A Study In Scarlet Women by Sherry Thomas Page A

opposite side of the street. He looked so much like Sir Henry she came to a dead halt.
    Had she been angrier at him or herself? The latter, most likely. Livia had warned her repeatedly not to trust their father’s promises. But she had been deaf to those warnings—willfully deaf. Not that she thought Sir Henry the kind of paragon he most emphatically wasn’t, but because she believed that her good opinion and good will meant something to him.
    They probably did, but not enough, in the end, to make any difference.

    Mrs. Wallace’s place was around the corner. When Charlotte walked in, most of the boarders were milling about in the common room, socializing before supper.
    â€œI’ll bet the girl’s mum is having a right laugh this minute,” said a vivacious brunette. “Goodness knows I would, if the old woman what caught my daughter and acted so hoity-toity about it is found dead the next morning.”
    Charlotte’s ears heated as if a curling iron had been held too close.
    â€œYou don’t think the girl’s family had something to do with it?” said another woman. She was no more than twenty-one and looked excitable.
    â€œWhich old woman?” asked Charlotte.
    The brunette turned toward her. “You must be the new girl. Miss Holmes, is it?” she asked, her demeanor friendly.
    â€œYes. Nice to meet you, Miss . . .”
    â€œWhitbread. Nan Whitbread, and this is Miss Spooner.”
    They all shook hands.
    â€œI didn’t mean to interrupt, but what you were talking about sounded fascinating.”
    â€œOh, it is. My cousin works at one of the fancy dressmakers on Regent Street,” said Miss Whitbread. “And she kept hearing about it all day from the clients. They weren’t talking to her, of course, but among themselves, about the lady what caught her married son having a go at this young lady, hung the young lady out to dry, and then woke up dead the next morning.”
    Lady Shrewsbury
was
dead?
Dead?
    â€œOh, my,” Charlotte mumbled. “Just like that?”
    â€œThat’s what they say. Can’t remember the name for it, the condition what makes you bleed in the head.”
    â€œAn aneurysm of the brain?” Charlotte supplied.
    â€œSounds about right. First-rate story, ain’t it? Oh, I mean, isn’t it?” Miss Whitbread lowered her voice. “Mrs. Wallace don’t like us using ‘ain’t’ around here. Says it isn’t ladylike.”
    â€œAnd if you got a young man who’s sweet on you, don’t ever mention it to her—or Miss Turner,” added Miss Spooner. “We aren’t supposed to have any gentlemen friends at all.”
    â€œâ€™Specially not a young man like Miss Spooner’s. He takes her out to tea shops and feeds her suppers,” said Miss Whitbread with a wink.
    â€œShh,” warned Miss Spooner, laughter and alarm alike dancing in her eyes. “Speak of the devil.”
    Mrs. Wallace came into the common room. She was in her mid-thirties, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a clear look of authority. Behind her followed a thin, short woman who must be at least five years older but was obviously a lieutenant, rather than the captain. Miss Turner then.
    Mrs. Wallace greeted her boarders and introduced Charlotte. The company duly proceeded to the dining room, where Miss Turner said grace, and the women helped themselves to a supper of boiled bacon cheek and vegetable marrow.
    Charlotte’s meals were very important to her. But this evening she noticed nothing of the food she put in her mouth. With half an ear she listened to Miss Whitbread tell her about the rules and customs of the house. The only question she asked was, “Do you think I’d be allowed to go out and buy a newspaper?”
    â€œOh, you don’t need to. Mrs. Wallace don’t like any of us going out after supper so she has the evening paper delivered.”
    When