But if he had come to seal her fate, even if he had enough self-control not to display any smugness, shouldn’t she at least detect some regret on Mr. Marbleton’s part?
She held the teapot steady and poured for everyone, filling each cup to just the right level. If they had not been compromised, then she must not betray any signs of guilt or undue agitation. And however desperate she was to find out whether Livia, Bernadine, and Mrs. Watson remained safe, she must act unconcerned.
“I hope your crossing was smooth, gentlemen?” she murmured.
Moriarty raised a brow. “Our crossing?”
“Yes, you crossed the Channel very recently, I take it. Possibly today?”
The two men stared at Charlotte, then down at themselves, as if searching for what clues they might have unknowingly displayed on their persons.
They did not glance at each other.
“How did you come to know of our crossing, Miss Holmes?” asked Stephen Marbleton. He seemed simply another first-time client taken aback by Sherlock Holmes’s deductive prowess, marvel and disbelief writ across his countenance.
She put on a small, satisfied smile. “You were looking about the room just now, sir. Your gaze paused at the grandfather clock. After a moment of reflection, you took out your pocket watch, glanced at the clock again, and changed the time on the watch. Not a minor adjustment, for it required several turns of the crown, which implied that the difference between the time on your watch and the time on my clock was close to an hour, if not more.
“You have a fine timepiece, one I expect to be accurate. And since you didn’t wind it, but only changed the time, this large discrepancy is best explained by rapid travel. You didn’t travel alone, or you would have been obliged to match your watch to local times much sooner. Since you came with Mr. Baxter, it stands to reason that the two of you journeyed together. Only now, having arrived at your destination, were you reminded that you hadn’t adjusted the time yet—and proceeded to do so.”
Mr. Marbleton blinked. “That is remarkable reasoning.”
Moriarty shook his head. “Astounding. Absolutely astounding.”
Unlike Mr. Marbleton, who gave off an air of slight distraction, as if he had other things on his mind, Moriarty was fully present. And he regarded Charlotte with such genuine amazement that for a moment she felt as she had as a child, when her father cupped her face in his palms, called her his lovely poppet, and told her that she was the most extraordinary girl he had ever met.
She adjusted the cuffs of her sleeves and proceeded to bask, indeed preen, in Moriarty’s attention. “May I also venture that you gentlemen didn’t come from Paris, which has only a ten-minute time difference with London, but from somewhere further afield?”
Mr. Marbleton bowed his head, as if wary of giving unauthorized answers, but Moriarty said, “Indeed, we began our journey further east. What magnificent logic you possess, Miss Holmes.”
He gave no geographic specifics, but Charlotte smiled broadly, as if his compliment was all that she wanted. “One does pick up a trick or two, serving as Sherlock Holmes’s oracle. Are you familiar with my brother’s condition, by any chance, Messieurs Baxter?”
“Yes, we have heard of his unfortunate state of health and have nothing but the most profound wishes for his recovery. But in the meanwhile, we shall be happy to work with you, Miss Holmes.”
Such an easy sincerity to his words, too. And he meant it: No pretenses necessary. He was fully aware that Sherlock Holmes was a woman and fully accepting of that fact.
She handed around plates of baked goods. Mr. Marbleton declined everything but Moriarty accepted an éclair and ate it with obvious appreciation.
Seeing others enjoy their food usually buoyed Charlotte’s own appetite. Moriarty’s relish, however, did not have the same effect on her. She had seen his true face, cold and pitiless. Her brother’s life was in danger because of him. And here was Mr. Marbleton, who, despite his effort to appear normal, obviously felt suffocated.
Should Moriarty discount everything else Charlotte might know about him, he must still take into consideration that Lady Ingram had publicly declared him a murderer, the culprit in the Stern Hollow affair. He knew Charlotte would be on guard. Why then was he taking the trouble to appear blameless?
Did he think that by calling himself Mr. Baxter she wouldn’t know who he was?
She looked away from the refreshments on the tea table without making a selection. There was, however, nowhere else for her gaze to settle except on Moriarty’s intelligent and empathetic face.
With a sinking feeling, she said, “I am honored by your trust, sir. May I ask why you wish to work with us? Mr. de Lacey, in his letter, gave no hint.”
Moriarty looked up from his éclair. “Do you not know, Miss Holmes, why I am here today?”
His eyes were a pale blue, the shade at the edge of an English sky. They were slightly bloodshot, which served only to emphasize the gentleness of his expression. His voice held a hint of reproach, but it was a benign, forgiving disapproval.
Instantly, her mind leaped to the list of “wrongs” she had perpetrated against him, especially that of the wholesale theft of his secrets at Château Vaudrieu. Please understand, dear sir, that it was all a series of coincidences and misunderstandings. We never set out to interfere in your dealings and we have no wish, now or ever, to cause you even the smallest inconvenience.
At the periphery of her view, Mr. Marbleton scuffed the bottom of his shoe against her lovely new Aubusson carpet.
Intellectually she understood that Mr. Marbleton was her canary in the mine, his reaction a sharp prod to her to remain alert and vigilant. Still, she found herself wanting to explain. To confess and explain.
A vein throbbed at the side of her temple—a strange sensation that she’d never known before, her heartbeat reverberating so far up, and so loudly and insistently that she could not think.
Had a minute passed, or a second? Or no time at all?
She was still gazing into Moriarty’s pale, fathomless eyes, still transfixed by the humanity and understanding he evinced, and still very much inclined to tell him everything and apologize for all the problems and difficulties she’d unwittingly caused.
Your late—but still alive—wife approached me. Your former minion Lady Ingram approached me. Your blackmail victim, knowing nothing about you, approached me. Mrs. Treadles, fearful for her husband’s life, approached me. In every instance all I did was agree to be gallant to a damsel in distress, albeit one with the means to afford my fees. Surely you see that, dear sir?
Vaguely she became aware of her own face moving. Had she done something? Raised a quizzical brow?
“You did hear me correctly, Miss Holmes, but I’ll repeat my question,” murmured Moriarty. “Do you really have no idea why I am here today?”
* * *
When Livia had learned of the impending visit by Moriarty’s minions, everything around her had gone eerily dim. The sky. The air. The streetlamps, weak and sputtering, as if they were the Little Match Girl’s final attempts to keep darkness at bay.
But all she saw now, as Mr. Marbleton turned his head toward her, were bright, vivid colors. The emerald ring on his right hand, the glint of silver atop his slender malacca cane, the flash of deep scarlet as a gale reversed the hem of his long black cape.