Page 94 of The Art of Theft
The maharani turned to Charlotte. She’d set her hands together on the table, her fingers interlaced. Now her fingers flexed, as if she felt a twitch of nerves. “Miss Charlotte, allow me to extend an apology to you. I did not realize it then, but had Sherlock Holmes been able-bodied, I would probably have begged him for help, his lack of experience in robbing French châteaus notwithstanding.
“Whereas even after you revealed that you were responsible for Sherlock Holmes’s achievement and reputation, my first, second, and third reaction was still no, I could not entrust this task to a woman.
“I have, I believe, been an excellent ruler of my small realm. So I, of all people, should know better than to deny a woman an opportunity simply because she is a woman. But being a woman of power in the world of men has not always taught me the right lessons. I’m afraid that I’d begun to think that I came to be where I was because I was intrinsically exceptional, different from other women, and not that my particular circumstances afforded me chances that they could not even dream of.”
She placed her hands over Charlotte’s. “I’m glad you made me see differently. But you shouldn’t have needed to. And for that, please accept my sincere regret.”
?The maharani left first, to catch a steamer leaving Marseille for Bombay. Leighton Atwood would leave last, after he spread the news about the loss of a great many photographic plates in the gas explosions at Château Vaudrieu.
The rest of the company left that evening to cross the channel. The next morning they were in London. There Lord Ingram said good-bye to the ladies and Mr. Marbleton, and continued on to his brother’s estate.
A letter awaited him there, a letter he’d been hoping to receive. And when he’d read it, he closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.
He met his brother and sister-in-law. He played with his children and theirs. And when his sister-in-law had gathered all the children for a special tea party, he summoned Miss Yarmouth for a private meeting.
This time she did not tell him not to answer her yet. She understood that he had made up his mind.
“My lord,” she murmured as she came into his brother’s study, which he’d borrowed for the occasion.
She closed the door. He left his seat, walked past her, and reopened it a crack. After all, Holmes considered him a stickler for propriety. He might as well live up to her opinion.
They sat down on two sides of a large mahogany desk, she gingerly, he, with every assurance.
“Miss Yarmouth, I have received a letter from Miss Potter. Miss Potter was my own governess, an excellent and admirable woman, and she has graciously agreed to come work for me and take charge of the children.”
“I—I see,” stammered Miss Yarmouth.
“I thank you for your proposal, but I do not intend to marry again after my divorce. At least, not in the near term. Therefore I must wish you the very best of luck in Australia. May you find everything there that your heart seeks.” He slid an envelope across the table to her. “And you will please allow me to contribute to your dowry, in gratitude for your generosity and kindness to the children.”
She touched the envelope and drew back her hand, as if scalded. “But the children—my lord, they will be thrust into the care of a stranger.”
“Temporarily, until Miss Potter is no longer a stranger to them. And I will be there, too, to help them get to know one another.”
“Surely—”
“Surely, even if I were intent on matrimony, I must think of myself, too, and not only of my children. I do not believe we shall suit, Miss Yarmouth, and there really isn’t anything else to say on the matter. You may return to your duties.”
She rose slowly, curtsied, and left, this time holding the envelope tight.
His answer might sting, but the contents of the envelope should go a long way toward soothing any hurt pride.
And now, one less problem in his life.
?Mr. Marbleton came with the ladies to Mrs. Watson’s house. To celebrate their success, they went out for a sumptuous dinner at Verrey’s. Afterward, Charlotte and Mrs. Watson both retired early, leaving the duty of chaperoning Livia entirely to Livia herself.
It was a rare clear night for this time of the year. There were actually stars overhead, small, cold twinkles of light, visible from the window of the afternoon parlor. She and Mr. Marbleton each nursed a finger of whisky, but she didn’t need theeau de viein her throat to feel a warmth glowing inside.
She loved summer and he was the most summery man she had ever met.
“I’m leaving in the morning,” she said softly, not wanting to face that eventuality herself. “As much as I’d like to remain longer, I simply must go home before my parents realize that I’ve been gone awhile.”
“Will you be all right at home?”
“I think so.”
She felt more... sturdy. She had not made any particularly crucial contribution to the great endeavor at Château Vaudrieu this past fortnight, but she’d acquitted herself conscientiously.Andshe’d finished her Sherlock Holmes story, possibly the greatest solo undertaking of her life.
Having proved something to herself, she should be able to bear life at home better—at least for a while.
