Page 38 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
“I wouldn’t say he’d expressed outright displeasure toward me earlier, but the trend was clear. It was obvious that when he last bid me good-bye, he’d hoped not to see me for a good long while.”
“Why? He owes much of his recent success to you.”
She only looked at him.
He shook his head. “He can’t be this kind of a man, can he? He respects women.”
“He respects women he deems worthy of respect—I am no longer one in his eyes. He is not pleased that he has helped and been helped by a woman he cannot respect. And he cannot think as highly of you as he had earlier, because my lack of respectability seems to have made no difference to you.”
“What kind of a friend would I be if I’d cut ties the momentyou were no longer acceptable to the rest of Society? And why should he be offended that I didn’t do it?”
She shrugged. “There are men like my father. It is not enjoyable to number among his female dependents, because he is selfish and because he disdains women in general—or indeed anyone who is any different from him. And then there are men like Inspector Treadles, an excellent person by almost all standards. But he admires the world as it is and he subscribes to the rules that uphold the world as it is. For him then it’s the principle of the thing. Anyone who breaks the rules endangers the order of the world and should be punished. He does not ask whether the rules are fair; he only cares that they are enforced.
“Someone like me, who has broken the rules blatantly without seeming to have suffered any consequences—I am an affront, a menace to the order that he holds dear. Worse, his opinion is immaterial to me and he cannot do anything about it. It must chafe at him. I only hope his wife fares better, if she ever breaks any rules he deems important.”
“But he loves her!”
“I’m sure he does. Let’s remember, however, that he also admired Sherlock Holmes, until he discovered Charlotte Holmes’s transgressions.”
At Lord Ingram’s pained expression, she added, “I am not saying that he is a completely draconian man who will always put his principles above the people in his life. Only that for him, questioning what he believes—what he believes so deeply he doesn’t even think about—would be more painful than breaking his own kneecaps with a sledgehammer.”
Lord Ingram looked as if he was about to reply, but something—or someone, rather—caught his attention. “That’s Underwood, Bancroft’s man.”
Mr. Underwood, large and rotund, moved with surprisingagility. He came to a stop at their table and bowed. “Miss Holmes, his lordship awaits you.”
Mr. Underwood also had a message for Lord Ingram, who glanced at it, frowned, and said to Charlotte, “Do please excuse me, Miss Holmes. I trust I’ll have the pleasure of your company again before too long.”
“Good day, my lord—and I do hope so.”
He had given his standard parting line, but hers had been a few words too long—usually she stopped atGood day, my lord. He narrowed his eyes before he bowed and left.
Charlotte followed Mr. Underwood to a waiting town coach.
The street where they were deposited was neither cheerful nor oppressive. It was simply part and parcel of a place built for function, rescued from outright tedium by an occasional window box of blooming pansies, or a set of shutters newly painted a sky blue, in defiance of the murky air of the city, which would soon turn it a much grimier shade.
The house itself was a nonentity. Its tiny plot of land, delineated by a low brick wall, contained two bushes, pruned but not meticulously so. The door opened into a small entry, a space for coats and umbrellas and muddy galoshes—but any mud that had been tracked in earlier had been cleaned away, and the vestibule was empty except for a walking stick that hung on a hook on the wall.
Mr. Underwood guided her into a sparsely furnished parlor, where Lord Bancroft sat, a tea service on the low table beside him, along with a handsome Victoria sandwich.
Lord Ingram ate everything set down before him and didn’t care greatly whether the food was exquisite or barely edible. Lord Bancroft, on the other hand, shared with Charlotte a sustained interest in dinners—and breakfasts and luncheons and teas.
Moreover, he was the sort of fortunate man who could eat whathe pleased without having to worry about exceeding Maximum Tolerable Chins. In fact, Charlotte suspected that the more he ate, the leaner he became.
“Ah, Miss Holmes,” he said cheerfully. “Have you been enjoying yourself with my brother?”
Another man might have said it snidely. Lord Bancroft was not that man: He had not asked Charlotte to love him, only to marry him—and therefore her spending time with his brother, a married man, was of no concern.
He and she were more alike than she had ever realized before.
“It has been an interesting day,” she answered. “Are you having me followed, by the way, my lord?”
“My dear Miss Holmes,” said Lord Bancroft without the least hesitation, “you know I can never answer such queries. A bite with your tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She’d had a scone with Devonshire cream at the tea shop, but it would be remiss not to try the Victoria sandwich. The kind of pastry a man could come up with on short notice—and with a dead body in the house—said a great deal about him.
The sponge was fresh and light, the strawberry jam between the layers the perfect combination of sweet and tart. Chased with a cup of beautifully brewed tea, it was absolutely flawless.
