Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (17 page)

“Completely unacceptable!” Sherlock proclaimed.
 
“This . . . this . . . frock would make my dear mother blush with dismay.”
 
The chit’s blouse was far too ruffled, which did not hide her shapeliness, overflowing underneath a purple jacket which had the appearance of a leather finish.
 
Purple leather.
 
Whoever heard of such a thing?
 
And this ridiculous outfit he had paid for!

Well, to be perfectly honest, King Nicholas I of Montenegro had paid for it, but the money had flowed through his own hands in a sort of implied endorsement.
 

Altogether untrue.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes?” she asked demurely.
 
“Will your dear mother be in the finishing school?”

She is teasing me!
 
Sherlock almost dropped his jaw realizing how a little bit of finery—if one could call it that—could change a perfectly appropriate servant girl into a . . . well, he didn’t know what she was but he could not like it!

“It is not considered lady-like for a high-born girl to add color to the face,” he managed.
 
“One is supposed to have a natural beauty.”

“I understand.
 
Change the anatomy with the corset.
 
Natural.
 
Do not apply color to the face.
 
Unnatural.”

“At least your hair is appropriate,” he muttered.

Her lustrous chestnut-brown hair was curled and stylishly arranged atop her head.
 
A cute little satin lavender box hat with a velvet rose bow—well, there was no other word for it besides
cute
—was placed strategically atop her head.
   

The rest of her was anything but cute:
 
adorable maybe, if he ever used such a word, which he never would.

“Oh, do you like the style?” she asked, patting her sweeping hairdo.

“I didn’t say that I ‘like it,’ I said that it is appropriate.
 
The eighties are definitely setting out to be the decade of the grandiose, voluminous hairstyles.
 
Many ladies require hair pieces, but you have more than enough to spare, Miss Hudson.”

“Thank you . . . I think . . .” she murmured, pulling on her ear which brought attention to the exquisite jewelry she was wearing.
 
It was remarkable that he hadn’t noticed the jewels before, sparkling as they were in the morning light.
 
In the evening they would be stunning.

Her earrings were drop diamonds and amethysts as was a ring on her finger—certainly he had told her that she needed jewelry—but this was far too glamorous.
 
Surely he hadn’t given her enough funds to pay for that!
 

What the devil . . .
 

Martha Hudson, of course.
 
Sherlock admonished himself for his slowness of wit.
 
He must be addle-headed!
 
What is wrong with me today that I can’t think straight?

He had never imagined that such a transformation was possible.
 
Why, even Irene Adler on her best day . . .
 

All-in-all Miss Mirabella Hudson looked to be nothing like the current style—and yet utterly more stylish than all other ladies.
 
There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was wearing the next trend.
 
She would turn heads wherever she went.

“This is certainly not what I had in mind, Miss Hudson, that is the relevant point,” he stated, looking away so as to regain his composure.

She was not stick thin, she did not have the artificially created, unnatural waist which one had learned to associate with high fashion—and she looked utterly sensual.

Whereas the ladies of the remarkable era of Queen Victoria were subdued, feminine, delicate, and helpless, Miss Belle was confident, brazen, independent, intellectual.

And utterly desirable.

“Of course it is not what you had in mind, Mr. Holmes,” she demurred, non-plussed as she moved to the fireplace, swaying her hips as she moved.
 
She turned to peer at him again over her shoulder
.
 
“Your mind does not travel in that direction.”

I wish she wouldn’t do that.

“And what direction is that, Miss Hudson?” he challenged.

“Fashion, of course,” she murmured, but there was a wicked smile on her lips.
 
That he most certainly did like.

Sherlock couldn’t think of anything more disgusting than being a lecherous old man.
 
Why, Miss Belle was not yet eighteen years of age, and he was seven and twenty, ten years her senior.
 
“What is this outfit you are wearing, Miss Hudson?” he demanded.
 
“Do you call this fashion?”
   

Why was he doing the math in his head?
 
An utter waste of brain cells which had best been applied elsewhere.
 
This was what became of anything to do with the emotions—nothing but a waste of time and a misdirection of one’s gifts.

She raised her chin, her eyes shooting anger at him in a manner which he found bewitching.
 
“This is my day dress.”

Eighteen is a very marriageable age.
 
And of course, it was a very common thing for a girl to marry a man ten years her senior—in fact it was the norm since all but the wealthiest of men had to establish themselves in society before taking a bride.

“In a conservative young ladies school – where one blends in by always playing it safe and fitting in-–you will not belong, Miss Hudson,” he stated tersely.

“Surely you must allow for individual taste.
 
You are positively primeval, Mr. Holmes.
 
These are very modern times we live in.”

His eyes rested on her fitted bodice a tad longer than was necessary for impartial assessment.
 
He was feeling even more discomfited by her familiarity of address than usual.
 
He took out his handkerchief and dotted his brow, falling
 
into his chair and revisiting the only thing which came to his mind.
 
“
Purple glasses.
 
I’ve never seen such a thing.”

“They look exactly like your glasses, Mr. Holmes:
 
small and round.”

“Exactly like mine.
 
Except they are different in every way.
 
I told you to procure glass lenses for the eye as I recall, Miss Hudson.”

“And I informed you that I would not stick glass in my eyes.
 
Is old age affecting the memory of the great Sherlock Holmes?”

“
Old?
 
I would hardly call seven and twenty years old
.
”
 
Now he was truly angry.
 
