Page 69 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
And he would have shrugged, pulled a card out of his pocket, and jotted down 23 Hanley Street.
What’s that?
At the place where I bought my cockade, they gave me a card. Said I should bring the ladies of the family the next time.
But was it a coincidence or had he planned it?
She had spoken very little with Mr. Marbleton about his upbringing—a subject that made her uneasy. He and his family had never lived anywhere permanently because of Moriarty’s long arm and even longer shadow. But she knew that he possessed no particular patriotic fervor for either queen or country. She also knew, from Charlotte’s words and her own observations, that his family was adept at disguises and other sorts of subterranean communications.
He had planned it. He might not have expected any chances of success, but hehadplanned it.
But what could Livia possibly learn from a shop full of Jubilee goods?
After the initialburst of chatter over the invitation, Miss Charlotte recommended that everyone should get ready.
By getting ready, Mrs. Watson thought she meant to discuss strategy. Instead, the girl started packing. Lord Ingram took a look at her and did the same. Mrs. Watson hesitated a little longer before joining in. It couldn’t hurt, she supposed. After all, if they indeed saw Miss Baxter tonight, then the thing to do would be to catch the next train back to London and disclose their findings to Moriarty.
Ifthey indeed saw Miss Baxter tonight, that is.
Lord Ingram, the first to be finished, went out to the walls again. He came back within minutes and reported that Mr. Peters had returned with the coach, but Mrs. Crosby had not come back with him.
Miss Charlotte nodded and went back to buckling her satchel.
“Miss Charlotte, you don’t seem surprised about it,” said Mrs. Watson, unnerved. “You weren’t even surprised about the invitation to Miss Baxter’s.”
“I don’t know enough to judge the significance of Mr. Peters’s and Mrs. Crosby’s comings and goings,” said Miss Charlotte. She rose to her feet, walked to the door, and donned her mantle. “As for the invitation to Miss Baxter’s, you are right about that—I wasn’t surprised. The events last night were always meant to force somebody’s hand.”
They walked to Miss Baxter’s lodge under a purple dusk, a few rays of light still glowing in the western sky. In front of the lodge, they met Miss Fairchild, Miss Ellery, and the Steeles, also brandishing invitations. Mrs. Watson, already astounded, was now staggered. Were she trying to pass off someone as Miss Baxter at this point, she would not have invited anyone who had actually known her.
As Lord Ingram hadn’t formally met the Garden’s residents, introductions were performed. Mr. Steele rang the doorbell. Miss Stoppard answered the door and greeted the callers with a nod.
In the vestibule, the company shed coats and stashed walking sticks and umbrellas. They proceeded to a small entry hall, where Miss Stoppard said to them, “I’ll let Miss Baxter know that you are here.”
She opened the parlor door a crack and disappeared inside; the residents of the Garden followed her with their eyes. The Steeles appeared nonplussed. Miss Ellery, restless and excited. Miss Fairchild, on the other hand, seemed a little troubled.
Miss Charlotte walked about the entry hall, looking at the décor. Mrs. Watson remembered the disturbing painting in the library that was attributed to Miss Baxter. Fortunately, in the entry at least, the pictures were seascapes and still lifes, with little to excite the imagination.
“Miss Baxter is ready to see you,” said Miss Stoppard.
And with that, she opened the parlor door all the way.
Mrs. Watson groaned inwardly. A large canvas hung opposite the door. A woman in white, her red hair streaming in the wind, pushed a long gleaming sword into the eye socket of a skull, pinning it to the ground. Blood seeped out from the skull. As if that weren’t disconcerting enough, a blood-speckled serpent climbed up one of the woman’s bare, shapely limbs, its forked tongue already past her knee.
Mrs. Watson was sure the image would haunt her the entire time she remained in the lodge, but the moment she walked into the parlor, she forgot about the painting.
On any other occasion, she would have marveled at the existence of such a drawing room at the very edge of a Cornish cliff. Between the huge, gilded mirrors, the Watteau-esque murals of brightly dressed revelers against a sylvan background, and the slender-legged furniture upholstered in a creamy silk with just a whisper of green, this parlor would not have felt out of place in the stateliesthôtels particuliersin Paris.
But tonight, Mrs. Watson’s gaze fell on the woman half inclined on a settee. Her face was very pale, almost translucent, that of an already-fair person who hadn’t seen the sun in long months, the auburn hair that Mrs. Felton had mentioned gathered back in a sleek chignon. She wore an evening gown in dark green velvet, with a square décolletage showing off smooth skin and a pair of very pretty collarbones. The sleeves ended at the elbow. On one bare forearm she sported an emerald-studded bangle, on the other, a snake bracelet in shiny gold.
As the crowd entered, she turned her face. Her eyes were long and deep set, the irises a hazel made much darker by her midnight-forest gown. Not the most beautiful woman Mrs. Watson had ever seen, but these were stunning eyes and the effect of their direct sweep...
Mrs. Watson had to wrestle with an urge to lower her head and curtsy.
If anything, Mrs. Felton had understated the grandness of Miss Baxter.
“Please sit down,” she said.
Her voice was a little hoarse, yet that served only to add to the power of her presence.
