Plainly he didn’t believe her. In that case, he—and Lord Bancroft—must understand that she would play no part in their hunt for Mr. Finch.
“I happily yield the carriage into your care, Mr. Underwood. But do not trouble yourself to accompany me. I am well equipped for a stroll.”
She let him see her double-barrel derringer—not exactly a show of force but not a subtle gesture either.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Underwood. “Good night, Miss Holmes.”
London after darkwas not pleasant for an unaccompanied woman. Even if she traveled on streets lined by parks and fine town houses, she could still count on men assuming her to be a light skirt and therefore fair target for everything from lewd whistles to unwanted touching.
But a woman dressed as a man, though she still had to worry about actual criminals, was at least spared casual insults and crude insinuations.
No small freedom, that.
Charlotte remained preoccupied with the events of the evening. She had no means to contact Mr. Finch, but she hoped that he would send her a message once he reached safety. And to think, she had very nearly compromised that safety tonight—
A carriage drew abreast of Mrs. Watson’s house at the precise moment Charlotte did.
She had not been particularly worried about being followed by Lord Bancroft’s underlings—he already knew where she lived and worked—but still she had paid attention on her journey home. And she was sure this particular carriage hadn’t been behind her at any point.
Where had it come from, then?
A light rain drifted down, the drops as insubstantial as mist. The coachman, like Charlotte, was covered by a large mackintosh, his features invisible. The door of the carriage opened.
“Miss Holmes? Miss Charlotte Holmes?”
She approached the carriage and its single passenger, largely in shadows. “And you are... ?”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Holmes,” said the man. His fingers tapped against his walking stick. His voice, soft but confident, betrayed a hint of amusement. “My name is Moriarty.”
1
Several months later
Inspector Robert Treadles accepted hat,lunch, and walking stick from his wife with an approximation of a smile. “Thank you, my dear.”
Alice smiled back and kissed him on his cheek. “Good day, Inspector. Go forth and uphold law and order.”
She’d been saying that for years, upon bidding him good-bye in the morning. Lately, however, those words set him on edge. Or perhaps it wasn’t the words, per se, but the feeling that from the moment he got up, she’d been waiting for him to leave.
Near the end of summer, her brother, Barnaby Cousins, had died. As he had been without issue, in accordance to their late father’s will, Cousins Manufacturing, the source of the family’s wealth, had devolved to Alice.
She had told Treadles quite firmly that it would not change anything between them. And she was right, but not for the reason she gave—that she would still be the loving spouse he’d known and that he would not feel the least diminishing in the care and affection he received from her.
No, the reason nothing had changed was that everything had already changed before her brother’s death. Treadles had learned that she had always wished to run the family business and only her father’s firmest refusal had turned her gaze from that path.
He still couldn’t completely articulate to himself the turmoil this had unleashed in him, except to conclude that until that moment, he had believed them to be a unified whole. Afterward, they were only two individuals who lived under the same roof.
She saw him out the front door with another smile. He started in the direction of Scotland Yard. But once a week or so, on his way to work, he stopped around the corner to look back. Each time her carriage had drawn up precisely a quarter of an hour after his departure.
And the woman who entered the carriage, smart, gleaming, and coolly self-assured, was a stranger.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. She had always known her own mind and been competent at everything she did. And he had always taken great pride in her—when she’d been the feather in his cap, the envy of his colleagues, a woman who, despite the elevated circumstances into which she had been born, had found in him everything she needed.
Except that had never been true, had it? She’d always needed more. And now she had it.
He walked faster, suddenly as impatient as she must be, to put distance between himself and his marital home.
His day, however, did not improve when he reached Scotland Yard. The Farr woman was there again, harassing Sergeant MacDonald.
