She touched the envelope and drew back her hand, as if scalded. “But the children—my lord, they will be thrust into the care of a stranger.”
“Temporarily, until Miss Potter is no longer a stranger to them. And I will be there, too, to help them get to know one another.”
“Surely—”
“Surely, even if I were intent on matrimony, I must think of myself, too, and not only of my children. I do not believe we shall suit, Miss Yarmouth, and there really isn’t anything else to say on the matter. You may return to your duties.”
She rose slowly, curtsied, and left, this time holding the envelope tight.
His answer might sting, but the contents of the envelope should go a long way toward soothing any hurt pride.
And now, one less problem in his life.
* * *
Mr. Marbleton came with the ladies to Mrs. Watson’s house. To celebrate their success, they went out for a sumptuous dinner at Verrey’s. Afterward, Charlotte and Mrs. Watson both retired early, leaving the duty of chaperoning Livia entirely to Livia herself.
It was a rare clear night for this time of the year. There were actually stars overhead, small, cold twinkles of light, visible from the window of the afternoon parlor. She and Mr. Marbleton each nursed a finger of whisky, but she didn’t need the eau de vie in her throat to feel a warmth glowing inside.
She loved summer and he was the most summery man she had ever met.
“I’m leaving in the morning,” she said softly, not wanting to face that eventuality herself. “As much as I’d like to remain longer, I simply must go home before my parents realize that I’ve been gone awhile.”
“Will you be all right at home?”
“I think so.”
She felt more . . . sturdy. She had not made any particularly crucial contribution to the great endeavor at Château Vaudrieu this past fortnight, but she’d acquitted herself conscientiously. And she’d finished her Sherlock Holmes story, possibly the greatest solo undertaking of her life.
Having proved something to herself, she should be able to bear life at home better—at least for a while.
“I must also leave soon,” he said. “Remember what I said the other day about having someone inside Moriarty’s organization?”
Her stomach tightened at the mention of that name—it was impossible to entirely disregard Charlotte’s pronouncements. But she trusted him enough that she was willing to believe he wasn’t Moriarty’s son—and that if he were, he would have already told her.
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “Charlotte thought it might have been Madame Desrosiers.”
“Now that Moriarty is back and considers Madame Desrosiers a traitor, our advantage is going to evaporate into thin air. I should find my parents and my sister and tell them what I know firsthand, so that together we can decide what to do next.”
She had thought that might be the case, but still, she wished . . .
There was so much she wished for.
“Have you . . . have you ever heard of Andalusia?” he asked, a little hesitantly.
She gazed at him a moment and smiled, her heart as buoyant as a hydrogen balloon. “Andalusia, in the south of Spain, where the Alhambra is? Yes, I’ve heard of it. Why do you ask?”
* * *
That night, Livia dreamed of the Court of the Lions at the Alhambra and of the gardens at the Alcázar in Seville, all balmy and light-drenched. She woke up feeling wistful but not terribly sad. When she descended for breakfast, Mr. Marbleton and Charlotte were already at table, the former staring intently at the paper, the latter finishing up a slice of plain toast with her eggs and looking suitably forlorn about it.
Charlotte rose as Livia sat down. “I’m done. Will you be wanting your usual breakfast?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll let the kitchen know.”
When she’d left, Livia turned her attention to Mr. Marbleton. “Before we say our good-byes, shall we affix some method of communication? Given my parents’ current appreciation for the Openshaws, you can probably write to me directly as young Mr. Openshaw. But if there is to be a fallout between the Holmeses and the Openshaws someday, should we have a second system in place?”
He looked up and slowly set aside the paper, his face unusually wan. “I have done something terrible, Miss Olivia.”
Her stomach lurched. “Oh?”
“I broke my promise to you: I have already read your Sherlock Holmes story.”
This was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “You have?”
Did you—did you like it?
As if he’d heard her question, he said, “You should be enormously proud of yourself. It’s absolutely extraordinary. I could read another hundred stories like that and still want more.”
She should be floating on clouds. She’d imagined him complimenting her story, but not even in her wildest daydreams had she anticipated such extravagant praise. And yet her gladness was like a bird with broken wings, unable to take flight.
His tone. His tone was all wrong. What had she thought of only last night? That he was the most summery man she’d ever met? But now his tone made her think of abandoned cemeteries and snow-covered ruins.
