Page 9 of The Art of Theft
He looked unusually grave as he spoke.
Charlotte nodded. “I thought that your family would wish to see for themselves the woman who has become unexpectedly significant to you. I take it my sister was ambivalent about meeting them.”
“And they were just as ambivalent about meeting her—through no fault of hers, of course.” He sighed. “I would have preferred not to have said anything to anyone for a while, but as I’ve told you, we cannot have secrets in our family.”
Because they were hunted by Moriarty and any secrets could doom all of them.
He looked at her. “Were Miss Olivia any less unhappy where she is, I would have made myself scarce. And please don’t mistakeme—I do not dream of rescuing any damsel from her benighted existence.”
She understood what he meant: only because her own life was so narrow and uninspiring could Livia possibly overlook the inherent danger and instability in his. “I must warn you, Mr. Marbleton. Earlier today Mrs. Watson saw a carriage stopped across the street with no one getting in or out. Perhaps this isn’t the best time for you to be here.”
He frowned. “Is that so? I circled the area for some time before I rang the bell. It didn’t seem to me that there was anyone watching either this house or 18 Upper Baker Street.”
“I trust that you would recognize surveillance when you see it,” said Charlotte simply.
All the same, why did he risk this visit at all?
The next minute, she scoffed at her imperceptiveness. He risked it because he wished to speak of Livia. It would not make for an enjoyable conversation with his disapproving family. Charlotte, too, believed it would be better for their feelings to dwindle into nothing, but at least she could not possibly object to hearing the latest news about her sister.
So she let him have that, the pleasure and necessity of discoursing on his beloved to a pair of sympathetic ears. Eagerly he related their meetings: The first at the Holmes house, the second when the “Openshaws” reciprocated the dinner invitation at their hotel in a nearby town, the third out on a walk, during which—bliss!—Miss Olivia agreed to let him be the first to read her Sherlock Holmes story, and the last at the Marbletons’ farewell visit.
As complicated as his personal circumstances made things, his happiness was uncluttered, the joy he radiated as pure and simple as that of a boy who had just met the puppy that was going to turn his childhood magical.
When Lord Ingram had been forced to admit his sentiments toward Charlotte, it had happened under police questioning. Theheaviness of the occasion had been oppressive, the reluctance of his confession unleavened by any flutter of gladness.
Perhaps that was the reason their brief stint as lovers had been so easy and lighthearted, relatively speaking. He had made it clear that the liaison would take place only for reasons of strategy and safety. And since they both knew there would be no future, they had allowed themselves to enjoy the present.
An addictive pleasure, as it turned out.
She studied the glow upon Mr. Marbleton’s face, his agreeable features made doubly so by the sincerity and elation of first love. Did he not realize how unlikely it was for his budding romance to blossom any further? Did he not understand that to seek permanent ties would be to place his own needs far, far above Livia’s?
But that glow faded. He fell silent. When he looked at Charlotte again, it was with a gentle but deep-seated melancholy. “She was relieved that I didn’t propose to her.”
“Good. I should think less of you if you did.”
“So would I.” He sighed, then smiled beatifically. “But let’s speak of happier things. I, for one, am delighted that I will see Miss Olivia again within days.”
“Oh, are you not also departing these shores?”
“Yes, yes, but I have convinced my family to let me remain here a little longer. Which”—he lifted the letter from Livia and proffered it with theatrical flair—“brings me to the purpose of my call. Miss Olivia Holmes, I have come to realize, has a devious mind. And rather breathtaking audacity.”
Livia had long struggled with the sense of worthlessness that their parents had, carelessly or intentionally, instilled in her. Charlotte, on the other hand, never doubted that she could be both bold and clever—she needed only to see past her own doubts. “What does she have in mind?”
“She would very much like for you forge a letter, purportedly from my mother—Mrs. Openshaw, that is—inviting her to spendChristmas with the Openshaw family,” declared Mr. Marbleton, clearly relishing every word. “She reasons that Sir Henry and Lady Holmes, the latter especially, are desperate enough to marry her off that they would seize any opportunity to thrust her into the company of an eligible young man.
“Given that the Holmeses and the Openshaws haven’t known one another very long, Lady Holmes would have accompanied Miss Olivia—under different circumstances. I understand that an attractive widow recently took up residence in the village and that Lady Holmes is intent that no friendship should develop between Sir Henry and this newcomer. Therefore there is no moment like the present for Miss Livia to make a bid for temporary freedom.”
Charlotte nodded. Lady Holmes tended to be riled by the presence of good-looking, experienced women nearby, because her husband almost invariably sniffed at their skirts—and sometimes managed to get under those skirts. Another woman, faced with Sir Henry’s incurable wandering eye, would have resigned herself to the inevitable and concentrated her efforts on her one remaining eligible daughter. But Lady Holmes was ruled by her reactions, and she reacted with far more rancor and bile to her husband’s disrespect than anything Livia had or hadn’t done.
“I already spoke to my family,” continued Mr. Marbleton, “and they are amenable, since Miss Olivia’s goal is to spend time not with us, but with you. She believes that once you have dispatched the letter, you can send Mrs. Watson in disguise to retrieve her from home, as a chaperone from Mrs. Openshaw. And she hopes that once she leaves home, she will be able to stay with you until mid-January.”
Charlotte smiled. “This is an excellent plan. And has every chance of success.”
“I am counting on it.”
“Does your family know that she is the reason you’re delaying your departure from Britain?”
“Of course. No secrets, remember? I even begged my mother to write the letter herself, but she refused.”
