Riviera Gold is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Laurie R. King
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: King, Laurie R., author.
Title: Riviera gold: a novel of suspense featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes / Laurie R. King.
Description: First edition. | New York: Bantam Books, [2020] | Series: Marie Russell and Sherlock Holmes; 16
Identifiers: LCCN 2020001853 (print) | LCCN 2020001854 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525620839 (hardcover; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780525620846 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Russell, Mary (Fictitious character), 1900—-Fiction. | Holmes, Sherlock—Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3561.I4813 R58 2020 (print) | LCC PS3561.I4813 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020001853
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020001854
Ebook ISBN 9780525620846
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Caroline Cunningham, adapted for ebook
Cover design; Carlos Beltrán
Cover photograph: Trevillion Images
ep_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Venice and the Riviera
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Author’s Afterword
Editor’s Afterword
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Laurie R. King
About the Author
Why had I never considered the possibility that an arms dealer might wield actual arms?
I’d probably assumed that a man who dealt in deadly munitions was only dangerous in the abstract and large-scale—like a battlefield commander incapable of euthanising the family pet.
No: naturally a person like this would have a gun to hand. And no ordinary old weapon, but the sleekest, most modern of automatic pistols. Not that the model made any difference at this range, not when it was pointed directly at my heart.
A child could not miss.
A moment of cold silence washed over me, followed by an absurd tumble of questions. Would it hurt? Yes, it was bound to hurt—but would my mind register the pain, or even the muzzle flash, before flickering out? Did the man have any idea who I was? Could he know that pulling the trigger would bring down the wrath of the British government? Did he have any clue that the young woman before him was wife and partner to none other than Sherlock Holmes? Was he really prepared to ruin this spectacular carpet?
—and then I wrenched my thoughts away from idiocy and my eyes off the mesmerising black circle, looking past it into the old monster’s dead eyes.
I cleared my throat. “I wonder if we might have a little talk? Preferably before you shoot me.”
APRIL, 1877—LONDON
The warm air smelled of honey.
The air outside had been sharp with the usual London stinks of horse dung and coal-smoke and rain, making the Duke’s townhouse a welcoming refuge. Granted, by the end of the night the pleasure would be reversed, with exhausted, footsore dancers stumbling away from the smell of sweat and the stifling miasma of women’s perfumes and men’s hair-oil. But for now, drifting from portico to cloak-room, hallway to the ballroom itself, all was promise and sparkle and the sweet aroma of beeswax candles.
Clarissa, whose escort was bent in some confusion over her dance-card, caught the apricot colour of silk in a slice of mirror and took a half-step forward to admire the dress. It was new and expensive—very à la mode, the result of many hours of poring over sketches with the dressmaker. The fashion for a long, well-corseted torso suited her, and the lightly bustled train at the back emphasised a woman’s front in a way that would have been judged indecent just a few years ago. The nakedness of her shoulders, front and back, was both innocent and tantalising, and the curve of her hips would, she had learned, tempt a dance partner’s hands into a drift downward as the evening progressed and the golden candles began to gutter and wink out, one by one.
She reminded herself to be wary of men who had shed their gloves—and not only because of the stains their palms left on silk.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a figure in black, coming towards her in the looking glass. She turned, pleased that here was one acquaintance who might turn into a friend—an actual friend, rather than a useful name or camouflage. (It helped that she was married, and therefore out of the competition.) “Dear thing, I was wondering if you’d come. Though how you manage to look so festive and delicious in black, I cannot know.”
The two exchanged near-kisses, and the newcomer shook he
r head in appreciation of Clarissa’s apricot silk. “Speaking of delicious! Oh, I do look forward to getting out of mourning and being permitted to dance again.”
“When you do, the rest of us will have to work twice as hard to be noticed.”
“That is not something you need to worry about, my dear Miss Hudson. So what mischief have you got up to, since I saw you last?”
“Mischief? Me?”
The two laughed, and then Clara’s gentleman claimed his dance, and they were away.
* * *
—
The two young women met up again over supper, when Clarissa’s favoured partner and the other woman’s rather boring husband parked them in seats, presented them with full glasses, then went off to load plates with tempting morsels.
Clarissa tried to cool her face with a fan the same colour as her dress. “A night this warm, I’m a bit envious of your getting to sit at the sidelines. My face must be horrid and red.”
“Just nicely pink. I’m impressed that you haven’t yet lost bits of your train to some careless set of shoes.”
“I was stepped on twice, but neither time fatally.”
“Trains are not the most practical things for the dance floor. So tell me, before the men come back, is there anyone you’re hoping for an introduction to?”
Clarissa Hudson eyed her possible, would-be friend, wondering just how much the woman knew, or had guessed. A married acquaintance could be an asset, since the rules binding women’s behaviour were relaxed the moment a ring went on. She’d even seen some of them smoking! But this one, married or not, was both new to London and an amateur in the sport of playing men. It was hard to judge how far her amusement would go before it turned suddenly to shock—or disdain. Either could be fatal to someone in Clarissa’s position.
Still, even the most innocent of girls would be forgiven a degree of curiosity towards the opposite sex. After all, wasn’t that what the Season was for? And she was twenty years old: at the height of her powers when it came to feminine games. “I don’t suppose you know that tall gentleman with the striking eyes, speaking with the Earl of Shrewsbury?” The man was older than they, perhaps thirty, and impeccably clothed from his gleaming blond head to his polished black shoes. There was an air of vitality about him that promised, at the very least, an interesting conversation.
Plus, everything about him spoke of money.
“You mean Zedzed? We haven’t been formally introduced, but from what I hear, I’m not sure he’s someone you need to know.”
“Whyever not? And surely that’s not his actual name?”
“No, it’s from all the zeds in his name—he’s Russian, or was it Greek?”
