Page 8 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?

“You must truly love a soft chair as you are still one of the most adventurous women I know,” said Livia with a fond smile.

Mrs. Newell chortled. “In spirit, perhaps. But now I shall have a nice long soak and then read magazines while I dine in bed.”

“That sounds enviable.”

“Then you should do the same. Now shoo, young lady, so I may at long last remove this accursed corset.”

Livia laughed and bade Mrs. Newell good evening, understanding that she would not need to attend to the older woman again before morning. Mrs. Newell’s maid asked after Livia’s comfort, but Livia made it clear that she required no looking after. She would sit for some time in the hotel’s reading room and then unpack her own luggage, see to her own bath, and order her own supper.

Five minutes later, she was outside the hotel. A one-mile walk to the north on pedestrian-clogged pavements brought her to Mrs. Watson’s front door.

Oh, how she loved ringing Mrs. Watson’s front door, especially unannounced.

She certainly surprised Mrs. Watson’s butler. “Why, Miss Olivia, welcome!” cried Mr. Mears. “Do please come in.”

He smiled. Livia, however, did not miss the strain in his eyes. She tensed. “Is everything all right, Mr. Mears? Is everyone all right?”

“Everyone is fine,” said Mr. Mears, closing the door. Though they were alone in the entry, he looked around and lowered his voice. “Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte left for number 18 not long ago. Lord Ingram is there, too.”

Lord Ingram? But she’d had tea with him just the other day—in Derbyshire. What was he doing in London all of a sudden when at their meeting he’d been full of plans to show her around Stern Hollow?

“That is—that is—what is going on?”

Mr. Mears chewed the inside of his cheek. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “I have not been given express permission to discuss this with anyone but I believe the ladies would not mind if you knew: They will be meeting with someone representing Moriarty.”

Livia sucked in a breath—and could not exhale again.

“Some cognac, miss? Or whisky?” said Mr. Mears immediately.

Livia waved a hand, even though she desperately wanted a chair and a drop of something potent. “What does Moriarty want?”

“That is what they hope to find out this evening.”

Livia swallowed. “I must go to number 18 then.”

“You might be too late, miss. Moriarty’s man is expected as we speak.”

The air became thin. Livia braced her hand against a console table. “I’ll take my chances.”

Mr. Mears took another look at her and said, “Let me give you the key to the back door then.”

Leaving Mrs. Watson’s, Livia felt neither the key in her hand nor the icy wind that flapped her cloak. An entire doomsday unfolded in her mind, dark visions of Charlotte and Mrs. Watson, and perhaps even Lord Ingram, in some rank, horrible dungeon on the Continent.

Would they find Mr. Marbleton already there, Mr. Marbleton who could no longer outrun Moriarty?

Several times she nearly turned around to flee. But somehow, though her knees buckled with every step, she kept moving forward, Mr. Mears’s words echoing in her ear.

You might be too late.

You might be too late.

She did not want to be too late.

A carriage slowed and came to a stop before number 18. Had it brought Moriarty’s minions? She froze in place, before she opened her reticule and, with shaking hands, rooted around inside as if she’d forgotten something and only now remembered to search for it.

Two men descended from the carriage. One she didn’t recognize, but the other... He glanced up at the bow window of number 18’s parlor, his profile both startlingly familiar and completely out of place. An eternity passed before she realized she was looking at Mr. Marbleton.

The man she loved.