“Do you really think so?” she said, her voice sounding disembodied to her own ears.
“I have never been more truthful.”
Silence fell, a silence with teeth and claws. She knew, didn’t she? She knew it would come to this.
“It has been a lovely two weeks,” he said, sounding forced.
Under the table, her hands clenched. “Yes, very lovely.”
“But I think we both know that we’ve always been on borrowed time. I cannot give you either safety or stability. I can’t even take you away from home except on fraudulent pretenses.”
I don’t mind, she wanted to say. I don’t want safety or stability with someone else. I’m happy with borrowed time and stolen moments with you.
But all that made it past her rapidly closing throat was a croaked, “I see.”
“It would be—I mean, I have already been selfish enough, taking your time. It would be unpardonable for me to continue to do so, knowing that I can offer you nothing of value.”
Her nails dug into the center of her palm. Is laughter something of no value? Is being seen and heard something of no value? What of the comfort I feel in my own skin when I am with you?
“You don’t need to explain,” she said. “I understand. I do.”
“Do you? Were my circumstances anything other than what they are, nothing and no one would have dragged me away from you. But there are some things I cannot change, however much I wish and pray otherwise.”
Her ears rang. Was this to be the end for them? So abrupt and so . . . final, when last night they had been speaking fervently of a future. A future of stolen moments and fraudulent pretenses, yes, but surely a future that included sunny, fragrant Andalusia was worth fighting for, by whatever means necessary.
“Please look after yourself,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“I will,” he said, a bit of the old fervency to his tone. “And I will look for the further adventures of Sherlock Holmes from every last corner in the world.”
He rose and bowed. “Forgive me for not writing. It will hurt too much to be reminded that I cannot be near you.”
With another bow, he left the breakfast parlor.
* * *
Ten minutes after the carriage left, taking Livia and Mrs. Watson to the railway station, Mr. Marbleton was still standing by the window in the dining room, looking out at the direction in which they’d disappeared.
Charlotte watched him for another minute. “I take it something unwelcome happened.”
He did not look at her. “There was a message in the papers for me this morning. Moriarty has my parents.”
The fall of Madame Desrosiers always portended ill for the Marbletons. But Charlotte had not expected such a rapid development. “How?”
“I don’t know, exactly. If Madame Desrosiers didn’t have time to take all her secrets with her when she fled Château Vaudrieu, and if she’d left behind something concerning us . . .”
“How do you know it’s not a ruse?”
He still stared out the window, his hand on the window frame. “Only the four of us know this particular code. Only the four of us and no one else.”
Charlotte left the breakfast parlor. When she returned with a glass of whisky, he was sitting on the floor, his hands covering his face.
Overnight, he had lost everything.
She set down the glass on the table. “What does Moriarty want?”
He expelled a shaky breath. “Me.”
“Because you are his son?”
He shuddered. “Because I’m his son.”
“Why didn’t you tell my sister the truth? I thought you always tell the truth to those who matter.”
He laughed bitterly and at last looked up, his eyes bleak. “Nobody can be that honest, Miss Charlotte, especially to those who matter. My parents hid the truth of my parentage. I was the one who found out and confronted them. And then of course I wished I’d never done either. That I’d had the good sense to not question the comforting lies they had told for my sake.”
He struggled up from the floor. She remembered his grace and agility, scaling the fence at Château Vaudrieu. Now he moved as if weighted down by shackles.
He picked up the glass of whisky and drained its contents. Staring at the empty glass, he said, as if to himself, “I don’t want Miss Livia to know that I’m going to Moriarty. Let her believe that I remain at large, spending my days in little hilltop villages in the Alpes-Maritimes, overlooking the Mediterranean. Let her believe . . . let her believe anything she wants, as long as it’s not the truth.”
Livia and Mrs. Watson would not have reached the train station yet. Would Livia be weeping in the carriage right now, with Mrs. Watson trying to console her? Or would she clamp down hard and not say anything, not even to Mrs. Watson?
“My sister is a very intelligent woman,” said Charlotte, her voice ever so slightly hoarse. “You think she cannot guess the truth?”
Mr. Marbleton wiped the heel of his hand across his eyes. “Then let her guess, but still be able to fool herself. Let her have that one last gift from me.”
