A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(90)

Mrs. Marbleton was nothing if not thorough.

Sophia Lonsdale was nothing if not thorough.

But why? What was the purpose of her involvement? If only Charlotte had access to Ladies Avery and Somersby and could pick their brains of everything they knew about Sophia Lonsdale.

“Good morning, my dear,” chirped Mrs. Watson as she sat down and reached for the teapot.

She sported a day dress that made Charlotte think of a field of buttercups: spring, hope, renewal. Being Sherlock Holmes’s business partner had made Mrs. Watson busy—and buoyant. It gladdened Charlotte to no end that—

She mentally smacked herself. How sloppy of her to overlook a potentially tremendous source of information. Mrs. Watson had told her that the divide between Society and the demimonde was porous. She knew who Charlotte was. She knew the state of Lord Ingram’s marriage. Why hadn’t Charlotte asked her about Sophia Lonsdale?

“Do you know, Mrs. Watson, I recently learned of someone who went through a similar experience as I did, but a generation earlier. She came from a background more prominent than mine. Her family, instead of exiling her to the countryside, disowned her altogether.”

“Are you speaking of the Lonsdale girl? Yes, I remember. Quite the scandal back then.” Mrs. Watson’s teacup stopped halfway to her lips. “How curious that you should bring her up.”

“Oh?”

“Guess who was the man responsible for ruining her.”

Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be? Was Mrs. Watson about to give her the one link that would crack this case wide open? “Who was it?”

Mrs. Watson took a sip of her tea. “Lord Sheridan.”




For the first time in her life, Charlotte encountered a drawing room that was too gaudy for her. She ran her fingers along the gold tassels of a bright purple lampshade, lifted the edge of a tiger-skin rug that draped the back of a red velvet chaise, and tested an even dozen orange and blue pillow cushions for fluffiness.

Yes, definitely too gaudy. But if one removed the pillow cushions, not all of them, just five or six . . .

“This is one of Bancroft’s places?” she asked Lord Ingram.

“Correct.”

“Tell me the truth. Was it a whorehouse under previous ownership?” she asked.

“No, it was a very dull dwelling. Very respectable, I believe.” His answer came with a straight face, but something in his expression made her think that he was trying not to laugh.

“Are you saying that Bancroft’s minions made changes to the décor?”

“Minions? This is Bancroft’s own handiwork.”

Charlotte looked around again. “Huh. I never would have guessed Bancroft had such extravagant tastes. He’s so . . . colorless.”

“You told the poor man to his face that he was the most boring person you’d ever met.”

“It was a compliment—he is exactly the faceless bureaucrat you want to be in charge of the inner workings of the empire. But this parlor is giving me second th—wait, do you mean to tell me that Bancroft fitted out this place to appeal to my tastes, when he was courting me?”

“He almost succeeded, didn’t he? I told him if he took away half of the cushions you’d feel right at home.”

Charlotte snorted—he knew her too well.

“I also told him not to propose until after he’d first shown you the house, to stack the odds in his favor. He ignored my bang-on advice, of course.” He glanced at her. “A family trait, that.”

Was he referring obliquely to his own dismissal of Charlotte’s counsel not to marry the mercenary Lady Ingram?

“I’m almost sorry that he joined the ranks of your rejected suitors,” he went on, as if he at last heard what he’d said and needed to shift the subject. “It would have been a sight, the two of you thrown together for eternity.”

“Well, I always say that of all the proposals I’ve ever received, Bancroft’s was my favorite.”

Not because of Bancroft, per se, but because of the effect his suit had on his brother. She would never forget that first simmering silence between them, those ever-expanding ripples of pleasure and pain in her heart, as she listened to the uninterrupted stillness and heard everything he would not say aloud.

Sometimes such a silence descended with the grandeur of theatrical curtains, sometimes it stole upon them like wisps of morning mist. This time she exited her recollection to find herself enveloped in yet another one: He was watching her again, while her face was turned to the red velvet chaise, her fingers playing with the button on a cushion.

The doorbell rang, shattering the unquiet silence.

Charlotte sat down on the chaise. They greeted a wan-looking Inspector Treadles. Lord Ingram asked the policeman to tell Charlotte what happened the night before at 18 Upper Baker Street, to which she listened with a half-raised brow.

There was something not quite right with Inspector Treadles. It was clear he had realized that there was no Sherlock Holmes. It was also clear that he knew the scandal to Charlotte Holmes’s name—and he did not approve. By extension, he must approve slightly less of Lord Ingram, whom until now he had considered a man without flaws.

But none of those reasons, singly or together, could have accounted for his disheartenment.

The wonderful, beloved wife?