The Art of Theft Read online

  Livia had done her calculations. If Mr. Marbleton, upon arriving in London yesterday, immediately posted her letter, it would have reached Charlotte by evening. And if Charlotte worked fast and had a letter ready to post this morning, then it might arrive late today.

  How much time her parents would take to debate the matter was unpredictable. Lady Holmes might react by being either deliriously thrilled or extremely suspicious. And Sir Henry would contradict his wife’s wishes, out of sheer habit and ill humor.

  Of course they wouldn’t consult Livia on the matter, but would argue between themselves and list each other’s inadequacies, long, long catalogues compiled from thirty-some years of resentful partnership.

  All of which meant that, even if Livia expected that their desire to marry her off would eventually prevail over other concerns, she could not begin packing. Not yet. No matter how much she wished to.

  She glanced out of the window of the breakfast parlor. A fog roiled, thick and all-encompassing. The doorbell rang. She started. It was a quarter after nine, a bit early for callers.

  She heard footsteps going upstairs to inform her parents. After two minutes, a maid came into the breakfast parlor. “Miss, a Mrs. Collins here to see you. She says she’s Mrs. Openshaw’s companion and has a message from her.”

  Livia stood up so fast she almost knocked over her chair. “Show her to the drawing room.”

  The woman in widow’s weeds who walked into the drawing room was extremely respectable-looking, with salt-and-pepper hair and the somewhat papery skin of a well-preserved sixty-year-old.

  “You must be Miss Holmes,” she said, her accent cultured, as befitting someone who had spent significant time in the household of a duke.

  Mrs. Watson.

  Still, it took Livia a moment to be completely sure she was looking at the same person. Mrs. Watson, as herself, a beautiful woman of a certain age, would have been of great interest to Sir Henry. Mrs. Watson, in this role, received only a cursory glance as the latter walked in, immediately dismissed as both too old and too prim.

  Lady Holmes arrived looking hastily put together—she, like Livia, rose later and later as winter deepened. Her expression conveyed both the annoyance of having been yanked from bed and a burning curiosity as to why Mrs. Openshaw, of all people, had sent a messenger. Her own companion, no less.

  Mrs. Watson started talking. Livia could not hear anything except the thudding of her heart. This was not the first time Mrs. Watson had come before her parents. Mere weeks ago, she had been sent by Lord Ingram to accompany Livia on a rail journey to Stern Hollow. To be sure, Sir Henry and Lady Holmes had barely paid her any mind that day. And to be sure, she’d been a rather broad woman then, with glasses and a thick Yorkshire accent.

  Still, it terrified Livia that they might realize she was the same woman.

  But they didn’t. And they did not take long to accede to Mrs. Openshaw’s wish to squire their daughter around France, once their initial openmouthed astonishment that anyone would single Livia out for such lavish attention had faded somewhat. Mrs. Watson accompanied Livia to her room, where they packed in record time. And before she knew it, they were sitting in a rail compartment, giggling.

  The trip flew by as Livia poured out all her problems to Mrs. Watson. She arrived in London beautifully cocooned in sympathy and understanding, with hope in her heart for the first time that something good might yet come of her association with Mr. Marbleton.

  Her courage faltered a little when she saw Charlotte. Oh, it was still wonderful—so very wonderful—to hold Charlotte in her arms. Still wonderful to hear the calm, measured cadence of her speech. And still wonderful to be fed plates upon plates of sandwiches and French pastry; her appetite, usually weak, now roared like a furnace, and everything tasted as scrumptious as mother’s milk must to a newborn.

  But she couldn’t help a twinge—or many—of her conscience.

  Earlier she’d been either too worried about whether she would manage her escape or too busy unburdening herself to Mrs. Watson, but now that she was here, she remembered very well that Charlotte was not in favor of any development between herself and Mr. Marbleton.

  She would hardly have been pleased to learn that he and his family had visited their own.

