Chapter Forty-four

Lady Natasha Dorrington’s Residence, Grosvenor Square

A few days later, at ten in the morning, Mother was still haggard from her ordeal. She entered her house to see Wickett, our butler, rushing down the stairs toward her. His usually passive demeanour was discernibly upset.

“Oh, Madam … the police, they’ve taken away Miss Laura.”

Tasha’s face hardened. Before she could speak, she saw Mycroft Holmes. He stood phlegmatically at the study door, gesturing for her to enter. Tasha did not move, but stood rooted, collecting her powers. She already had a good idea what was going on, and her blood boiled.

“Please,” said Mycroft as he motioned into the study.

Mother walked over warily, while saying, offhandedly to Wickett, “Please continue with the packing.”

“Yes,” agreed Mycroft. “I think that’s best.”

She stopped before him, furious, resenting his imperious attitude, and most of all, anxious about me. “Where’s Laura, Mr. Holmes?”

“She’s getting the best help in England.”

“The best is in Vienna.”

“But not the most discreet.”

She entered the study. Inside were three husky constables—insurance on Mycroft’s part. She glared fiercely at him.

If Mycroft was aware of Mother’s anger, he did not reveal it. “Please understand I am speaking for exceedingly high-placed personages. My own feelings in the matter are of little moment. They suggested we discuss your retirement.” He amiably waved toward Tasha’s upholstered armchair.

As Mother sat down, she was instantly flanked on either side by the constables.

Mycroft, as if giving a lecture, continued. “Last week our entire intelligence apparatus was outsmarted by one woman, and rescued by another.”

Tasha nodded ironically.

“My … friends … wouldn’t like this known,” Mycroft added.

“My lips are sealed,” she said flatly.

Mycroft smiled and settled his capacious bulk comfortably in a chair. “Are they?”

“I want Laura.” Mother stripped away all but the essential.

He suavely ignored her comment. “The concern is that you could become famous, Lady Dorrington. And, as a woman, a cause célèbre in some misguided circles. Radical circles that would seek to air your accomplishments before, I believe the term they used was ‘the mob.’ That kind of notoriety is considered dangerous.”

“By your friends?”

Mycroft nodded. “There you have it.”

Mother held him under her penetrating inspection. Deep beneath his patrician impassivity was something else: Fear. Tasha smiled enigmatically and leaned back in her chair. Her legs extended, her fingers pressed together in the familiar thoughtful pyramid, she closed her eyes. The lady detective in her favourite thinking position.

Mother had violated convention, not because she had anything to prove, but because she was determined to live the life she wanted; to use her gifts in the way she saw fit. But her unrelenting challenges to a culture which sought to crush that spirit—and her own arrogance—had exacted a savage price on her—and on me.

Mother would never again allow her child to be vulnerable. The crucible of Deirdre had mandated changes; her nights at the Inn of Illusion were done, that energy was now dedicated to my well-being, but she would not abandon the passion of her calling.

Mycroft breathed heavily, reminding Mother of his presence.

She did not fear Mr. Holmes or the shadowy authorities for which he spoke. Mother leaned forward, holding Mycroft in her uncompromising gaze, and though the motion was slight, she defiantly shook her head.