Page 26 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
“Yes?”
“Are you prone to seasickness?”
Mrs. Morris blinked. “No, not at all. I enjoy ocean voyages.”
“Thank you,” said Charlotte, and closed the door.
In the days immediately preceding their departure for the country, both Sir Henry and Lady Holmes made a number of appointments with tailors, milliners, modistes, haberdashers, and conveyers of other fine goods. They always regretted their splurges upon receipt of the accounts. But an entire Season surrounded by their wealthier peers and all the luxuries that poured into the heart of an empire never failed to eradicate memories of past regret.
This ill-considered frenzy of acquisition usually depressed Livia: another year without a proposal, another year closer to irreversible spinsterhood, and here were her parents, squandering the money that could be used to put a roof over Livia’s head in her old age, nudging her another step closer to that cabbage-eating, dingy boardinghouse-dwelling future that loomed ever over an unwanted woman without any means of support.
But at least today it meant that she, too, could be out of the house, browsing the shelves at Hatchards, dreaming of a collection of her own, so many books that the entire house would smell of leather, paper, and binding.
“Excuse me, miss, but is this yours?”
Livia spun around. Good heavens, it really was him, the youngman from the park the other day, except he wasn’t holding anything out toward her.
He grinned, his brown eyes warm and crinkled at the corners. “Already looking for more books? Have you finished those two Collins novels?”
“Yes, I have, as a matter of fact.”
“And do you agree with me or my friend on their merits?”
“Your friend, most certainly.Moonstoneis superior toThe Woman in White.”
“No!” After that cry of mock horror, his smile was back in full force. “In that case, we must read something else in common and see if our opinions converge better the next time around.”
Her heart thudded. Was he implying that shewouldsee him again? “Have you any titles to recommend? I intend to read more books along the lines ofMoonstoneandThe Woman in White.”
“There is a German book from a while ago,Das Fräulein von Scuderi. Very dramatic stuff. There are also some stories by Mr. Poe, the American.”
“Oh, please don’t recommend ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’”
“Never! Not the blasted orangutan. I was angry for days afterward.”
“Me, too!” concurred Livia wholeheartedly. “My sister had to listen to endless grumbling on my part. And if Mr. Poe weren’t already dead, I’d have written him a strongly worded letter—and paid for the transatlantic postage to make my displeasure known.”
He laughed. To her disbelief, Livia found herself laughing with him, unabashed glee coursing through her veins. Dear God, it felt good to finally speak to someone who understood the affront that was the blasted orangutan.
Their laughter subsided. For a moment, neither of them saidanything. Then he asked, “If I may be so forward, miss, what inspired your interest in this genre of stories?”
Because she had nothing to lose, she told him the truth. “I hope to write a similar story, but better, of course.”
“Please do! Will you divulge a thing or two of the plot?”
“Well, I want it to be a revenge story. A spate of mysterious deaths, a genius who strides in to untangle the web, and then, the revelation of a terrible wrong from decades ago, now avenged.”
He gasped. “You mean, a variation on the Sackville case, with the involvement of that man. Now why can’t I remember his name?”
“Holmes.”
“Yes, Sherlock Holmes. You must write it. I will be the first one in line to buy a copy.”
Charlotte had said she believed Livia could write such a story. But Charlotte never voluntarily touched fiction. This young man, however, was a connoisseur. And he wanted to read her—as of yet nonexistent—work.
“And will you stay up all night reading?” she heard herself ask.
He gazed at her. “Not likely. I will finish reading by bedtime, so I will most likely go to sleep wishing I could read it again for the first time.”
