A Conspiracy in Belgravia

by Sherry Thomas

  She shook her head. “I’ll need to call on them again—at least to make sure Eleanor is all right.”

  A thought occurred to Treadles. “I’m sure Barnaby will be fine in no time. But what if something were to go awry, what happens to Cousins Manufacturing?”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt he’ll recover, sooner or later.” Alice frowned. “It’s been a long time since I read my father’s will. But if I remember correctly, if Barnaby were to die without any male issue, the firm would come to me.”

  And Barnaby and Eleanor Cousins, like Robert and Alice Treadles, had no children.

  None that had survived both the womb and the outside world, in any case.

  Ten

  SUNDAY

  Ever since Charlotte had run away, Livia had been under an interminable interrogation, conducted by ladies Avery and Somersby, Society’s leading gossips. One of the ladies, or both, was always tapping Livia on the shoulder, to ask whether she’d had any news from her scandalous baby sister.

  But the moment Livia wanted to find them, they disappeared.

  Or at least that was how it felt.

  She even asked her mother whether the gossips had left town, only to be told that she was an idiot. “Why would they, when everyone is still in London? Besides, I saw them yesterday.”

  Which was patently false as Lady Holmes had suffered from a headache the day before, took laudanum for it, and didn’t leave her bed all day.

  But Livia didn’t argue. Arguing with her mother was like arguing with a brick wall. Worse, in fact—at least one could kick the brick wall when one tired of the argument.

  “Oh, you stupid girl,” hissed Lady Holmes all of a sudden. “Why did you bring them up? You’ve conjured them.”

  Livia couldn’t locate the gossip ladies immediately. It was only after her mother had absconded that she saw them on the opposite side of the Round Pond. They saw her at the same moment and immediately headed in her direction.

  When they were about twenty feet away from where she sat, a miracle happened. The young man, her young man, sauntered into view and took a seat on the next bench.

  She couldn’t be this lucky, could she? No, not her. Never. Some people won prizes. Some had loving parents. Some arrived home before the rain came down and didn’t need to go anywhere until the sun was shining in the sky again. Livia was always the one who did get rained on, the one whose skirt got mangled in the wringer, the one who stood in line behind the person who would receive the last ladle of punch.

  But there he was in his Sunday suit, neatly turned out and presentable, but not so gleamingly dapper as to make her suspicious. And goodness, was that a reddish hint to his beard—and hair, too? She’d never given a single thought to redheads, but if they all looked like him she would happily praise their existence in the world.

  Was it possible—was it somehow within the realm of possibility—that he had come to the park specifically to look for her? After all, they had been in the same general area last Sunday, when they had first crossed paths.

  “Miss Holmes, just the person we wish to see!”

  Oh, damn Lady Avery and Lady Somersby. Last Sunday he had departed at the faintest stirring from her mother. Surely this time, seeing her surrounded, he would again make himself scarce.

  She parried the gossip ladies’ questions, a labored smile on her face. Two questions. Three questions. Five questions.

  He was still there.

  She relaxed a little. When she’d answered seven questions and he still remained in place, she began to grow giddy.

  And then she remembered that she wasn’t there to meekly suffer through another interrogation: She had been tasked by Charlotte to obtain answers from ladies Avery and Somersby. But how to steer the topic to Lady Ingram without appearing as if she were transparently scheming to do so?

  A lesser miracle took place, but still a miracle: Lady Ingram, her children in tow, passed into view, a vision in an apricot walking gown and matching parasol.

  “Oh, it’s Lady Ingram,” she said.

  “So it is,” murmured Lady Somersby.

  Charlotte had become a topic of gossip of late, but Lord and Lady Ingram had been the subject of speculation for years, from the most admired young couple in Society to the most estranged. When there was so much beauty, wealth, prestige, and—at least initially—love involved, everybody wanted to know what went wrong.

  Lady Ingram nodded, but her squared-back shoulders spoke eloquently of her desire to be left alone. Livia, Lady Avery, and Lady Somersby returned the acknowledgment and watched as she and her children receded from view.

