Page 11 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
With a sinking feeling, she said, “I am honored by your trust, sir. May I ask why you wish to work with us? Mr. de Lacey, in his letter, gave no hint.”
Moriarty looked up from his éclair. “Do you not know, Miss Holmes, why I am here today?”
His eyes were a pale blue, the shade at the edge of an English sky. They were slightly bloodshot, which served only to emphasize the gentleness of his expression. His voice held a hint of reproach, but it was a benign, forgiving disapproval.
Instantly, her mind leaped to the list of “wrongs” she had perpetrated against him, especially that of the wholesale theft of his secrets at Château Vaudrieu.Please understand, dear sir, that it was all a series of coincidences and misunderstandings. We never set out to interfere in your dealings and we have no wish, now or ever, to cause you even the smallest inconvenience.
At the periphery of her view, Mr. Marbleton scuffed the bottom of his shoe against her lovely new Aubusson carpet.
Intellectually she understood that Mr. Marbleton was her canary in the mine, his reaction a sharp prod to her to remain alert and vigilant. Still, she found herself wanting to explain. To confess and explain.
A vein throbbed at the side of her temple—a strange sensation that she’d never known before, her heartbeat reverberating so far up, and so loudly and insistently that she could not think.
Had a minute passed, or a second? Or no time at all?
She was still gazing into Moriarty’s pale, fathomless eyes, still transfixed by the humanity and understanding he evinced, and still very much inclined to tell him everything and apologize for all the problems and difficulties she’d unwittingly caused.
Your late—but still alive—wife approached me. Your former minion Lady Ingram approached me. Your blackmail victim, knowing nothing about you, approached me. Mrs. Treadles, fearful for her husband’s life, approached me. In every instance all I did was agree to be gallant to a damsel in distress, albeit one with the means to afford my fees. Surely you see that, dear sir?
Vaguely she became aware of her own face moving. Had she done something? Raised a quizzical brow?
“You did hear me correctly, Miss Holmes, but I’ll repeat my question,” murmured Moriarty. “Do you really have no idea why I am here today?”
When Livia had learnedof the impending visit by Moriarty’s minions, everything around her had gone eerily dim. The sky. The air. The streetlamps, weak and sputtering, as if they were the Little Match Girl’s final attempts to keep darkness at bay.
But all she saw now, as Mr. Marbleton turned his head toward her, were bright, vivid colors. The emerald ring on his right hand, the glint of silver atop his slender malacca cane, the flash of deep scarlet as a gale reversed the hem of his long black cape.
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.
