She had thought she would see him only in dreams for years upon years. But here he was, separated from her by nothing more than a few feet of air that suddenly smelled sweetly of roasted chestnuts.
He looked away as if he’d seen nothing more remarkable than a lamppost.
Her heart tore in two. Had he already forgotten her?
But the next instant, the same instinct that had her pretend to rummage through her reticule earlier made her yank shut the drawstring on the still-open reticule and spin around, as if she’d came to the conclusion that she’d indeed forgotten something important and must go back for its retrieval.
As soon as she turned, she felt the force of unfriendly attention on her back. She walked, shoving her feet down hard against the pavement so as not to break into a run. He hadn’t come alone. There was another man. Who was he? Had he seen her looking at Mr. Marbleton with her heart in her eyes? Had she exposed herself? Worse, had she exposed in Mr. Marbleton a hitherto unknown weakness that his captors could use to their advantage?
She didn’t stop until she reached the sharply angled intersection between Upper Baker Street and Allsop Place, where she hid behind the end of a row of houses.
She peered around the corner. The carriage was still there, but no one was left on the pavement before number 18.
Her knees shook. But she bit her lower lip and headed back out: She still had to get to the rear of number 18. She would simply take a different route.
Someone took hold of her arm. A bloodcurdling shriek was about to leave her throat when she saw that it was Mrs. Watson. She threw her arms around the older woman. “Oh, Mrs. Watson. Mrs. Watson, what is going on?”
Mrs. Watson rubbed her on her back. “Come along. I’ll tell you.”
The tightness of her voice made Livia feel as if she were falling down a long chute. Was she about to tell Livia that Mr. Marbleton had thrown in his lot with Moriarty? Was that why he was now trusted enough to be Moriarty’s representative?
She swallowed and walked faster, holding on to Mrs. Watson’s arm with both hands. Without any reminders from her to avoid going too close to the carriage, in case any observers remained behind, Mrs. Watson headed north on Upper Baker Street, in the opposite direction.
They made three turns and entered the alley behind number 18.
“According to Miss Charlotte, that was Moriarty himself,” said Mrs. Watson, who had been silent all this time.
Livia stared at her. Mr. Marbleton might be related to Moriarty, but he was most certainly not—
She emitted a strangled cry. Mrs. Watson meant the other man, the one who had come with Mr. Marbleton.
Moriarty. She’d always believed—fervently hoped—that he would remain a distant threat. He was not supposed to materialize on Upper Baker Street, fewer than thirty feet from her. And Charlotte, dear God, was Charlotte speaking to him face-to-face, forced to put on a smile and offer him tea and biscuits?
“My—my sister—”
She didn’t dare it say it aloud, but why else would Moriarty be here, if not to demand that Charlotte return to him what she’d taken from Château Vaudrieu? And he could never have learned of it unless—unless Mr. Marbleton had informed him.
“I thought Lord Ingram had grossly overreacted when he brought a miniaturized Maxim gun,” said Mrs. Watson with a grim satisfaction. “Now I wish he’d brought some proper artillery.”
“What—” Livia almost could not ask the question. “What do we do if Mr. Marbleton—if he—?”
Mrs. Watson’s voice was full of uncertainty. “I don’t know. I don’t think Miss Charlotte knows, either.”
Terror. Anguish. Livia thought she’d known plenty of both. But as it turned out, she’d never had a taste of either until this moment. She felt like a straw target at an archery practice, pierced through and through.
Blindly she followed Mrs. Watson and almost bumped into the latter when she stopped. When had they entered number 18, or climbed a flight of steps? Yet here they were, squeezed inside a service stairwell, on a landing that was barely big enough for their skirts.
“When Miss Charlotte receives gentlemen callers, the parlor door is usually left open. We should be able to hear them from here,” whispered Mrs. Watson. “But we must make sure not to be heard.”
Livia nodded. She felt as if she were moving inside a vat of glue.
Slowly, Mrs. Watson opened the door to a corridor.
Charlotte’s voice came almost immediately. “. . . ask why you wish to work with us? Mr. de Lacey, in his letter, gave no hint.”
Livia exhaled. At least Charlotte still sounded completely herself, cool and detached.
A man said, “Do you not know, Miss Holmes, why I am here today?”
His voice was deep, its timbre rich and slightly raspy, the kind of voice that would float beautifully, reading aloud in a cozy parlor with family and friends gathered around the fire.
Moriarty? But his question didn’t sound sinister or brutish, only . . . reasonable. He put Livia in mind of a cherished friend coming to call after a long absence, or a beloved uncle freshly returned from abroad, posing his inquiry with goodwill and a quiet intensity.
She blinked.
Beside her, Mrs. Watson looked not so much confounded as wary.
But as they exchanged a glance, the questions in their eyes were the same. Was that Moriarty? If so, why were they not quaking in their walking boots?
Had Charlotte made a mistake? Mrs. Watson had said, According to Miss Charlotte, that was Moriarty himself. Which meant that Mrs. Watson didn’t know for certain and Charlotte, too, had ventured only an opinion.
The fact that Charlotte had never in her life offered a frivolous opinion didn’t seem to matter too much at the moment.
Thoughts spun in Livia’s head. This man could be a timely ally Mr. Marbleton had encountered, a man who had Moriarty’s trust but was secretly working against him. This must be why Mr. Marbleton had agreed to come along. With the man’s help, he might yet slip away and disappear into the crowd.
Maybe—just maybe—Livia could have a word with Mr. Marbleton before he escaped to greater freedom. He knew she was nearby. He must know she would come into the house. A few minutes alone could be arranged without inconveniencing anyone.
“You did hear me correctly, Miss Holmes, but I’ll repeat my question,” murmured the man. “Do you really have no idea why I am here today?”
Livia did. He had brought Mr. Marbleton back to them.
A hand locked onto her upper arm. Livia glanced down at the hand, then up at Mrs. Watson’s shocked face.
Where are you going? mouthed Mrs. Watson.
Livia looked down again. She had opened the door more widely and was about to step into the corridor.
Mrs. Watson’s expression of exaggerated disbelief—eyes round, mouth wide open—would have been comical if Livia weren’t suddenly covered in a cold sweat.
Gingerly, she took a step back, but the impact of her heel on the floorboard sounded like an anvil crashing. She grimaced, retreated another step, and leaned against the wall, panting.
What had happened? She wasn’t even sure what she had meant to do by rushing forward. She simply wanted to do something. To give the man an answer.
And to thank him for bringing back her beloved.
When she’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that the man was Moriarty.