The introduction was performed quickly and the small talk took only two minutes, before a sleepy-looking man—the Garden’s groom, presumably—came to take charge of horse and carriage. Mr. Peters bowed and walked away.
Lord Ingram, luggage in hand, regarded his departing back. A few seconds later his eyes met Miss Charlotte’s, then Mrs. Watson’s. He smiled.
A weight lifted from Mrs. Watson. She linked her arm with his and sighed in relief.
He leaned down and kissed her atop her hat. “It’s good to see you, ma’am.”
And then, after a moment, “You, too, Holmes.”
“Let’s speak inside,” murmured Miss Charlotte.
Mrs. Watson could not see her face, but she heard a smile in the young woman’s words.
Ah, but they were not being very secretive, were they? The night before, Mrs. Watson, unable to sleep, had gone to discuss matters with Mr. Mears. Afterward she’d knocked on Miss Charlotte’s door to tell her that Mr. Mears had volunteered to come with them to Cornwall—and she’d found the girl’s room empty.
It had been just as empty this morning, when she’d checked it again.
The development did not greatly surprise Mrs. Watson. From the moment Lady Ingram had been revealed as an agent of Moriarty’s, it had been more or less a foregone conclusion that these two young people would find their way to each other.
Mrs. Watson loved a romance. She loved an engagement announcement in the papers. She loved a summer wedding, with flowers in the bridesmaids’ hair. But she was also old enough to know all that was only Act I and the play could turn out to be a tragedy.
Lord Ingram and Miss Charlotte suited each other both very well and not at all. She wanted to picture a lovely future for them, but she could just as easily imagine a slow, soul-crushing disaster.
Mrs. Watson buried her face in Lord Ingram’s sleeve. Whatever the future held, they needed to first live to see it.
Earlier, when they’d first settled into their cottage, Miss Charlotte had inspected it for such things as spyholes and listening ports. Now that Lord Ingram had arrived, she asked him to perform a similar scrutiny.
The cottage was not big, a parlor and a bedroom on the ground floor, and another bed on a parapeted loft. Lord Ingram took his time. While he worked, Mrs. Watson asked him about his journey, and whether their temporary dwelling, with its exposed rafters, brick fireplace, and simple rustic furnishing, bore any resemblance to his own seaside cottage on the Devon coast.
Only when he was satisfied that they wouldn’t be overheard did they exchange what they’d learned during the course of the day. Mrs. Watson marveled that the torn railway ticket had led him and Miss Olivia directly to a place where Mr. Marbleton had stayed. And Lord Ingram was satisfyingly scandalized by her account of the “homecoming ritual” in the sanctuary.
But after she detailed Mr. Peters’s threat atop the wall, he didn’t say anything, only glanced toward Miss Charlotte, who stood at the window, looking out. She likewise said nothing.
Their silence unnerved Mrs. Watson. “Perhaps—perhaps Mr. Peters wouldn’t have made those threats against us if you’d been there, my lord.”
Lord Ingram leaned his shoulder against the mantel, a rough-hewn beam of wood. “I doubt that it would have made a difference, since he—and this Mrs. Crosby, too—seem determined to make an impression upon us.”
Mrs. Watson snorted. They had indeed made quite an impression, forcing her to witness apparently normal people drink wine polluted with their own blood, and then, face threats made by a pipsqueak less than half her age!
A few seconds passed before the implication of Lord Ingram’s words sank in. Surely . . . She massaged her temples and looked about the room. “Do you mean to say that everything I’ve been railing against has been calculated moves intended to unsettle us, or at least me?”
“You would not have remained disconcerted for long,” said Lord Ingram.
Miss Charlotte, at the window, turned halfway around. “Indeed, you wouldn’t have.”
Their clear eyes and sincere words made Mrs. Watson feel only more sheepish. “I don’t know about that. I was going out of my mind thinking that we—and Miss Baxter—had somehow become involved with a satanic cult, in which anyone who dared deviate even slightly from the demonic orthodoxy would pay with their lives.
“But now that you’ve pointed out the possibility that we’ve been given a spectacle . . .” The dinner invitation still lay on the trestle table where Mrs. Watson had last set it down. She flicked it. Obviously, Mrs. Crosby and Mr. Peters had lead roles in the performance. But everyone else at dinner, had they also played parts? And what of those residents who hadn’t attended the dinner?
She looked again toward her companions. “Had we been stranded travelers overstaying our welcome, these tactics would have been perfectly deployed to get rid of us. But we are Moriarty’s agents, however temporarily. They must know that we can’t be so easily shooed away. Or do they sincerely want us to report to Moriarty that they are a community of religious fanatics with a murderous bent?”
Lord Ingram rubbed his chin. “It certainly appears that way, doesn’t it?”
“If that’s the impression they wish to give . . .” Miss Charlotte dropped the curtain she’d been holding up. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, what they cannot possibly allow us to know.”
* * *
Mrs. Watson retired shortly afterward, saying that she had slept poorly the two nights before and needed to catch up on her rest. As soon she had disappeared into the ground floor bedroom, Charlotte raised a brow at Lord Ingram.
He shook his head exaggeratedly, as if to say, No, I am not going to do anything with you in that bed.
He had been assigned the loft, the half wall of which offered only enough privacy for slumbering on the small cot behind it.
She advanced toward him, her hands stretched out.
He caught her hands. “Not to mention you are loud,” he said in a whisper.
Charlotte winked.
“Holmes!”
She batted her eyelashes. “It’s all right, Ash. I don’t want to do anything—I just wanted to see that scandalized look on your face again.”
“Oh, you do, huh?”
He poked her lightly under her rib cage. She leaped away. As a child she had not cared to be petted or touched, except for her hand to be held by Livia or her father. Once she’d grown older she was very much left alone in that respect. Not until last night had they accidentally discovered that she was ticklish.
And of course he would not settle for one single tickle. She retreated, going backward. He advanced, a predatory smile about his lips. All of a sudden he lunged forward, caught her right shoulder, and made to poke her under the rib cage again. Charlotte emitted a muted yelp and lifted her hands in resistance. He picked her up bodily, set her on the bench by the trestle table, and sat down next to her.
So this was what becoming lovers entailed, that they would sit so closely even when they had no intention of disrobing. She gave herself a minute to become accustomed to the idea—then she lifted her hand and stroked his hair.
“I should go to bed soon,” he said, sighing. “I was planning to get up at one or two and go out and take a look. See whether anyone’s on the walls and whatnot.”