  When the two sisters were alone at last in the room that had been prepared for Livia, with a lively fire, fresh notebooks on the writing desk, and narcissus bulbs blooming in a glass vase, their fragrance sweet and heady, Livia asked tentatively, “I hope you don’t mind that I involved Mr. Marbleton in my scheme. Really, I meant only for him to post my letter so that it would reach you faster.”

  It had thrilled her to learn that he’d taken the trouble to call in person to deliver her request. But Charlotte couldn’t have been as glad to see him.

  “It was difficult to begrudge Mr. Marbleton his happiness at having been involved in this task,” answered Charlotte. “He was glowing. Incandescent.”

  Livia’s cheeks warmed. It was beyond her comprehension that anyone could be delighted by her, but it made her feel . . . glowing. Incandescent, even. “But you must still disapprove.”

  “I do not approve or disapprove, Livia—it isn’t my place to do so. I have concerns about the practicality of this arrangement and whether you will see suitable returns for your investment of time and sentiment.”

  Livia sighed. “I wish I knew what to do.”

  Charlotte was quiet for some time, staring into the fire. And then she said, “So do we all, Livia. So do we all.”

  * * *

  It was efficient to travel back-to-back: All Mrs. Watson needed to do the day before was to pick up her still-packed satchel, which had everything she needed for an overnight stay, and head to the railway station.

  But with all that back-and-forth, she was truly tired now. In her room, with her corset cast aside, she closed the curtains and slid under the soft weight of her feather duvet. Ah, nothing like the rest that came after a job well done.

  She had barely closed her eyes when an urgent knock came at her door. “Ma’am? Ma’am?”

  Mr. Mears? But he never disturbed her in her hours of repose. Had she slept so long that it was already time for dinner? Her eyelids seemed firmly glued together. Only with great effort was she able to peel them apart. The small clock on her nightstand indicated that only twenty minutes had passed since she laid down.

  “Yes?” she croaked.

  “Her Highness the Maharani of Ajmer wishes to see you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Watson bolted upright. No, she must have heard wrong. The Maharani of Ajmer had not come to call. How did she even know where Mrs. Watson lived? And why would she, after all these years?

  “Ma’am, are you at home to her?”

  Mrs. Watson leaped off her bed, nearly knocking her shoulder into a bedpost, and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown. She was still tying the sash when she opened the door. “Are you sure it’s her?”

  Mr. Mears looked only a little less stunned than she felt. “It’s her,” he said in a whisper.

  When she didn’t say anything else—she couldn’t—he asked quietly, “Shall I say that you are not at home?”

  She grimaced. “No, no, please show her to the morning parlor.”

  Mr. Mears hesitated. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Watson grimaced again. “But before you do that, first send the Bannings to me.”

  * * *

  In her daily life, Mrs. Watson was perfectly capable of seeing to her own toilette. But this was not daily life. She was a woman of more than half a century, roused abruptly from a heavy slumber, her face pillow-creased, her hair askew, and she needed to look her very best since her wedding day.

  Which, of course, took longer than she expected, as she agonized over a choice of dresses.

  “Ma’am, you look good in all of them!” said Polly Bannin
g.

  Yes, she knew that. But which one made her appear closest to her twenty-five-year-old self?

  A look in the mirror disabused her of such aspirations. The lines around her eyes, the slackness in her lower cheeks, the deep grooves extending down from the sides of her nose—no frock, however comely, could strip half a lifetime from her face.

  She exhaled, thanked her maids, and marched down to meet her past.

  But her footsteps slowed as she neared the morning parlor. What if—what if she walked in and it was as if nothing had happened and no time at all had passed? What if they rushed into each other’s arms? What if they held on tight and sobbed incoherent apologies?

  Would that be so terrible?

  She bit her lower lip and pushed open the door.

