Mr. Mears took another look at her and said, “Let me give you the key to the back door then.”
Leaving Mrs. Watson’s, Livia felt neither the key in her hand nor the icy wind that flapped her cloak. An entire doomsday unfolded in her mind, dark visions of Charlotte and Mrs. Watson, and perhaps even Lord Ingram, in some rank, horrible dungeon on the Continent.
Would they find Mr. Marbleton already there, Mr. Marbleton who could no longer outrun Moriarty?
Several times she nearly turned around to flee. But somehow, though her knees buckled with every step, she kept moving forward, Mr. Mears’s words echoing in her ear.
You might be too late.
You might be too late.
She did not want to be too late.
A carriage slowed and came to a stop before number 18. Had it brought Moriarty’s minions? She froze in place, before she opened her reticule and, with shaking hands, rooted around inside as if she’d forgotten something and only now remembered to search for it.
Two men descended from the carriage. One she didn’t recognize, but the other . . . He glanced up at the bow window of number 18’s parlor, his profile both startlingly familiar and completely out of place. An eternity passed before she realized she was looking at Mr. Marbleton.
The man she loved.
3
“It’s Mr. Marbleton!” cried Mrs. Watson. “What—what—”
Charlotte, who had been determined not to rise from the tea table until someone rang the doorbell, was at the bow window the next instant.
Two men had alit from the carriage, but only one looked up, his clear eyes meeting Charlotte’s. Her astonishment was silent, accompanied by not even an exhalation of breath, only an ominous vibration inside her chest.
Very few people knew of Mr. Marbleton’s involvement with them and none of them had any reason to disclose that to Moriarty. Why was he here?
“Miss Charlotte,” Mrs. Watson’s urgent voice rose again, this time from directly behind her, “is that not Miss Olivia in the direction of the park?”
It was indeed Livia, looking as if she’d seen a ghost.
The doorbell rang.
Charlotte’s stomach tightened. She turned around. “Mrs. Watson, a change of plans. Since Moriarty has long known that there is no Sherlock Holmes, before him there is no need for you to act the part of the consulting detective’s landlady or caretaker. Let us head down together. You will please conceal yourself and I will open the door. Once I have shown our callers up, will you go out and retrieve my sister?”
Mrs. Watson nodded, two quick, jerky motions of her head. “All right.”
The doorbell jangled again.
Mrs. Watson made to move but Lord Ingram stayed her with a hand on her arm. He faced Charlotte, his gaze solemn. “Holmes, are you saying that the man who came with Mr. Marbleton is not de Lacey but Moriarty himself?”
That the appointment had been made for Moriarty had occurred to Charlotte before, but she had not considered it particularly likely. Mr. Marbleton’s presence, however, changed things: She could think of no good reason why he would be made to accompany de Lacey. “Yes, I believe Moriarty has come to take my measure.”
She took Mrs. Watson by the elbow. “Let’s go now, ma’am. My sister will have need of you.”
The older woman swallowed, but nodded and followed Charlotte out of the parlor.
At the bottom of the staircase, Mrs. Watson gave Charlotte a swift, hard hug before she secreted herself in the caretaker’s room. Charlotte stood in place a moment, then went forward and opened the door.
The man who stood in front of her—she had seen his face once before, two months ago, at a disrupted ball in what had once been and was now once again his château in the Parisian countryside. That night he had been shabbily dressed, his face lean, his eyes hard. Now he had put on some weight, some very fine day attire, and an affable smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Had she never seen him coldly scanning the crowd at the château, would she have given more credence to this kindly expression?
Mr. Marbleton, standing behind Moriarty, was thinner than she remembered, his brown eyes appearing larger and more deep-set. She allowed herself a flicker of interest, as if she were intrigued by the appearance of this sweet-faced young man.
And only then did she return Moriarty’s smile. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Good evening. James and Stephen Baxter at your service, miss. We have an appointment with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
Baxter. She had come across this name in her prior investigations, a name closely associated with that of de Lacey.
“Do please come in,” she said, stepping back from the door. She shook hands with the men as they entered and introduced herself as Miss Holmes, omitting the pretense about being Sherlock Holmes’s sister and oracle.
At her indication, the men preceded her up the staircase.
“I take it that you are Mr. de Lacey’s representatives, gentlemen?” she asked, climbing up behind them.
This part of the pretense still needed to be kept.
“I would say, rather, that Mr. de Lacey is our representative,” said Moriarty.
“Is that so?” Charlotte murmured politely.
“Indeed, De Lacey Industries is one of my holdings and Mr. de Lacey a valued lieutenant.”
At the top of the stairs, to Moriarty, who very correctly stood to the side waiting for her, she said, “That would make you one of the most exalted clients we’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, Mr. Baxter.”
Moriarty’s smile conveyed an unjaded enjoyment, as if it still pleased him to be reminded that he’d reached a high-and-mighty place in life. There was an openness to his expression that hinted at an unspoiled nature and a generosity of spirit.
Charlotte once again felt that ominous tremor inside her chest. How did this man, whose soul must be pockmarked by cruelty and a singular thirst for power, manage such a fluent yet subtle portrayal of nobility of character?
Beside him, Stephen Marbleton glanced about, as if he’d never before seen the interior of 18 Upper Baker Street. What role was he playing today, he who had been forced to reunite with Moriarty, his natural father, after a lifetime fleeing that very fate?
He didn’t look delighted or comfortable. He looked like a young man accompanying his elder out of obligation, rather than enthusiasm. And that was perhaps the correct balance to strike—Moriarty would not believe him to be truly content, but neither would he tolerate an open display of misery.
In the parlor, after stoking the fire in the grate, Charlotte engaged in her usual tea-making ritual. Moriarty observed her closely, as if there were something to be gleaned from the way she warmed the teapot and measured tea leaves to steep. Mr. Marbleton continued his imitation of a youngster brought along on an errand the nature of which was a little opaque to him. He regarded Charlotte only briefly and spent more time looking around at the books on the shelves and the bric-a-brac on the mantelpiece.
His presence, as much as Moriarty’s, boded ill. He had been deep in their confidence, especially with regard to the ball at Château Vaudrieu. If a confession had been compelled from him, then even a Maxim gun would not be enough to save everyone.
Where were Mrs. Watson and Livia? Where was Bernadine? And the carriage that should be pulling up to the back of number 18—was it, too, under Moriarty’s control now?