A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(6)

She gazed down to the photographic image at the bottom of the glass paperweight, which depicted a large building, several stories tall. “Isn’t this the hotel he stayed at when he was in Cromer?”

Charlotte pulled out a postcard from the pocket of her blue frock. “I found this in the book of preserved seaweeds.”

On the postcard was a near replica of the image in the paperweight. The Imperial Hotel, Torquay, said the caption. Livia sucked in a breath. That Mrs. Gladwell had such a postcard was hardly surprising, since that was where she’d holidayed. But for Sir Henry to have come back from his trip with a keepsake smacking of Devon, when he should have been several hundred miles away on the coast of the North Sea . . .

“How did he get a souvenir from Torquay?”

“Either he was given one by someone who had been there or he was there himself.”

“Why did he put it in a box that said it was from Cromer?”

“Why does Henrietta lie about finding a length of ribbon in her trunk when she bought it?”

Livia’s stomach rolled over: It was because Henrietta knew she was doing something she wasn’t supposed to.

“But what was Papa doing in Torquay? And why didn’t he take us there with him?” Insight burst into Livia’s head with the force of an explosion. “Good gracious! He was there with Mrs. Gladwell.”

Charlotte didn’t appear in the least surprised. Livia realized that her sister had already come to that conclusion and that was why she had wanted to show Livia the evidence.

“You mustn’t tell Mamma, Charlotte. You understand?”

“I won’t say anything, but I think Mamma knows. Or suspects, at least. You know she rifles through Papa’s study, too, when he’s not home.”

Livia stared at Charlotte’s round, pink-cheeked face, cherubic as ever. Was this why Lady Holmes so disliked Mrs. Gladwell? And dear God, did Sir Henry mean to leave this paperweight where Lady Holmes was sure to see it, and then have a postcard bearing the exact same image come into the house—something the girl who found it would probably display in her room—thereby rubbing his seaside holiday with his mistress in his wife’s face?

Was that what Charlotte had wanted to tell Livia?

“Do you think he’s in love with Mrs. Gladwell?”

Livia couldn’t decide which would be worse, that their father loved someone else or that he was unfaithful to their mother with a woman he didn’t even love.

“No,” said Charlotte decisively. “Come here.”

There was a box inside the bottom drawer of Sir Henry’s desk, a box secured with a dark bronze, strange-looking lock, which Livia guessed to be some sort of Chinese antique. Its shape was a barrel formed by five rotating disks, which bore Chinese characters that had once been painted with gold lacquer but had now faded almost to the point of illegibility.

Livia knew about the box. She’d understood instinctively that the lock would open if she lined up the correct characters. But when she’d tried on a previous occasion, with their parents out of the house, she’d become frustrated after dozens of unsuccessful attempts.

Charlotte, however, peered at the lock and turned the disks one by one with great confidence.

“You tried enough times to find out the correct combination?” Livia marveled.

“No. Papa doesn’t read Chinese any more than we do. If you look at the lock in strong light, you can see smudges of pencil marks around some of the characters. And when you line those up—”

Charlotte drew back the pin, set the lock aside, and held out the now open box to Livia.

The first thing Livia saw was a newspaper clipping, which announced Sir Henry’s engagement to someone named Lady Amelia Drummond.

Next came a wedding invitation. “But this can’t be right. The wedding was on—that’s the day of Mamma and Papa’s wedding. You don’t suppose Mamma is secretly Lady Amelia Drummond?”

Charlotte shook her head and gestured Livia to lift the invitation. At the very bottom of the box lay a small photograph, of a young Sir Henry and a handsome and very superior-looking young lady who was most certainly not Lady Holmes.

Livia stared at the picture. “Did this Lady Amelia jilt Papa? And did he marry someone else on the original wedding day to spite her?”

Charlotte locked the box again and put it back carefully. Then she went to the door, peered out, and beckoned Livia to follow her. Once they had ascended the stairs to their room, Livia sat on the bed, her head in her hands, and tried to cope with the day’s revelations.

“Do you think Mamma found out that he married her on the day he was supposed to marry Lady Amelia?”

“Yes.”

“Before or after?”

Charlotte thought for a minute. “After.”

That made sense. Lady Holmes’s parents had been respectable but short on funds; without the means to afford a Season for their daughter, they might not have kept up with the flood of matrimonial news coming out of London.

Not to mention, Lady Holmes wouldn’t be so disillusioned if she’d known what she was getting into in the first place.

“I wonder why Mamma doesn’t have the equivalent of a Mrs. Gladwell. Do you think she wants to?”

At Charlotte’s placid question, Livia bolted upright. “Have an affair? I’ve no idea if she wants to, but I’m sure Papa would be extremely cross if she were to.”