A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(50)

“Oh,” said Mrs. Watson.

“My half brother lives in London and works as an accountant.”

“And you consider him your last resort?”

Charlotte hesitated again. “I don’t know anything about him. Though I dare say he has no reason to feel any sympathy for me: I didn’t have the hurdles of illegitimacy placed in my path and yet I’ve managed to bungle everything.”

She blew out a breath and eyed the plate of plum cake. Was it appetite or gluttony that made her want to reach out for another slice?

Or was it fear and fear alone?

She looked back at Mrs. Watson. “I guess you’ve answered my question, ma’am. You do know who I am.”

Mrs. Watson picked up a piece of macaroon and took a delicate nibble. “It must have been three years ago that I first noticed you at the opera. I remarked that you were probably the most darling young woman present. In return, I was told that you were in fact the greatest eccentric in that crowd of thousands. As you can imagine, that left an impression.

“I’ve seen you a few times since, at the park or coming out of the modiste’s with your mother. After the scandal erupted . . . Well, the separation between Society and the demimonde has always been porous and I quickly learned of your misfortune. And when I walked into the post office a few days ago and saw you looking pale and distressed, I decided that if I came across you again, I would try to help you.”

“I cannot tell you how much I cherish your generosity. But it’s no pittance that you left me in that reticule. And I’m not in such desperate straits yet that I can simply take the money without second thoughts.”

Mrs. Watson smiled. “I cooked up my little scheme before I truly knew anything about you. The moment I stepped out of the tea shop, I realized that it wasn’t going to work. I’d left no identifying information in the reticule. But you knew so much about me from a look—it would be only a matter of time before you discovered my address.”

“I didn’t mean to call upon you—my intention was only to ring the doorbell and give the reticule to a member of the staff. But as I approached the house, I saw Miss Hartford emerge from a carriage far too grand for her supposed station in life. She turned around and said to someone in the carriage, ‘’Ow do I sound?’ and a man’s voice replied, in a similarly exaggerated accent, ‘Like a proper Cockney, luv.’

“It made me uneasy. She was still some distance ahead of me. When I turned the corner and saw that she’d been admitted into your house, I went back to the carriage, knocked, and asked for directions to the Strand, claiming to be lost.”

“I imagine the young man in the carriage must have bent over backward to help you.”

Charlotte smiled slightly. “He was very chivalrous and even brought out a map of London to help me orient myself. After I spoke with him, however, I became even more suspicious about his purpose here. So when I did knock on your door, instead of merely handing over the reticule, I asked to be brought to you. And a moment outside the drawing room was enough to let me know what Miss Hartford wanted.”

“I did think her accent was put on,” said Mrs. Watson. “She’s a talented mimic, but she’d entered into it with too much enthusiasm and sounded as if a Punch caricature had come to life.”

“Perhaps it would be a good idea to retract the advert. I imagine you wouldn’t wish for any more young women to show up at your door trying to claim you as a mother, whether they are sincere or intent on swindle.”

“You are right,” said Mrs. Watson. “The experiment has run its course.”

Something in her tone struck Charlotte. Mrs. Watson of this evening was different from the exuberant woman she had been earlier in the day: quieter, more solemn, and more . . . apprehensive.

She rose from her seat and walked to the mantel. There she stood with her back to the room, studying a row of framed photographs. Many featured a dark-haired young man with a steady, but mischievous, gaze.

He was in uniform in their wedding photograph—the army then. Dead six years, according to what Mrs. Watson had told Charlotte—and six years ago there had been a war with Afghanistan.

Distant colonial wars that one read about in the newspapers were like theatrical plays: vivid and dramatic. One could get caught up in the excitement of the battle, the unexpected turns of events, the high passions in the halls of Parliament. But in the end, they didn’t seem quite real.

At least they had never felt real to Charlotte before this moment. Before she stared at Mrs. Watson’s elegant back and saw thousands of dead men strewn across a harsh, brown landscape.

Mrs. Watson turned around. Charlotte half expected to see the very embodiment of grief and fragility. Instead she was reminded of the reason she had intuited that Mrs. Watson had been successful on the stage—she exuded a sturdy confidence, that of a woman who trusted herself because of a lifetime of good choices.

“Shortly before you arrived, I came to a decision,” said Mrs. Watson, her voice soft, her tone firm. “I knew it wouldn’t be long before you called, bearing my reticule. And that would be an excellent opportunity to offer you the position of a lady’s companion.”

This development Charlotte had entirely failed to foresee. Her lips flapped a few times before she managed a reply. “Me? To you?”

“We do have a lack of respectability in common, don’t you think?”