  Livia seized the opportunity. “Do you know what I sometimes wonder? I wonder whether there wasn’t someone else before Lord Ingram. That might explain things, might it not?”

  “Not for me,” said Lady Somersby. “Have you seen him at a game of polo? If I were Lady Ingram, I’d have instantly forgotten whomever I’d been fancying the moment I saw Lord Ingram on a polo pony.”

  “Oh, you naughty old woman,” said her sister.

  “Thank you, my dear.” Lady Somersby laughed heartily. “That said, I believe you are correct, Miss Holmes. We have heard that Lady Ingram, before she made her debut, had hoped to marry a rather unsuitable young man, unsuitable not in terms of personal qualities, mind you, but because of irregular parentage.”

  “I was surprised,” said Lady Avery. “Hadn’t suspected that of Lady Ingram. She always struck me as someone with her gaze up, not down, if you know what I mean.”

  Livia longed to check again on her young man, but she and the gossip ladies had turned as one to follow Lady Ingram’s departure and now he was behind her—if he was still there.

  She began to scheme how she could extricate herself, but—would miracles never cease?—the ladies spied someone else they wanted to speak to and excused themselves with unholy haste.

  She stood in place, waiting impatiently for them to disappear from sight—with Charlotte’s scandal still fresh, Livia didn’t want them to see her running after a man.

  The moment the gossip ladies were well and truly gone, before she could turn around, his voice came, a few paces to her left. “I thought they’d never leave.”

  Livia felt the tremors in her heart as a pulsing sensation in the back of her head. “Same here,” she managed to reply.

  But now that she knew he wasn’t going to depart before he’d spoken to her, she realized that she wasn’t without misgivings about the situation. London was a city of four million souls. Three chance meetings in a short span with the same stranger? Their second encounter could still be explained away as a coincidence. But this one? No, he’d intended for it to happen.

  Strangers, especially those of the well-dressed, well-spoken variety who appeared to be gentlemen, were considered a grave peril by Lady Holmes. Scoundrels and fortune hunters, one and all, she’d often said. Livia had secretly scoffed at her concern: A fortune hunter would have to be especially inept to come after the Holmes girls, given how little wealth the family actually possessed.

  She didn’t think the young man was a fortune hunter. But it would be stupid of her not to wonder, at this point, what it was that he wanted.

  “May I interest you in a walk—and perhaps a bit of conversation?” he asked.

  It was a dangerous proposition. They hadn’t been introduced. To take a walk with him . . . Why, even before Charlotte’s scandal, Lady Holmes would have locked Livia up without supper for such an infraction.

  But Livia wasn’t prepared to repudiate all further contact with him, starting this moment—not when she faced eight months in the country without Charlotte, without even a somewhat ally like Mott. The next best course of action would be for her to ask detailed questions.

  And pray that she had the ability to correctly judge the sincerity and legitimacy of his answers.

  “Yes,�
� she said, turning to him, her heart leaping in spite of herself at the sight of his warm eyes and bright smile. “Yes to both a walk and a bit of conversation.”

  MONDAY

  Oddly enough, now that Charlotte had warned Mrs. Watson that they were under surveillance, the surveillance evaporated. They observed carefully, but no one loitered unduly near any of the exits of either Mrs. Watson’s house or 18 Upper Baker Street.

  Still, on Monday, Charlotte took extra caution to make sure that they were not followed, going so far as to enter the de Bloises’ hotel and exit from a service door on a different street.

  The three women visited two other houses first, per Miss Redmayne’s recommendation, before knocking on Mrs. Woods’s service entrance. A nervous-looking young girl opened the door.

  “Afternoon,” said Miss Redmayne warmly. “I am Miss Hudson and this is Mrs. Hudson, my aunt. I study medicine at the University of London. As part of our curriculum, we are required to spread medical knowledge and combat misinformation, especially among those who might not otherwise have access to physicians. May I come in and speak to the staff?”

  The girl looked uncertainly behind herself. “Let me ask Mrs. Hindle.”

