They had rarely spoken to each other before. Lady Ingram surrounded herself with women who were as cool and sophisticated as she. And the power of their combined beauty and influence was such that Livia was afraid to go near. She was invisible enough as it was without placing herself in the shadows cast by such luminosity. And she was also proud enough not to want to be seen as a hanger-on, someone who would never be accepted into the group but was allowed to exist at its periphery, a barnacle on an otherwise sleek ocean liner.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Lady Ingram said, with a small smile, “I don’t know about you, Miss Holmes, but I, too, prefer singing that doesn’t threaten to pierce my eardrums.”
Livia was astonished. This woman was almost... approachable. Who was she? “And here I thought I gave a convincing impression of someone who needed to visit the cloakroom.”
Lady Ingram laughed softly, not with ridicule but with understanding. For some reason Livia couldn’t shake the impression that there was something else to her expression. A weariness, perhaps.
Fatigue.
“Are you well, Miss Holmes?”
The question arrived so unexpectedly; Livia felt almost... ambushed. “Ah, I am—tolerably well. You, my lady?”
“Also tolerably well, I suppose.” Was that an ironic curve to Lady Ingram’s lips? “And Miss Charlotte, have you any news of her?”
Since Charlotte had run away, other than ladies Avery and Somersby, Society’s leading gossips, no one had brought her up in front of Livia. Her parents might argue about Charlotte with each other, but they didn’t involve Livia in those discussions. Even Lord Ingram, Charlotte’s most trusted friend, had refrained from speaking her name, the one time he had called on Livia, shortly after Charlotte had made her escape. Livia had been the one to do so, feeling as if she’d broken a cardinal law.
But now Lady Ingram asked about Charlotte. Without malice. And conversationally, as if Charlotte had gone on a trip to Amazonia, rather than fallen through the floor of ignominy.
Lady Ingram, of all people.
Charlotte, being Charlotte, had no particular feelings toward Lady Ingram. Lady Ingram, on the other hand, had always been less than friendly to Charlotte. It was Livia’s belief that in the days of antiquity, Lord Ingram had rather relished those displays of frostiness on the part of his future wife. But Lady Ingram had never warmed up to Charlotte, not after she had secured Lord Ingram’s hand in marriage, not even after their estrangement. In fact, her coolness toward Charlotte had become even more pronounced after everyone learned that she had married her husband solely for his inheritance. This Livia had never understood: Why this antagonism toward his friend when she didn’t even want his love?
Perhaps Lady Ingram had at last realized that Charlotte had never been a threat to her position. Perhaps that Charlotte had beenruined by a different man gave her a better sense of Lord Ingram’s propriety of conduct all these years. Or perhaps Charlotte’s downfall had been so extreme, her fate so unknown—at least to the general public—that even Lady Ingram was moved to a measure of pity and concern.
“I’m—I’m afraid not,” said Livia, belatedly realizing she still hadn’t answered. “We’ve had no news of her.”
“And that’s the worst, isn’t it, the waiting?”
Livia was taken aback to see Lady Ingram’s throat move, as if she weren’t merely being polite, but was recalling—or even experiencing—her own agony at the disappearance of a loved one. At being left behind to drown in uncertainty and despair.
“You are right about that, ma’am.”
Lady Ingram smiled. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Holmes, I believe I’m needed at home.”
Long after they had parted company, Livia still saw Lady Ingram in her mind’s eye, her smile full of regret and desolation.
TUESDAY
Charlotte rubbed her eyes.
Livia was the night owl in the family, able to stay up for forty-eight hours at a stretch and need only a brief nap before she was good as new again. She also skipped meals without feeling the effects of an empty stomach. Charlotte, on the other hand, adhered to a rigorous schedule: She needed to be fed ’round the clock and enjoyed her sleep almost as much as she enjoyed her food.
Therefore, Charlotte was not accustomed to scraping along on four hours of sleep. But that was all she’d had the past two nights thanks to the onerous Vigenère cipher from Lord Bancroft’s dossier.
But better that than lying in bed thinking about Lord Ingram, Lady Ingram, and Mr. Finch. Not to mention Lord Bancroft’s proposal.
She rubbed her eyes again. She must look lively. Sherlock Holmes’s next client was already here. The parlor door opened and Mrs. Watson ushered in Mrs. Morris.
Mrs. Morris, according to her letter, was married to a naval captain currently at sea. In his absence she had decamped to London to look after her aging father.
The aging father had been a physician in his prime: The handbag Mrs. Morris carried was larger and sturdier than the usual ladies’ accessory and would have served capably as a doctor’s bag in its former life. In fact, it must have been a doctor’s bag very recently—it was new enough to have been acquired within the past year.
So the good doctor had retired not long ago—and since he wouldn’t have invested in a new bag knowing he was quitting the practice, the retirement must have been a somewhat abrupt decision.
As Mrs. Morris set down the rain-flecked bag, Charlotte noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Nor did her ring finger show the telltale mark left by a ring that had recently been taken off for cleaning.
“Mrs. Morris to see you, miss,” said Mrs. Watson.
