Prologue #3
He helped her up the coachman’s perch on the town coach and opened the carriage house doors, before getting into the vehicle. She eased the carriage into the lane and inhaled deeply.
At this point, the most likely place for them to be stopped was right here in the carriage lane. She shook the reins and urged the horses into a fast trot, much faster than was strictly safe.
Houses began to rush by. She was a competent enough driver, but she was much more accustomed to handling one-horse carts on sparsely traveled country lanes.
While the night was getting late, this was still London during the Season.
The major thoroughfares would be heavily trafficked and she had never driven under similar circumstances.
And she wouldn’t, if she couldn’t even get out of the carriage lane.
A man stood at the end of the lane, waving his arms, signaling her to slow down. She drove faster. The man waved more exaggeratedly. Over the pounding of hooves—and that of her heart—she could vaguely make out him shouting orders.
The houses blurred. He leaped out of her way. She yanked the horses into a hard right turn, followed by one more, and would have collided with another carriage if it hadn’t swerved.
Still she drove as fast as she dared, weaving between other carriages, cutting in front of fancy broughams with inches to spare, to the vocal displeasure of their coachmen.
Mr. Marbleton knocked from within the coach.
She looked ahead and saw a large omnibus parked by the side of the street.
She slowed and pulled as close to the vehicle as her skills allowed.
The moment she passed the omnibus, Mr. Marbleton jumped out, so accomplished at these sort of things that he somehow managed to slam the carriage door shut behind himself.
When she glanced back again, he had already disappeared into the night.
She was almost at her destination when another, far more thorough attempt was made to stop her.
She complied immediately.
A man came up to the carriage. “Mr. Finch, we’ll need you to come with us, please.”
She recognized him: Mr. Underwood, Lord Bancroft’s right-hand man. “I’m not Mr. Finch.”
Mr. Underwood’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Holmes, I see. You are dressed as a man.”
“Much safer this way, don’t you think, to be driving at night?
” she answered, climbing down from her perch.
“And I must confess, Mr. Underwood, I’m not sure why you think my brother is involved in this.
I’m only rendering some assistance to our family groom, who has served my sister faithfully over the summer. ”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, his name is Mott. He told me just now that he was in trouble with some unsavory people and needed to leave, and if I would please return the carriage to the company my father hired it from. I promised him I would see to it.” She cocked her head to one side and smiled.
“Would you mind if I went on my way, Mr. Underwood?”
Mr. Underwood considered her. “It’s late, Miss Holmes. Why don’t you let us do that for you? I’ll see you home.”
Plainly he didn’t believe her. In that case, he—and Lord Bancroft—must understand that she would play no part in their hunt for Mr. Finch.
“I happily yield the carriage into your care, Mr. Underwood. But do not trouble yourself to accompany me. I am well equipped for a stroll.”
She let him see her double-barrel derringer—not exactly a show of force but not a subtle gesture either.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Underwood. “Good night, Miss Holmes.”
London after dark was not pleasant for an unaccompanied woman. Even if she traveled on streets lined by parks and fine town houses, she could still count on men assuming her to be a light skirt and therefore fair target for everything from lewd whistles to unwanted touching.
But a woman dressed as a man, though she still had to worry about actual criminals, was at least spared casual insults and crude insinuations.
No small freedom, that.
Charlotte remained preoccupied with the events of the evening. She had no means to contact Mr. Finch, but she hoped that he would send her a message once he reached safety. And to think, she had very nearly compromised that safety tonight—
A carriage drew abreast of Mrs. Watson’s house at the precise moment Charlotte did.
She had not been particularly worried about being followed by Lord Bancroft’s underlings—he already knew where she lived and worked—but still she had paid attention on her journey home. And she was sure this particular carriage hadn’t been behind her at any point.
Where had it come from, then?
A light rain drifted down, the drops as insubstantial as mist. The coachman, like Charlotte, was covered by a large mackintosh, his features invisible. The door of the carriage opened.
“Miss Holmes? Miss Charlotte Holmes?”
She approached the carriage and its single passenger, largely in shadows. “And you are . . . ?”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Holmes,” said the man. His fingers tapped against his walking stick. His voice, soft but confident, betrayed a hint of amusement. “My name is Moriarty.”