  She closed the door, which was opened again a minute later by a brisk, large-boned woman in her forties.

  Miss Redmayne offered her hand. “You must be Mrs. Hindle.”

  “That I am, and who are you?”

  Miss Redmayne introduced herself and Mrs. Watson, and reiterated her purpose.

  “A woman doctor? Well, I’ll be.”

  “A woman doctor-to-be—I’m still in medical school. May I have your permission to come in? I’d be delighted to answer any questions you might have concerning your health—and to dispense such cures as I have brought with me. Free of charge, of course, all part of our program.”

  The sound of remedies she didn’t need to pay for clearly appealed to Mrs. Hindle. But she wasn’t yet convinced. She pointed at Charlotte. “And who is she? A lady doctor, too?”

  Charlotte, in a brown wig and a pair of spectacles, kept her face turned to the side.

  “This is my sister, Miss Eloisa Hudson,” said Miss Redmayne apologetically. “She isn’t studying medicine, unfortunately. As you can see, she needs looking after. No one else is home today, so we brought her with us. She is no trouble at all as long as someone keeps an eye on her.”

  Charlotte had decided to come as a facsimile of Bernadine. People tended to be alarmed about Bernadine at first, if they ever saw her, and then quickly forget her existence.

  Perhaps it was Miss Redmayne’s amiable yet capable manner that persuaded Mrs. Hindle the final inch. Perhaps it was Mrs. Watson’s reassuringly maternal presence. Or perhaps it was the quality of their garments—Charlotte’s father was always suspicious of men of the lower class, even though the only men to ever rob him were two of his well-educated, well-dressed men of business. In any case Mrs. Hindle harrumphed. “Well, I suppose you can come in.”

  Mrs. Woods truly did run a tight ship. The basement passage was as spotless as any Mayfair drawing room. When they reached the servants’ hall, which had two rectangular windows near the ceiling that admitted daylight, Charlotte saw that all the uniforms on the women were also perfectly spiffy.

  “I see I needn’t spend any time expounding on the importance of hygiene in this house,” said Miss Redmayne. “We are fairly swimming in it. Does anyone have any questions? Rashes, intestinal troubles, feminine problems?”

  No one seemed to be suffering from any of the problems she named, but it did not take long for the women to be engrossed in a discussion about hair loss, with the seemingly gruff Mrs. Hindle actually quite distressed about her thinning hair, and the younger women chiming in about various female relatives experiencing the same, and Miss Redmayne giving a scientific explanation about follicles and growth cycles.

  Charlotte took the opportunity to slip out of the servants’ hall and up the service stairs. She bypassed the ground floor: She wasn’t interested in the common rooms or Mrs. Woods’s apartment. She also bypassed the first floor: That was where she expected to find the bigger, better apartments, beyond what Mr. Finch could afford.

  On the next floor she walked the corridor, glad to discover a small sign outside each door, carefully lettered with the name of the resident. Mr. Lucas. Mr. Kennewick. Mr. Black. Mr. Donovan. Mr. Denham. Mr. Elwin.

  She double-checked the doors to make sure she hadn’t skipped one. But no, no sign for Mr. Finch.

  She went back to the service stairs and climbed up, only to be stopped by a locked door. Beyond would be the servants’ rooms; the door was there to prevent fraternization.

  There was no choice but to descend. The first floor had higher ceilings, a finer carpet stretched the length of the passage, and the doors were much farther apart, indicating significantly larger suites of rooms. Dr. Vickery. Mr. Huron. Aha, Mr. Finch.

  The passage was silent, save for the faint sounds seeping in from the street outside. She tiptoed to the door, the soles of her boots sinking into the pile of the carpet. A quick look at the door gave no clue as to what Mr. Finch might be like in person, except that he wasn’t a drunkard who scratched the Yale lock with careless efforts.

  She put her ear to the door. Silence. Very carefully, she turned the handle. The door was locked.

  The moment she let go, someone inside spoke. “Did you hear that?”

  A woman’s voice.

  Charlotte hurried to the service stairs, more quickly than she had moved in ages. She was behind the door just in time to hear Mr. Finch’s door open. And then close again.