Epilogue
Holmes’s letter reached Lord Ingram the next morning just as he was about to leave his brother’s estate with his children in tow. For the first time in a long time, she wrote in her own version of shorthand, telling him of Mr. Marbleton’s departure.
Of Moriarty’s son, forced to return to the fold.
How quickly things changed. One moment Andalusia was within sight; the next it was completely out of reach.
He hadn’t planned to stop in London, except to change trains. But now he would break his journey and call on Holmes. He would not wait any longer. She had asked him what he’d thought when Mr. Marbleton brought up Andalusia. And he had given her an answer that was convenient, rather than true.
But this time, when he saw her, he would tell her the truth. Which was that he thought often of Andalusia. That he longed for it. That he would give his eyeteeth for it, if only he had the courage.
Could they still go together this spring, or perhaps sooner?
He settled Lucinda and Carlisle at his town house and started for Mrs. Watson’s. He was nervous, far more nervous than he had been before he proposed to or married Lady Ingram. And as his hansom cab approached Mrs. Watson’s house, he felt light-headed with both dread and anticipation.
Was this the right choice, after all? He could no longer judge. He never could.
All he knew was that it was the only choice and he would simply have to accept any and all consequences.
He alit before her house, gripping tightly onto his walking stick. Perhaps he should have brought her something. Flowers. Or cake, if she had managed to reverse Maximum Tolerable Chins. But he was empty-handed, with only a burning desire to see her.
Mr. Mears settled him in the afternoon parlor and went off to announce his arrival. His heart thudded. His mouth turned dry.
“Miss Holmes will be here momentarily,” Mr. Mears returned to inform him.
The doorbell rang. Had he come on Mrs. Watson’s at-home day when she received her friends? Would he be awkwardly justifying his presence to curious strangers? Mr. Mears excused himself to answer the door.
He caught a woman’s voice, speaking low and urgently, and then—
Exactly the outcome he didn’t want, two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs.
The new caller was shown into the afternoon parlor. At the sight of her, his dismay turned into a surprised and bemused pleasure. “Mrs. Treadles!”
Alice Treadles was Inspector Treadles’s wife. And Inspector Robert Treadles, Lord Ingram’s friend, had been heavily involved in some of Holmes’s cases. He hadn’t known, however, that Mrs. Treadles knew Holmes well enough to visit her not at her office, but on a social call at home.
Mrs. Treadles was equally flabbergasted to see him. “My lord! I hope I’m not imposing dreadfully. Robert told me, confidentially of course, that in a hurry I would more easily find Miss Holmes here, rather than at 18 Upper Baker Street. I did knock on 18 Upper Baker Street as well, but there was no one home and—”
Holmes came in then, lovely, unflappable Holmes, in a dress that was a near literal representation of a Christmas tree. Mrs. Treadles stared at her, agape.
“Mrs. Treadles to see you, too, Miss,” said Mr. Mears, and left.
“Mrs. Treadles, very good to meet you at last,” said Holmes. Her gaze turned to him, and lingered for a moment. “My lord, excellent to see you, as always. Do please sit down, everyone.”
But Mrs. Treadles did not sit. She rushed over to Holmes, took her by the hands, and said, “Miss Holmes—please, Miss Holmes, you and your brother must help us. Robert—Inspector Treadles—he’s been arrested on suspicion of murder!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Kerry Donovan, for her saintly patience.
Kristin Nelson, for super-agenting day in and day out.
Janine Ballard, for making me write better.
Kate Reading, for bringing the Lady Sherlock books to life in audio.
My poor brain, for having held up for this book.
And you, if you are reading this, thank you. Thank you for everything.
Photo by Jennifer Sparks Harriman
USA Today bestselling author Sherry Thomas is one of the most acclaimed historical fiction authors writing today, winning the RITA Award two years running and appearing on innumerable “Best of the Year” lists, including those of Publishers Weekly, Kirkus Reviews, Library Journal, Dear Author, and All About Romance. Her novels include A Study in Scarlet Women and A Conspiracy in Belgravia, the first two books in the Lady Sherlock series; My Beautiful Enemy; and The Luckiest Lady in London.
She lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband and sons.
CONNECT ONLINE
sherrythomas.com
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
rayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
The Art of Theft Page 29