  The afternoon parlor was the cozy, comfortable spot where she took tea and met her friends. The morning parlor, in contrast, was where she’d received Miss Charlotte, the first time the latter came to call. It was what would be deemed a proper drawing room, its walls covered by dark blue silk with tracings of silver. A large landscape surmounted the fireplace. And portraits of her late husband’s ancestors—all conveniently dead before he decided he wished to marry a former music hall performer—declared that this was the sort of home where residents had ancestors who had the means and the leisure to commemorate themselves in oil on canvas.

  Generations of respectability, in other words.

  She’d always enjoyed the irony. But suddenly she wondered whether the maharani thought the portraits pretentious. She might even believe that Mrs. Watson had acquired them wholesale somewhere.

  Mrs. Watson walked in, scarcely able to feel the floor beneath her feet. Her caller stood with her back to the room, looking at the street below. She was dressed in a white, long-sleeved blouse cut close to the body, a white floor-sweeping skirt, and a diaphanous long white shawl that seemed to wrap all the way around her, draping her as if in a nimbus of mist.

  Mrs. Watson’s heart pounded wildly. From the back, the maharani looked exactly the same. Exactly.

  The woman turned around. Mrs. Watson blinked. Had the maharani sent a terribly severe-looking aunt in her place?

  The next moment she recognized those remarkable eyes. But it was as if the same bouquet of flowers was now encased in a block of ice, in which case, it was not the bouquet one noticed, but the ice.

  There would be no embrace, no tears of either joy or sorrow.

  Mrs. Watson steeled herself and curtsied. “Your Highness.”

  The maharani inclined her stately head.

  Mr. Mears brought in the tea tray and left. The two women remained standing. How imposing the maharani appeared—and how statue-like. Whereas the young woman Mrs. Watson remembered had been all softness and mobility, her eyes deep wells rather than shuttered windows.

  “May I offer you a seat, Your Highness?” said Mrs. Watson.

  The maharani sat down. Her motion, too, had a glacial grandeur. “I apologize for not first sending a note. The truth is I had no idea where you resided or whether you were even in London. I happened to pass before this house yesterday and see you enter.”

  Mrs. Watson hoped she didn’t look too taken aback. “Were you in the carriage that stopped across the street for a while?”

  “Yes, I was. You noticed?”

  “I—chanced to look out of the window.”

  “And here I thought I was being unobtrusive.”

  Was that a note of irony in the maharani’s voice? Mrs. Watson busied herself pouring tea and making offerings of French delicacies. Mr. Marbleton had finished the treats she’d brought back from Paris, but Madame Gascoigne, her cook, had made both madeleines and macarons in honor of Miss Olivia’s visit.

  “A very tempting selection,” murmured the maharani. “Have you developed a taste for French baking?”

  “It is rather that I have living with me a young woman who has a taste for all baking.”

  “Your . . . niece?”

  How did she know about Penelope? Had she taken the trouble to find out, or was it merely something she’d overheard?

  “Not at the moment. My niece is studying medicine in Paris.”

  “How time passes,” murmured the maharani. “I thought her a child still.”

  “So do I, but she is nevertheless old enough to live in a different country and pursue a demanding curriculum.” Despite her nerves, Mrs. Watson smiled a little at the thought of dear Penelope. “Your children, how are they?”

  A shadow crossed the maharani’s face, but she said calmly, “They are well. And I now have four grandchildren.”

  “Many congratulations,” murmured Mrs. Watson, shaking her head a little. “Has it really been so long?

  Yes, long enough for her to have spent seven years as the late Duke of Wycliffe’s mistress, borne his child, her darling Penelope, and then married another man and become his widow. Long enough that they had once drunk tea from cups commemorating twenty-five years of the queen’s reign and now the Golden Jubilee was only months away.

  The maharani stirred her tea. “Yes, it has been that long. My son rules on his own now.”

  Mrs. Watson thought she heard an unhappy note. Because her regency had ended and she was no longer in charge? Once upon a time Mrs. Watson would have asked outright. But now she could only approach the question obliquely.