  She stood for a moment against the wall of the staircase, waiting for her heart to stop thumping. Then she made her way down to the servants’ hall. No one had missed her departure—and no one paid any attention as she sat down again in the chair nearest the door.

  The women were engaged in a rousing discussion about the men they served, their foibles, their odder habits, their sometimes inexplicable requests. Fortunately, it was agreed, Mrs. Woods was an excellent judge of character, and as eccentric as they could be, her gentlemen actually merited that appellation, unlike other men in other residences who liked to pinch bottoms, or worse.

  “And she passes on their tips, too,” said Mrs. Hindle approvingly. “Not like some landladies that ask for tips for us at Christmas and keep everything themselves.”

  “But surely not all the gentlemen here are of the old variety,” Mrs. Watson prompted, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “There must be some young, handsome ones.”

  “Mr. Finch is young, but he isn’t as pretty as Mr. Denham,” said one of the maids.

  “But he’s a lot nicer than Mr. Denham,” said another maid. “Mr. Denham isn’t awful or anything, but he’s awkward and wants to be left alone. Mr. Finch is pretty enough—and he’s always got a smile and a how-do-you-do. Mrs. Woods doesn’t like us to talk to the gentlemen, but we are supposed to answer when they say something to us. You take a man like Mr. Black, he’s polite and all, but he’s been here five years and I’ve said a thousand good mornings to him, and I’m sure he doesn’t know me from a nail on the wall. But Mr. Finch remembers my name, my mum’s toothache, and that last time I had a holiday, I went to Brighton to see my cousin. And he’s only been here what, three months?”

  “Four at the most,” said Mrs. Hindle.

  “And he’s already one of Mrs. Woods’s favorites. Brought her a nice wheel of cheddar from his holiday. When I went into her rooms this morning to clean, she was polishing it like it was a big old diamond.” The maid tittered, then turned more serious. “But that was sweet of him, that. Most of them don’t think of their landladies any more than they think of us lowly maids.”

  “Bit of a ladies’ man?” inquired Miss Redmayne, with a half wink.

  “Oh no, nothing of the sort. Proper. But easy to be arou
nd. Makes you feel right chirpy after you’ve had a quick chinwag with him.”

  Mrs. Hindle glanced at the clock. Miss Redmayne did not miss the signal: It was time for them to return to their duties. “Ladies, thank you for having me. I hope some of the remedies will prove to be of use. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.”

  More pleasantries were exchanged, with Mrs. Hindle issuing an invitation to her callers to return anytime.

  Charlotte pulled both Mrs. Watson’s and Miss Redmayne’s sleeves. “Cheddar. Want cheddar. More cheddar.”

  The ladies looked at her, then exchanged a look with each other. Mrs. Watson was the first to react. “I’ll serve you some cheese when we get home, my dear.” And then, as Charlotte hoped she would, she turned back to the staff, “Speaking of cheddar, did Mr. Finch go to Somerset, the village of Cheddar? I’ve always heard there are some good sights to be seen in that area.”

  “Yes, there’s where he went,” said the most loquacious maid. “Told me about the gorge and the caves.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Watson inclined her head. “Ladies, you have been a delight.”

  “A woman in his rooms?” Mrs. Watson and Miss Redmayne exclaimed together.

  They were all three in the former nursery, which Miss Redmayne had jokingly rechristened the gymnasium when she joined Charlotte and Mrs. Watson for Charlotte’s second self-defense lesson.

  Miss Redmayne, with years of training under her belt, moved with a pantherlike grace. Charlotte’s walking stick had flown everywhere for most of the session, though toward the end she did manage to disarm Miss Redmayne once.

  “It isn’t terribly shocking,” Charlotte pointed out, still panting against a wall. “Every sign indicates that he has moved past his youthful passion for Lady Ingram. What I find odd is the timing: that he has a woman in his rooms in the middle of the day.”

  “It wouldn’t have been easy to smuggle her in, in broad daylight,” mused Miss Redmayne.