4
Hypnotic.
In this age of the occult, with everyone’s cousin having attended a séance, Charlotte had heard that word much bandied about. Once, it had even been applied to her own gaze by an eager swain, trying to explain her effect on him. But in every prior instance in her experience, its use had been figurative.
Not here.
She felt it, the slipping of her own volition into a state of dormancy, and the corresponding ascendancy of Moriarty’s will. Remarkable, what he was able to accomplish, without a pendulum in sight—or her consent in the exercise, for that matter.
Earlier she had seen a parallel between Moriarty and her father. It had been an unlovely lesson, to learn that her father had prized her only for the novelty she had been as a little girl and had no use for the idiosyncratic woman she later became. Moriarty, too, saw her as a diversion, a woman winsome enough and clever enough to be entertaining for a while.
A good thing that she, too, had been aiming in that direction, offering deductions unprompted and giving every appearance of wallowing in his praise and admiration.
She continued to gaze into his eyes. She did possess a strong enough mind to break free of his cavalier attempt at imposing control, but did not want to give the appearance of doing so. It would be better for him to stop on his own, either because he lost interest in toying with her or because his focus shifted to something else.
She smiled. She even laughed a little, her laughter soft and breathless. “I do have some idea as to the purpose of your visit today, sir.”
“Oh?” said Moriarty, sounding profoundly interested.
Did you know, Mr. Baxter, that Mrs. Watson and I were about to take a trip to Paris? She to see her niece, and I to call on those fascinating items that we purloined from your château? Yes, I was planning to take them out of the bank vault where they have been stowed and spend quite a bit of time studying them. I thought I would have a greater appreciation for the photographs in the collection, now that we have learned something of your modus operandi.
Under the belling of her sleeve, she dug her middle and ring fingers into the center of her palm and concentrated on the discomfort.
Raising her other hand, she waved an index finger, an airy, careless gesture. “I believe, Mr. Baxter, that you did not come with a problem about your enterprise— for that, a visit from Mr. de Lacey or one of his lieutenants would have sufficed. Am I correct?”
“Very much so.”
She waggled her brows and hoped she looked supremely pleased with herself, rather than deranged. “Aha, as I thought. Well, then, since it is not business, it must be personal.”
“Again, exactly on the mark. Tell me more,” said Moriarty, his voice a siren song.
Do you wonder who it was that stole your secrets? Do these secrets matter very much to you, or do you have so many secrets that you can barely keep track of them?
Her nails again sank into the soft center of her palm. Her willpower was not the only thing in danger of wilting. Her eyelids felt heavy; her head did, too.
Still not daring to look away from his eyes, she said, “I do not believe this personal matter concerns you yourself—you, sir, do not appear to need help. It must then have to do with someone else. For you to have traveled so far—from a locale with a similar longitude to Berlin, perhaps even Vienna—this someone must be of great importance. A family member, most likely. A female family member.”
Something flitted across Moriarty’s face. “Indeed?”
“Indeed. It is much easier to go to the police with difficulties concerning a man than with those concerning a woman. Ergo, the need for a discreet consulting detective.”
She was speaking more slowly. An enormous lethargy had settled over her, the cost of not actively resisting his mesmerism. A part of her was sincerely terrified, but the rest of her, perhaps most of her, could not seem to care.
A bead of perspiration rolled down between her breasts. She forced herself to carry on, slurring her words a little, yet at the same time injecting a measure of amateurish coquettishness. “I would not guess the difficulties to involve a lady . . . in a spousal position to yourself. You came such a long way, sir, which makes me think that this family member resides not with you in Berlin or Vienna or where have you, but right here in Britain. A distance spanning half of a continent suggests that the person on the other side is a grown child, rather than a . . . domestic companion.”
Moriarty, who, until this moment had leaned forward in his chair, moved back. He tilted his face up slightly and studied Charlotte.
The foundation of Charlotte’s reasoning rested on the fact that he was a man with bigger problems. It was only recently that his loyalist had freed him from others in his organization who had overthrown and imprisoned him. Compared to a successful coup and traitors in his own ranks, Sherlock Holmes & Co. could not amount to more than a minor annoyance, a fly that buzzed in a corner of a house that had very nearly burned to the ground. Obviously Moriarty, the owner of this damaged edifice, had instructed his underlings to keep an eye on Charlotte, in case she grew into a greater threat, but for him to have suddenly come to her in person?
If she were right, then she did not merit this kind of personal attention. Not yet, in any case. His presence could be explained only if he happened to be in Britain and happened to be in need of a discreet female investigator.
If she were right. If Lady Ingram had not been caught and interrogated. If Mr. Marbleton had not betrayed them, willingly or unwillingly. If Moriarty still didn’t know who stole his treasures from Château Vaudrieu.
If he hadn’t guessed the truth while looking directly into the very depths of Charlotte’s mind.
Moriarty continued to consider her with avuncular beneficence. There was nothing intimidating in his conduct, which appeared merely to be that of a confounded man who didn’t know where to begin his response. Still she felt like a small creature in a glass vivarium, with no place to run and no place to hide.
Fortunately, it was not the same hypnotic scrutiny from earlier. Perhaps the effort had wearied him. Or perhaps she had at last distracted him with her deductions.
The sensation of no longer being stuck under a hundred-pound blanket, however, did not lessen her exhaustion. To the contrary, she felt even more depleted—and hungry and thirsty besides. But she only blinked a few times, as if coming out of a particularly absorbing reverie, and tucked a nonexistent strand of loose hair behind her ear.
“I must account myself impressed with your deductions, Miss Holmes,” said Moriarty. “I have indeed come to see you about my daughter.”
Beneath her skirts, Charlotte’s limbs quaked.
So they were still safe.
For the moment.
She forced herself to hold still and glanced out of the corners of her eyes at Mr. Marbleton. He sat with his gaze downcast, seemingly uninterested in the goings-on. Instead of scuffing one sole on her carpet, he was now pulling in both heels, his gleaming black Oxford shoes inching over a spread of dusky rose petals.
Was he calmer, compared to a few minutes ago?
Calmer, perhaps, but not more relaxed.
Charlotte had decided, early on, that she wanted Moriarty to underestimate her. Sherlock Holmes’s reputation of cleverness was well established, so she would not seek to misrepresent herself in that regard. Rather, she would distort her temperament, throwing in vanity, braggadocio, and a need for approval, especially from powerful older men.