And why was he wasting time with pointless banter?
 
What did he care for his employee’s opinions on the subject?

Much too old for me
her expression seemed to say.
 
For some reason, he felt a stab of pain.

Ridiculous.

He stared at her.
 
He found that he could do nothing else.
 

 
“How old is Dr. John Watson?” she asked casually, parting those luscious lips.

“He’s nine and twenty years of age.”
 
So if I am too old for you, Watson is ancient.
 
“If it is any of your business, Miss Belle, which it isn’t.
 
And don’t think you have fooled me:
 
I have seen you flirt with Watson, Miss Hudson.”

“John is even older than you, Sherlock?” she gasped.

“Yes, Miss Belle, even older than the old man.”

“He looks so young . . . And so fashionable . . . ” she murmured wistfully.
 
She turned to stare at him.
 
“You seem much older, Mr. Holmes.”

“This is not a game, Miss Hudson; there are criminals at large.”
 
Although he had never expected nor intended for her to come into harm’s way.
 
Instead, his objective was that she should be on the inside of the finishing school, watching and communicating that which she observed—she was a very bright girl, and this task was imminently suited to her abilities.
 
Even so, it was necessary to take every precaution:
 
hence the fencing and boxing lessons.
 

Then why am I suddenly so apprehensive about her safety?
 

In truth, he didn’t like the idea of Miss Belle being on a case, at the same time her versatility and adaptability continuously impressed him—and he was a very difficult person to impress.
 
Finding another young woman as capable as Miss Hudson was an impossibility.
 

Her choices are her own responsibility and not mine
.
 
Although Miss Belle might complain, she was so good at everything he gave her that he had to think she wished to do it.
 
One did not put so much into an endeavor one did not enjoy.
 

Or at least that was what he told himself.
 
The truth is that the girl has no idea what she is getting into
.

But he had never before felt guilty over someone else’s acquiescing to his plans.
 
Even he did not worry over the Baker Street Irregulars, who were children.
 
Better that they should at least be on the side of the law if they were determined to throw themselves into dangerous situations.
 
And the generous payments he gave them kept them fed and clothed.

“Very well, if you would prefer that game to this one,” she shrugged, looking over her glasses, looking something like a cross between a librarian and a stage dancer.

“I would.
 
These clothes do not suit you in more ways than one, Miss Hudson,” he replied sternly.
 
She was acting as if the outfit became her, which was far from the case.
 
They might become a lady of the first fashion, but
not
Miss Belle.
 
“Do you have an evening gown?”

“Oh, yes, it is much more in the normal way of things.”

“Ah.
 
Normal for whom?
 
And I hope that you have several other . . .
day
dresses.
 
Current fashion requires that daywear be higher to the neck.
 
Above all, Miss Hudson, you must adhere to current fashions—”

“Mr. Holmes!
 
Calm yourself.
 
I can’t imagine what has gotten into you.
 
Aunt Martha is working as quickly as she can—and is almost finished.
 
If you were not so much work to manage. . .”

“
No one
manages me, Miss Hudson.”
 
Inadvertently he straightened the navy blue silk scarf around his neck, pushing his too-long hair out of the way.

“Who has time?
 
You’re so busy managing everyone else.”

He was hard on her.
 
Very hard on her
.
 
To insure that she stayed alive.
 
She was still young and careless—as evidenced by her behavior.

“One does what one must.
 
Now, about your other day dresses.
 
Are they in the same . . . same . . .
style
as this abomination to fashion?”
 
He waved his hand fervently.

“They are all different, but not the same as this,” she replied without hesitation.

“Oh, good.
 
Now you are making riddles about your style of dress, Miss Hudson.
 
My life is complete.”
 
His eyes travelled to her well-turned ankle—peeking underneath her too-short skirt.
 

“And jewelry?
 
I suppose that you have an entire jewelry case full of jewels now on my funds.”
 
He knew very well that the blunt he had given her wouldn’t buy the jewels she now wore, they must be Mrs. Hudson’s.
 
No one else of Miss Belle’s acquaintance would be in possession of such precious stones—or trust her with them.

And glad that she had them, he was.
 
The finery made her station in life much more convincing, and he couldn’t have possibly furnished the ostentatious ornaments.

“Naturally I do not.”
 
She rolled her eyes at him, as if she were reading his thoughts—something no one had ever successfully managed before.
 
“I have a pearl set, and of course my gold cross for day wear.”

“You will need something for evening wear.”

“I need no more jewelry than this; it is quite versatile.
 
And . . .” she sighed.
 
“It is finer than anything I had ever hoped to wear.”

He raised his eyebrows, adding brusquely, “It will probably do.”

“I do have one question, however, Mr. Holmes.”

“Only one?”

“I wondered if . .
 
.
may I
. . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, I must have something to do in the evenings, you know, something which keeps me with the other young ladies, and you know that I volunteer at the orphanage?
 
Well, I thought that we might make Christmas presents for the girls in my class.
 
And I was so careful and frugal with your money, I thought that possibly . . .”

“That was your clothing allowance and your pin money—and your payment for the next ten weeks.
 
Whatever is left over you may keep.
 
With one provision:
 
you must play your role convincingly
.
 
And in order to do so you must not scrimp on your wardrobe.”
 
His tone and his countenance was stern.
 
He picked up the newspaper beside his chair and pretended to read it.
 
“Eccentric is acceptable, though it would not have been my design choice.
 
But you must not appear to want for anything.”