
They were talking around the matter—talking about everything but themselves. She was used to not talking about what was and wasn’t between the two of them, but she couldn’t help but feel that there was something he wanted to say to her.
And she wanted to hear what it was.
“When Mr. Marbleton was waxing poetic about the south of Spain, what did you think, Ash?”
Her question seemed to startle him. “I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking of Spain then,” he said quickly. “Mr. Marbleton was on the verge of hypothermia, and my only concern was getting both of us back to the inn.”
She sighed inwardly. “I see. Good night then, my lord. Be careful out there.”
* * *
Stephen Marbleton was thinking ardently of Andalusia, as he often did when he was cold. It had been home to him in the spring and early summer of the year he turned twelve—or at least in the year his family celebrated his twelfth birthday—one of the few times in his life his family remained in one place for longer than a few weeks.
They’d stayed in a slightly run-down farmhouse, near a vineyard on the outskirts of Jerez de la Frontera. He used to walk between rows of vines under a cloudless sky, hoping, knowing that it was futile, that he would still be there for the grape harvest.
He’d never gone back, afraid that the place had changed or that his memories would prove inaccurate. But with Miss Olivia he wouldn’t have such fears, and he would be happy to squire her to the most lavish Moorish palaces, or the least remarkable remote village.
God, it was cold. He took a gulp of the hot ginger tea in his canteen. Château Vaudrieu had become much more tightly secured since the first night he and Lord Ingram ventured onto the grounds. The chapel was now guarded. The château and all the outbuildings were brightly lit on the outside. And at least four sets of guard dogs circled just inside the fence, making an unauthorized entry a much more harrowing proposition.
Fortunately, Miss Charlotte Holmes had specifically asked him to refrain from unlawful entries. So he had staked out a good elevated spot nearby and put his most powerful pair of binoculars to use. And since he wasn’t trespassing, the illumination around the château made his work easier.
In fact, he had already made a thorough study of the chimneys, as Miss Charlotte had asked him to, and could theoretically slip off to the country house several miles away that was now their secondary base and sit in front of a large stove to warm up. But since it wasn’t raining and his misery wasn’t intolerable, he’d remained in place, in case he came across anything else useful.
The night wore on, growing chillier by the quarter hour, and nothing beyond dogs and their handlers stirred. Even the guards in front of the chapel seemed to be sleeping on their feet. He thought again of the potbellied stove and decided that he’d been away from it long enough.
The lights around the château went out.
He blinked in the sudden darkness.
It wasn’t absolute. The lights outside the chapel, the distant dairy, and some other outbuildings were still lit. Once he became accustomed to the relative dimness, he saw that a horse-drawn cart approached the château.
From inside the château came men carrying large, long bundles. He sucked in a breath. The size of those bundles, around six feet in length, and their apparent weight—two bundles each took two men to carry, a third needed three . . .
They were bodies, wrapped in cloth, now being tossed onto the cart. The cart pulled away at a sedate pace, escorted by a phalanx of men. Cart and men did not head in the direction of the gate but turned after they crossed the bridge and were soon lost behind the bulk of the château.
He gave up any further thought of the potbellied stove.
* * *
Three days before the ball, the ladies and Lord Ingram returned to Paris. The moment they stepped on French soil, Livia’s pulse became irregular. Sometimes her heart raced, sometimes it thudded, sometimes she could barely feel it beat beneath the intense pressure on her chest.
The first time she visited Château Vaudrieu, as a matter of general reconnaissance, it had felt like a holiday, or at least a rather lighthearted excursion. The second time she’d been nervous, but too overworked to fall victim to such things as dry mouth or sweaty palms. But now, knowing she could very well be stepping into Moriarty’s lair—or one of his lairs—she could not stop her body from reacting as if she were already in certain danger.
She didn’t say anything to anyone, but Mrs. Watson patted her on the back from time to time. And Charlotte brought her a glass of vin chaud as everyone gathered to confer again in the library at Hôtel Papillon.
“Should I imbibe when no one else is?” asked Livia. “And isn’t it a bit too early to have wine?”
It was only three o’clock in the afternoon.
“You are among friends—and this is France. Not to mention”—Charlotte tilted her head in the direction of Mr. Marbleton, who raised his own glass of vin chaud to them—“you won’t be drinking alone.”
Livia smiled at Mr. Marbleton and took a grateful sip, already feeling less jittery.
“Our original objective was to obtain Van Dyck’s Deposition.” Charlotte, standing behind a Louis XIV chair, began. “Obviously, as we were dealing with blackmailers, the situation was ne
ver simple. Now, however, it has become considerably more complicated.
“The most important thing to understand is that in the overall scheme, we are but a distraction—not even the stage magician’s skimpily attired assistant, only the rhinestones on her bodice. I don’t think the mastermind behind our forced incursion into Château Vaudrieu cares in the least whether we succeed or fail. There are a number of other paintings that are smaller, easier to steal, and just as valuable. The only reason to assign a seven-foot-by-five-foot work to be pinched in the midst of a crowded function is to ensure that we would resort to the most desperate measures and thereby cause maximum disruption.
“If we, and three or four other parties like ours, are to provide a large-scale distraction, it behooves us to ask its purpose. Why does the mastermind want the chaos?”
Mr. Marbleton seemed to be perfectly at ease, listening attentively, but without any sense of premonition. Livia, however, was already bracing herself, as if they sailed rough seas and at any moment the floor might dip sideways. Her heart thudded. It thudded even harder when Lord Ingram looked first at him, then at her.
“Incidentally, or perhaps not incidentally at all,” continued Charlotte, “remember the woman Miss Olivia saw enter Château Vaudrieu on the afternoon of the reception? During our trip to England, Lord Ingram unearthed certain facts that lead him to believe that the woman is Lady Ingram. Given that Lady Ingram has very few people she can turn to for help, there is a possibility that she has reconciled with Moriarty and that the host of the ball at Château Vaudrieu is none other than Moriarty.”
Mr. Marbleton had been about to raise his glass to his lips—and stopped mid-motion. Livia held her breath. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm. “That makes a great deal of sense. Blackmail has long been a bread-and-butter method of income for Moriarty.”
The Art of Theft Page 22
