Page 97 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Miss Baxter’s eyes narrowed. “Think before you speak, Miss Holmes.”
“I always do.”
Except in bed. Occasionally.
With regard to Miss Baxter, however, ever since she’d had a good look at the ciphers Mr. Mears had found in those Cornish publications, she’d been thinking of what she would say to the woman, when they came face-to-face again.
“How is the baby, by the way? Has there been any news from Mrs. Crosby? And congratulations, of course.”
A muscle leaped at Miss Baxter’s jaw.
“I met Mr. de Lacey while I was in London. I didn’t breathe a word of your condition to him—that is not the purview of my investigation.”
Miss Baxter slowly looked toward the ceiling, a prolonged, nearly balletic rolling of her eyes—Charlotte was not much better at reassuring people than she was at offering unconditional support when they needed to vent. A good thing she had not come to put Miss Baxter at ease.
“But I don’t believe anyone needed to tell your father anything,” continued Charlotte. “His imprisonment last year had robbed him of vital information; the reclamation of his former throne consumed a great deal of his time and energy. When he finally came around and dealt with reports of unusual goings-on in the Garden of Hermopolis, he made the mistake of attributing to Miss Fairchild his own murderous ruthlessness. So the first time he sent me here, he probably did believe your safety compromised—and perhaps your life, too.
“But in light of subsequent events—your notable absence the night of the fireworks and equally notable appearance the next evening—and given the evidence you furnished that it is really you who is alive and well in the Garden, he would be hard pressed not to realize that his assumptions had been wrong.” She paused. “Especially in light of precedent.”
With unnerving speed, Miss Baxter sat up from her near full recline. Mrs. Felton had described her as “scary-grand, like a tiger stalking through a forest.” But to Charlotte she resembled more a great serpent, her beauty sinuous and full of peril.
“This is not your first child, is it?” Charlotte carried on. “That time your father dragged you home, it was not because he at last found you at the Garden of Hermopolis, but because he found you in an advanced state of pregnancy. I’d even wager that you were only pretending to be at the Garden with a ‘meditative retreat’ sign on your door, and spending your days elsewhere with your lover.
“But you were caught and put in a gilded cage. And you made a bargain with your father. You would give up your child in order to return to the Garden of Hermopolis, and, this time,stay.”
Miss Baxter watched her, her gaze glacial.
Charlotte selected a piece of coconut biscuit from the refreshments on offer. “You need not fret, Miss Baxter. I am a neutral party and I have kept your secret.”
Miss Baxter laughed softly. “I still have secrets left? You just told me that my father not only holds my firstborn hostage but has also deduced the arrival of my second child.”
“But he doesn’t know where the new baby is. I do.” Charlotte allowed herself a small smile. “I know from which railway station Mrs. Crosby left and I have verified her destination.”
Miss Baxter’s face, already pale, turned paler. “Are you threatening me, Miss Holmes?”
Of course.
“Hardly,” Charlotte said modestly. “I am only trying to arrive at a mutually satisfactory arrangement. You want to keep your child’s whereabouts safe. I want to leave the Garden of Hermopolis alive and whole. To achieve my goal, I’ll need to give an account of what happened to Mr. Craddock.”
Miss Baxter scrutinized Charlotte with green, glittering eyes. “You mean that I should take the blame for his death?”
“He saw you heavily pregnant, didn’t he? Could you suffer him to live after that?”
Miss Baxter lifted her chin and slowly rolled her head half a circle. “Miss Holmes, I don’t think we have much more to say to each other. Let us end our conversation right here.”
“Why? Look outside the walls of the Garden, Miss Baxter. You are surrounded. I believe you face a fate far worse than merely being forced back home.
“Shall I make another unsubstantiated guess? There is a chance that your father has caught Madame Desrosiers and that Madame Desrosiers has given you up as the true mastermind behind his ouster last year.
“With so much danger darkening your doorstep, why not help me, at least? You claim responsibility for Mr. Craddock’s death; I go on keeping the secret of your child’s location. Perhaps I could even help Mrs. Crosby and the baby after I leave.”
“Oh, perhaps you could, could you?” said Miss Baxter lightly.
She cracked her neck. “Too much groundless speculation isn’t good for you, Miss Holmes. Mr. Craddock is perfectly fine, meditating in his cottage. And I shall be fine, too. But you, my dear foolhardy girl, you should be careful.”
It had beena while since Alain de Lacey had conducted outdoor surveillance.
These days, he was more of a bureaucrat.
