A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(19)

Charlotte blinked several times in rapid succession—and looked as if she wanted to say something. But in the end she only embraced Livia. “I’ll be absolutely fine. You’ll see.”




So rushed, their good-byes. So complete, the silence and emptiness of the carriage. Livia stared at the sidewalks, crowded with wide-eyed tourists and insouciant young men in evening attire, strolling toward their next venue of diversion.

Her mind was sinking into a dark place. Sister, companion, refuge, hope—Charlotte was everything Livia had in life. Now she was gone, and Livia had nothing.

Nothing at all.

The carriage took a turn—a few more minutes and she would be back at the house her parents had hired for the Season, where there would be more silence and greater emptiness.

She would be alone. She would be alone for the rest of eternity.

Before she knew it, she’d yanked hard on the bell pull.

“Yes, miss?” came Mott’s voice through the speaking slot.

“I’m not going home,” she said. “I have a different destination in mind.”





Five





The pain behind Livia’s forehead corroded the backs of her eyes. Her tongue felt as if she’d used it to clean the grate. And when she tried to move, it became clear that a maniacal sprite was drilling holes into her temples.

It was morning and she’d spent the night in the guest room—in order to be able to lie more convincingly about not knowing when Charlotte had escaped.

She kept dreaming of Charlotte’s sweet, sad face. And for some reason, Charlotte’s features insisted on turning into Lady Shrewsbury’s, all pinched lips and jutting cheekbones. Livia had screamed at the hateful woman for ruining Charlotte’s life.

For ruining all their lives.

Groaning, Livia staggered out of bed: She needed to go down and delay her parents’ discovery of Charlotte’s absence for as long as possible.

She barely made it to the top of the stairs when Lady Holmes stomped up, a wild expression on her face. “You will never guess what happened!”

Her voice scratched across Livia’s skull. A wave of nausea pounded her. “Wh—what happened?”

Had Lady Holmes already found out that Charlotte was gone?

“Lady Shrewsbury is dead.”

Livia braced a hand on the newel post, her incredulity shot through with an incipient dread. “How can that be?”

“They found her expired early this morning. The doctor’s already been and declared it an aneurysm of the brain. But I think it’s divine justice. The way she came and shoved all the blame on us, when it was her own son who was the cad and the bounder? She deserved it.”

Livia shuddered at her mother’s callousness. “I don’t believe the Almighty strikes anyone dead solely for being petty, or even hypocritical.”

“I happen to be convinced that sometimes He does.” Lady Holmes’s tone was triumphant. “And maybe this is the year He smites those who have been thorns in my side.”

It took Livia a moment to realize that Lady Holmes was referring to Lady Amelia Drummond. That name had never been brought up in the Holmes household, certainly not in Livia’s hearing. But Lady Amelia’s abrupt death—she’d been in perfect health and vigor only the day before—had been quite the topic of gossip for the past fortnight.

Lady Holmes shoved past Livia.

“Wait. Is that all you know? Are there no other details?”

Lady Holmes stopped and thought for a moment. Then she snorted. “Mrs. Neeley said Roger Shrewsbury is devastated. Said he is sure his disgrace sent his mother into an early grave. How typical of a man, to think the world revolves around him.”

“Wait. Is—”

Lady Holmes marched on in the direction of Livia and Charlotte’s room. “When will you learn to be quiet, Olivia? I have other things to do than standing there and answering your questions—especially today.”

The silence, as Lady Holmes threw open the door, was thunderous.

Her question, when it came at last, deafened. “Where is Charlotte?”




Charlotte had been everywhere in London this day, or at least it felt that way to her throbbing feet.

By midmorning she—or rather, Miss Caroline Holmes from Tunbridge, typist—had secured a room at Mrs. Wallace’s boardinghouse, a very respectable place at a very respectable location near Cavendish Square.

The rest of her first day of freedom was spent whittling away at her scant funds. She was obliged to acquire a tea kettle, a chipped tea service, a spirit lamp on which to heat water, silverware and flatware, tooth powder, towels, and bed linens—plus a number of other miscellany that a young woman accustomed to living at her parents’ house never needed to worry about.

She tried to think of her purchases as an investment for the future, for when she and Livia—and Bernadine, too—would have a place of their own and direction over their collective existence.

But that dream was taking its last labored breaths, wasn’t it, all alone in a ditch somewhere?

Bernadine might not care much one way or the other, but Livia, Livia who was so proud, so fragile, and so constantly doubtful of herself . . .

Livia who mistrusted humanity yet feared being alone.

Charlotte had been Livia’s companion; she listened when Livia wanted to talk and remained quiet when Livia wanted to hear herself think. And Charlotte, too, had been a target of Lady Holmes’s wrath, with her refusal of proposal after proposal. But now Livia was unsupported and unshielded. Now she was all alone before both a scornful Society and a pair of livid parents with no other outlet for their anger.