Prologue #2
Mr. Finch rubbed a hand along his chin. “I’m not convinced about the existence of this Marbleton clan. You sign your own death sentence upon leaving Moriarty.”
“According to one Marbleton, that they have managed to evade Moriarty for this long is precisely why you ought to join forces with them. They can help you stay alive longer than Jenkins managed to.”
He was silent.
“I am only the messenger—the choice is yours. If you decide to accept their offer, you can call for a letter for Mr. Ethelwin Emery at Charing Cross Post Office. The letter will contain further instructions.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“And I must warn you, the Crown is now also interested in your whereabouts. Agents of the Crown may not wish you dead, but if I were you, I would avoid crossing paths with them. I don’t trust that they will have your best interests at heart.”
“I have heard talk about Lord Bancroft Ashburton. I am forewarned.” Mr. Finch cocked his head. “Did you accept his proposal, in the end?”
He had been present at the memorable occasion when Lord Ingram announced to a room of men there specifically to drag her back home that she was considering a proposal from Lord Bancroft.
“No.”
“I’m glad.”
She raised a brow. “Why? Do you think a Lady Bancroft would have as dire a rate of survival as a Mrs. Moriarty?”
“Of that I haven’t the slightest notion. But you yourself said, when Sir Henry asked why you hadn’t accepted Lord Bancroft, that you weren’t enamored of the idea.”
“Is that all?”
“Is that not reason enough?”
Most people would be outraged that she, in her state of disgraced exile, declined a perfectly good proposal to please herself, when there were so many parties she could have better pleased by becoming Lord Bancroft’s wife.
Was Mr. Finch truly so liberal in his thinking?
Before she could say anything, however, he pushed away from the pillar against which he stood. “Someone’s coming.”
The furrow in his brow conveyed the unwelcomeness of this visitor. Charlotte, too, rose. The lamp on the wall flickered. One of the carriage horses snorted, its tail swishing. Her hand clenched around the edge of the folding table, its surfaces pitted and rough beneath her skin.
Knocks came, three taps in rapid succession, followed by two louder thumps spaced farther apart.
She had thought it possible that it was Livia, coming to speak a few words to Mr. Finch on the eve of her departure, since she had relied on and trusted him to help her, without knowing that he was their brother. But this was not Livia.
The knocks came again, in exactly the same pattern.
The letters S and M in Morse Code.
“I might know who this is.” Charlotte drew out her double-barrel derringer, which she’d carried on her person ever since the day her father attempted to abduct her. “You hide behind the coach, just in case.”
He did as she asked.
Charlotte opened the door of the carriage house a crack and in slipped a woman. No, not a woman: Stephen Marbleton in a dress and a purple summer cape.
She’d last seen Mr. Marbleton a week ago, when he and his injured sister had stayed overnight at 18 Upper Baker Street, to avoid being captured by Moriarty’s minions.
Then he had sported a full beard; but now he was shaven, and his features possessed a delicacy that was further emphasized by the enormous pouf of violet-and-cream ribbons on the velvet-lined traveling hat that completed his disguise.
“Mr. Marbleton. Did you follow me?”
Immediately she knew that hadn’t been the case. When they’d last met, she’d just discovered that he had been impersonating Mr. Finch. They’d had no idea then, either of them, who or where the real Mr. Finch was. “You were following my sister.”
Did he flush? It was difficult to tell in the barely adequate light.
“I have not been following you, but I believe others were. If you are meeting with Mr. Finch, he had better leave right now.”
Mr. Finch came out from behind the carriage. Mr. Marbleton’s eyes widened. More proof that he had been following Livia: He recognized the coachman who drove her around town.
“Where are they stationed now,” asked Mr. Finch, “the men who have followed Miss Charlotte here?”
“One in front of her parents’ house. One at either end of the carriage lane.”
Mr. Finch returned Charlotte’s derringer and indicated a knapsack he carried, which earlier had been hanging on a peg beside one of the stalls. “I have a loaded revolver in here. I should be all right.”