“How exotic. But why mustn’t I meet him?”
“He has some rather dubious antecedents. An embezzlement trial, among other things, a few years ago.”
“He couldn’t be too bad of an egg, not if the Duchess invited him.”
It was the sort of remark a naïve young thing would make—but then, naïve was the rôle Clarissa Hudson was playing these days. Her friend-to-be gave a little shrug.
“If you think so. I’m pretty sure my husband knows the Earl—I’ll have him bring the two men over for an introduction. Once he’s finished deciding whether I want salmon mayonnaise or chicken.”
While the woman in mourning craned her head in hopes of catching her husband’s eye, Clara gazed over her fan at the Earl and his companion. Mr “Zedzed” was really quite good-looking. She was not in the least surprised when he felt her scrutiny and turned those intense, pale eyes on her. But she was surprised at her own reaction.
A shiver ran down her spine.
Other girls would interpret this as a shiver of delight. Other girls would raise their fans and turn to a nearby friend and giggle, taking that physical reaction as the first sign of love.
Clarissa Hudson knew better. Oh, she was well practiced at teasing behind a fan, at pretending innocence, at making use of the cloud of nearby girls to tantalise a male—but she also knew that the intensity of that return gaze was a danger sign. Turn away. Easier quarry lay elsewhere.
She sat, pinned by those pale and speculative eyes. The stuffy air closed in around her, cloying and heavy, until she forced her hand to reach out for the other woman’s arm, to tell her not to bother asking for that introduction…
Too late.
After that night, Clara Hudson was never quite as fond of the odour of honey.
Venice had been…unexpected.
Not that it didn’t meet my every anticipation. Venice proved every bit as colourful and warm and entertaining as one might wish, taking my memories of past times and piling on a myriad of piquant experiences that would continue to amuse, on into my old age. Venice had been Cole Porter and moonlit adventures, an island of mad women and a community of sun-maddened expatriates. The place had awakened in me a bizarre gusto for cabaret dances, harmless flirtations, and lethargy—all of which I would have sworn impossible mere weeks earlier.
Of course, the serene city on the lagoon was also, in this modern era of 1925, Mussolini’s Blackshirts and age-old corruption—threats that we had brought with us—and a startling revenge that Holmes and I could never have shaped on our own.
As I say: unexpected.
Had it not been for the Honourable Terrence Shields-McClintock, a new and almost instantaneous friend, I expect I would have stepped away from the society of Lido sun-worshippers without a thought, grateful to escape back into my normal world.
(Not that my normal world existed any more. Nothing awaited me in my Sussex home but solitude and the hum of beehives in the orchard. Holmes was off on some unlikely task—yes, that is The Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, my teacher-turned-partner-then-husband—while our housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, the very heart of the home, was…Oh, Mrs Hudson. Beloved and comforting presence, gone away, perhaps forever.)
As we lounged on the Venice Lido one day in early July, the Hon Terry had interrupted these sad and pointless thoughts. “You need to come sailing with us. Truly.”
I adjusted my sun-hat against the rays. “Terry, I’ve spent the past two weeks in a series of increasingly odd watery excursions, from gondolas to speed-boats—”
“Stolen speed-boats.”
“—borrowed speed-boats to—God help me—skis on top of water. If I don’t go back to the mainland soon, what form of transport might be next? Saddling a gargantuan sea-horse? Donning artificial gills? In any event, why would anyone revert to an outmoded form of transport that takes weeks to arrive at a place one can reach by train in a day?”
“Because you’ll never get the chance again, not on a sweet boat like the Stella Maris.”
“I’ll probably never get the chance to enjoy frostbite on Everest or being eaten alive by dingoes in the outback, either. Yet somehow I manage to live with the knowledge.”
“She’s a stunning piece of work, is the Stella. Far too good for her owner.”
“Who is going as well.” I’d met the man. Digby Bertram Wellington-Johnes (“Call me DB—all the gels do!”) was such a stage version of English Colonel, from hearty laugh to veined nose to long-out-of-date slang, that I kept waiting for him to give himself away by a wink. The most interesting thing about him was why on earth he’d decided to buy a sailboat rather than a country house with a hunt nearby. A story he’d started twice in my presence and had never got to the end of.
“Oh, he’s not a bad sort. A smidge dull, granted.”
“A smidge? The man makes a dishrag seem exciting.”
“Well, yes. But there’ll be great food. And you do like the others, and the Italian coastline is just smashing, and there’s loads of interestin’ ports along the way.”
“Terry, I get seasick.”
“So we’ll put you up at the prow. Or you can work the rigging, that’ll take your stomach’s mind o
ff things.”
“Crews never let guests do any of the actual work.”
“This crew does—I know the Captain, he’s happy to shout orders at anyone.”
“Really?” Hard, mindless labour did sound more appealing than watching waves go past. (Or listening to an empty house creak and settle.)
“I posalutely guarantee it. And when we get there, you’ll be just shockingly fit and brown, so burstin’ with human kindness that you could lose it all in Monte and just smile as the croupier hauls away all your lovely lolly. That’s the voice of experience, don’t you know?”
One key word in the deluge reached out and tugged at my ear. “Did you say Monte? As in Monte Carlo?”
“Didn’t I say? We’re headed for the Riviera.”
“You didn’t, no.”
“Well, we are—or DB is, at any rate. And yes, it’s the very same Monte. Den of iniquity, the principality of pauperdom, city of suicides. Then again, it’s also where Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes has set up. And the Princess Charlotte’s a charming girl.”
“Who?”
“Heir to the throne? She and her husband run the place while her father the Prince is off in France. They’ve got the bit in their teeth, going to bring Monaco into the modern age.”
“You don’t say.”
Riviera Gold Page 1
