A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(81)

She had indeed reaped her fair share, including one from his brother, Lord Bancroft, her favorite proposal of them all.

“It’s my décolletage—when gentlemen stare at my bosom, they don’t hear a word I say. I strongly believe that if trees sprouted breasts tomorrow, they would soon be wearing wedding rings.”

He chortled.

Her nerves tingled.

Some men had that effect on women, as Mrs. Watson declared. But it was Charlotte’s obligation not to respond to said effect when she was in the middle of a surveillance mission—or at least not to respond to such a degree as to diminish her concentration. “So what are you doing here?”

He blew out a soft breath. “You are many things, Charlotte, but terribly experienced you aren’t. It was almost too easy to predict that you’d be setting up shop at Claridge’s to see what you can find out about your Mrs. Marbleton.”

Had he come to put a stop to it or . . . “Don’t tell me you mean to keep me company.”

“Easier than bailing you out of trouble later.”

She wondered whether she ought to object to his presence, but he was right that she had no experience in this sort of thing. And if he was going to take the trouble to make sure she was all right, she’d rather he sit next to her than lurk somewhere unseen.

She smoothed her gloves. “I won’t be here for much longer. I’ve a client to meet.”

“A less troublesome one, I hope.”

“Don’t be such a constant killjoy. If nothing else, my association with Mrs. Watson has already made us five pounds—and we’ve clients lined up for the next fortnight.”

Five pounds! The thought never failed to make her giddy.

But he would not let go of his entrenched cynicism. “She has certainly been quick to exploit your acuity for her own gains.”

She peered at him through her veil. “What’s the matter, your lordship? Usually you are a bit more generous in your opinion of people, especially when you don’t know enough about them.”

“I can afford to be more generous when those hypothetical people aren’t essentially in control of your life, Charlotte. I still think it w—”

But she was no longer listening to him.

“What is it?” he asked softly, taking her by the hands, so that to passersby they would appear deep in conversation, a bereaved young widow and a gallant friend trying to comfort her.

“Do you see the man in the gold paisley waistcoat?” She indicated his location with a tilt of her head. “I know him.”

Lord Ingram glanced unobtrusively at the man. “Who is he?”

“The first time I went to Mrs. Watson’s place, before I arrived, she had let in another young woman, thinking she was me. But that caller turned out to have fraud in mind, claiming kinship with Mrs. Watson where none existed.”

“And?”

“And she had an accomplice, a young man.” Charlotte took one more look at Paisley Waistcoat. “That one.”





Nineteen





By the time Inspector Treadles reached the closest police station to Curry House, Mrs. Cornish had already been brought in and put into an interrogation room.

He wasted no time. “Mrs. Cornish, you said nothing about the fact that Becky Birtle is your daughter.”

Mrs. Cornish flinched, as if he’d thrown sand in her face. “That’s—that’s—”

“I wouldn’t try to deny it, not when I already have confirmation from Mrs. Birtle.”

Mrs. Cornish glanced at the door.

“I’ve dismissed the constable who stood guard outside,” said Treadles. “I gave my word to Mrs. Birtle that as much as possible, I would keep Becky’s true parentage a secret.”

Mrs. Cornish stared at her hands—she’d come to the police station in a pair of kid gloves, probably her best pair. “Surely you must understand why I couldn’t possibly bring it up, Inspector. It took years of hard work to rise to where I am.

“After Mr. Sackville passed, Mrs. Struthers wrote me and said if the next tenant at Curry House didn’t need a housekeeper, I was welcome to go work for her. But if word got out that I have an illegitimate child, she won’t want me anymore. No one will want me anymore. Respectability is everything in my line of work.”

The anxiety in her voice was overwhelming.

“Then why bring her to your place of work at all?”

“Mrs. Birtle was worried that Becky was getting too headstrong and restless. The Birtles don’t have much. Becky would have to go into service. And service can be . . . it can be a small, closed life. I remember how bored I was as the underhousemaid, how little there was to look forward to. I never wanted to get into trouble, but a flirtation here and there was the only cure for boredom.

“And then I fell in love with the son of the house and he promised to look after me. It’s that same old story. But when it happened to me, I thought he was special and I was special. And it turned out that neither of us was special at all.

“I didn’t want that to happen to Becky. Here I am in a position of some authority. I could look after her. But more than anything else, I felt Curry House was a safe place. Mr. Sackville never made any advances toward me or any other women in the house. And he treated Jenny Price with more care than most able-bodied folks did.”