“Wait a second,” said Charlotte. She turned to Mr. Marbleton. “Where were you? Did those men see you come in here?”
“I was in the house next door—the tenants have already left town. And more likely than not, the men in the carriage lane saw me. But that couldn’t be helped.”
“No, it’s good that they saw you. There might be a way for Mr. Finch to reach safety unseen, but I will need your help, Mr. Marbleton.”
He grinned. “Will you put in a good word for me with your sister?”
“Absolutely not. But if you wish to prove the sincerity—and capability—of the Marbletons to Mr. Finch, there is no better way.”
Mr. Marbleton glanced at Mr. Finch, then back at Charlotte. He grinned again—he really was quite attractive with that seemingly lighthearted expression. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”
“Mr. Finch, will you be disappointed not to use your revolver?”
“Not at all. I dislike both blood and loud noises.”
“You will be pleased with my plan, then,” said Charlotte. “First, let us disrobe.”
Livia sneaked down the stairs and tiptoed toward the back door.
Only when she was outside, closing the door behind her, did she remember—how stupid of her—that Mott wouldn’t have returned yet from driving Charlotte to Mrs. Watson’s house.
She glanced down at the small gift in her hand.
She supposed she could place it by the door of the carriage house, but what if he didn’t see it before he took the Holmeses to the railway station tomorrow and then left their employ forever?
The light in the carriage house was on. Had he come back, then, so swiftly?
She was still hesitating when the light in the carriage house went out and its door opened a few inches. It was hard to see in the dark, but could that be the corner of a summer cape, not unlike the one Charlotte had been wearing?
Charlotte was still here?
Livia’s heart flooded with wild hopes.
They had spoken about Charlotte’s plans to poach Livia and Bernadine from their parents, but Livia had understood it to be intentions for a too-distant future. What if she was wrong? What if Charlotte meant to put everything in motion tonight, right after she’d spoken to and perhaps bribed Mott?
But as Charlotte fully emerged from the carriage house, she didn’t look quite right. When did she change her cape to a dark one? Not to mention—no, no, it wasn’t Charlotte at all, but Mott dressed in women’s clothes!
She stared at him, her jaw somewhere around her feet. He saw her and raised his index finger to his lips, signaling for silence. After looking in both directions, he crossed the completely deserted carriage lane and let himself into the small rear garden of the house next door.
She rushed to the low fence that separated the gardens. “What’s going on?” she whispered. “Where are you going dressed like this?”
He looked indecisive for a moment. “I’m in some trouble—some bad people I was mixed up with before I entered service.
They are after me now, and Miss Charlotte is helping me to get away.
I’ll wait in this empty house until the coast is clear.
You go back inside and don’t come out again.
If anything should happen to you, Miss Charlotte will have my hide. ”
If anything should happen to Livia? What about Charlotte?
As if he’d heard her question, Mott said, “She has a gentleman with her, someone you both know. Please, Miss Livia, go back and stay inside.”
She still hesitated.
Mott’s voice grew more urgent. “Hurry. There’s no time to lose.”
Her knees shook. How she hated to be so useless when Charlotte was headed toward danger. But Mott was right. She would help no one by not knowing what to do.
With another glance at the carriage house, Livia did as she was told.
“You would have made a pretty girl,” said Charlotte to Mr. Marbleton, now wearing Charlotte’s evening toque and her bright yellow silk cape.
He smiled cheekily. “Thank you. I take pride in passing for a comely woman, at least at first glance. You as a man, on the other hand, would not have attracted ladies by the gross.”
Charlotte glanced down at Mr. Finch’s mackintosh, which reached past her knees.
Underneath that she wore a pair of his rough woolen trousers over her own pantalets.
“Maybe they’d stay away before they learned of my genius.
But afterward . . . I would need to beat them off with a volume of the Britannica. ”
Their lighthearted words did nothing to dispel the tension in the carriage house.
“Ready?” asked Mr. Marbleton.
She nodded tightly.