  “You must be less busy now. Have you enjoyed your hours of well-deserved leisure?”

  The maharani didn’t answer, but asked, “What about you, Mrs. Watson? Are you also less busy these days, with your niece away?”

  “I was for a while. But since then I’ve found some new occupations and the days are again going by rather fast.”

  The maharani smiled slightly. “That is fortunate indeed.”

  Their conversation went on, polite and stilted, until the maharani took her leave, accompanied out by a deferential Mr. Mears.

  From the window Mrs. Watson watched as she climbed into her carriage. The carriage rolled away. Still Mrs. Watson remained, staring at the spot where the carriage had turned and disappeared from view.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until someone cleared her throat that Mrs. Watson realized that Miss Charlotte had come into the morning parlor—and that she herself had never left her place at the window, even though her caller had departed half an hour ago.

  “I understand the Maharani of Ajmer called on you, ma’am,” said Miss Holmes.

  Mrs. Watson took a seat and made herself smile. “Yes, she did. She’s an old friend. Remember when I thought someone might be watching the house? That was her. She happened to be driving by and saw me. We hadn’t seen each other for many years and had completely lost touch. But she must have taken that coincidence to be a sign and decided to pay me a formal call.”

  Miss Holmes nodded.

  In the silence that followed, Mrs. Watson felt obliged to add, “We met so long ago that I was still on the stage. She was in London at the queen’s personal invitation. I think Her Majesty has very great sympathy for young women who lose their husbands, except between the maharani and the late maharaja, it had been less a loverly rapport than one of student and teacher.”

  Miss Holmes was quiet for some more time. Then she said, “It was not chance that brought you together again, ma’am. Or at least not blind chance. When the maharani saw you, she had just left Upper Baker Street, where she consulted Sherlock Holmes.”

  Mrs. Watson sat up straight. The woman who didn’t engage Sherlock Holmes’s services, the one who needed a cat burglar rather than an armchair detective?

  “That was her? But why would she need a thief?”

  “I take it then she didn’t confide in you,” Miss Holmes said calmly. “Did she give a purpose for her visit to London?”

  “A diplomatic mission that she decided to take part in. I assumed it
was because she had become accustomed to the work of ruling and her current idleness did not suit her.”

  “I see,” said Miss Holmes.

  “Do you—do you think she needs a brooch found or something of the sort?” asked Mrs. Watson.

  They’d had such cases before, with clients who had lost items in their own homes. She rather desperately wanted this to be the case, that the maharani had misplaced her small kingdom’s crown jewels and must discover their whereabouts.

  “That is possible.”

  Mrs. Watson’s heart sank. “But you don’t think so?”

  “No. I think her problem is much thornier than that.”

  Mrs. Watson gripped the arms of her chair. “What should we do?”

  Miss Holmes’s gaze was level. “Once I learned that she called here and is known to you, I was duty bound to inform you of her visit to Sherlock Holmes. But we are not obliged to do anything else. In fact, she specifically did not want help from Sherlock Holmes. Nor from you yourself—or she would have said something about it.”

  “But her problem—” Mrs. Watson heard herself cry.

  “We cannot solve all problems under the sun,” said Miss Holmes. “Only those that are entrusted to us.”

  Mrs. Watson nodded and forced herself to smile again. “You are right. Of course you are right.”

  Miss Holmes looked at her a moment, then returned the nod and left.

  * * *

  Seated at the desk in the study of his town house, Lord Ingram frowned. Messages had come from Mrs. Watson’s house. The thank-you letter penned by Miss Olivia Holmes was wholehearted and effusive. The accompanying note from her younger sister, on the other hand, said next to nothing. Lord Ingram stared at it. How should he interpret this apparent coolness on Holmes’s part?

  She’d long been open in her desire to take him as her lover. Now that it had happened, were two forays to his bed enough? Were his days of being propositioned by Holmes over?