Page 16 of The Art of Theft

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 washer? But why wouldsheneed 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. Nowthat it had happened, were two forays to his bed enough? Were his days of being propositioned by Holmes over?

And what would he do if that was the case?

A knock came on the door, startling him. He put away Holmes’s note. “Come in.”

The door opened to reveal Miss Yarmouth, the children’s governess.

He rose. “Is something the matter, Miss Yarmouth?”

It was not scandalously late, but late enough that the other servants had retired after dinner. And Miss Yarmouth was not in the habit of seeking him out at this time of the night.

She closed the door, something else she was not in the habit of doing. She had her reputation to consider, and on previous occasions when they’d spoken in this room, she’d always made sure to leave the door ajar, so that no one could possibly misconstrue the platonic and professional nature of their exchanges.

“My lord, may I have a word?”

He indicated the farthest chair from his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

She did, her hands laced together in her lap. He had only one desk lamp on in the study and could not be entirely sure but—did she have on a new dress? Something that did not immediately declare her to be a governess?

He waited.

She shifted. “My lord, I’m not sure how to begin.”

“Does it concern the children?”