A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(13)

Lady Holmes leaped to her feet. “But that is the most stupid, absurd, and—”

“Lady Holmes, we have heard enough from you today,” Sir Henry growled. “Charlotte, continue.”

“I needed a man. Moreover, I needed a man who cannot be compelled to marry me, therefore a married man. This presented some difficulty, as most married gentlemen I know would refuse me on grounds of either principle or caution. So I had to settle for someone who is both amoral and somewhat reckless.

“Mr. Shrewsbury fit my criteria perfectly. Unfortunately, he is also an idiot. Yesterday evening he returned home roaring drunk from a birthday celebration, mistook his wife for his mistress, and proceeded to tell her all about our agreement, time and venue included.”

Lady Holmes gasped loudly. “But that is reprehensible. Why did not Mrs. Shrewsbury or Lady Shrewsbury come to us then, so that we could prevent your execrably ill-considered plan from going forward?”

“Why indeed? But you need not be so outraged, Mamma: You would have done the same thing, keeping the intelligence quiet until such a time when you could appear with a regular jury box of witnesses to catch the offending couple in flagrante delicto.”

“I— You— It is—” Lady Holmes sputtered. “Oh, I see. You don’t think you did anything wrong, Miss Charlotte, do you? Are you so selfish that you cannot think beyond yourself? Who will marry Livia now, with the family’s reputation dragged through mud?”

Livia had to restrain herself from throttling her mother. Charlotte’s life had been ruined. Would no one think of her? What would she do for the rest of her life?

“Well, you will have plenty of time to contemplate it now!” Lady Holmes’s voice was once again climbing rapidly in pitch and volume. “You’ll spend the rest of your life in the back cottage at home. No one will call on you. No one will write you. No one will care in the least whether you live or die.”

“Yes, I suppose,” said Charlotte softly, almost inaudibly.

Livia couldn’t control herself anymore. She threw open the door. “Charlotte!”

Charlotte rose, a wan smile on her face. “Livia.”

Livia ran to her sister and embraced her. “Oh, Charlotte. What a horrible day.”

“For her?” said Lady Holmes sharply. “It is you who will pay the price for her infamy.”

“You think I give a farthing for that?” Livia took her sister by the elbow. “Come upstairs, Charlotte. I’ll ring for a tray of tea. You must be hungry.”

“You won’t take her anywhere. I am not finished with her.”

“Yes, you are. For the rest of the evening, at least.”

Lady Holmes wore an almost comical look of surprise. Livia was the Holmes daughter most likely to scowl, but she was rarely openly disobedient.

Taking advantage of her mother’s momentary stupefaction, Livia made off with Charlotte.





Three





Inspector Treadles had first heard of the name Sherlock Holmes two years earlier.

The Treadleses had joined Lord Ingram for a dig on the Isles of Scilly—it never failed to surprise Treadles that he was affiliated with a man of such elevated circumstances, but their friendship was as warm as it was unlikely.

The excursion had been an especially good one, the days balmy and clear, the landscape a heart-stopping green against a shallow sea that was almost turquoise at times. At each meal, the companions luxuriated in conversation and camaraderie. And late at night, conversation and camaraderie continued in private between the inspector and his wife in their tent, augmented by tender lovemaking.

The pearls came up one evening.

Not long before, at Easter dinner with his wife’s family, Mr. Barnaby Cousins, Treadles’s brother-in-law, had complained bitterly about a pair of expensive earrings he had bought for his wife and which had disappeared ten days prior, shortly before Mrs. Cousins dismissed her maid. Mr. Cousins simply could not understand why the matter hadn’t been handed to the police.

“If a servant steals a spoon,” he had thundered, “you dismiss her without a letter of character. Those pearls cost a fortune! Of course one never wants one’s door darkened by a constable, but this one could have used the service entrance and the housekeeper could have taken care of the matter.”

Remembering himself, Mr. Cousins had nodded stiffly at Treadles, then still only a sergeant. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“Of course,” Treadles had replied.

Mr. Cousins berated his wife for another five minutes. Treadles would have had more sympathy for Mrs. Cousins if she weren’t as disagreeable as her husband—and he’d have forgotten the matter if Alice, his wife, hadn’t commented later how odd it was that Mrs. Cousins hadn’t turned to the law.

“She abhors any hint of criminality on the part of staff. I would have expected her to at least have said something to me, in order that word would reach your ear. And I did visit at the time—remember? She was so upset Barnaby demanded that I call on her.”

Lord Ingram, as was his wont, listened carefully to their account. Two nights later, he asked Alice whether Mrs. Cousins frequently suspected wrongdoing on the part of her staff.

“And how,” answered Alice. “I should hate to be in service in her house.”