“Sherry Thomas has done the impossible and crafted a fresh, exciting new version of Sherlock Holmes. From the carefully plotted twists to the elegant turns of phrase, A Study in Scarlet Women is a splendid addition to Holmes’s world. This book is everything I hoped it would be, and the next adventure cannot come too soon!”
—Deanna Raybourn, New York Times bestselling author
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF SHERRY THOMAS
“Enchanting . . . An extraordinary, unputdownable love story.”
—Jane Feather, New York Times bestselling author
“Sublime . . . An irresistible literary treat.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Thomas continues to be a refreshing voice in the genre with her lively plots, witty dialogue, and intelligent characters . . . She compels readers to think, feel, laugh—and, ultimately, heave a deep sigh of satisfaction.”
—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)
“Thomas tantalizes readers . . . An enchanting, thought-provoking story of love lost and ultimately reclaimed. Lively banter, electric sexual tension, and an unusual premise make this stunning debut all the more refreshing.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“[A] masterpiece . . . A beautifully written, exquisitely seductive, powerfully romantic gem of a romance.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Deft plotting and sparkling characters . . . Steamy and smart.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Historical romance the way I love it.”
—All About Romance
“[A] truly enjoyable historical romance with funny characters, beautifully written prose, and a satisfying ending.”
—Dear Author
“Sherry Thomas’s captivating debut novel will leave readers breathless. Intelligent, witty, sexy, and peopled with wonderful characters . . . and sharp, clever dialogue.”
—The Romance Reader
“Layered, complex characters . . . Beautiful writing and emotional punch.”
—Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
Titles by Sherry Thomas
BEGUILING THE BEAUTY
TEMPTING THE BRIDE
RAVISHING THE HEIRESS
THE LUCKIEST LADY IN LONDON
MY BEAUTIFUL ENEMY
A STUDY IN SCARLET WOMEN
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Sherry Thomas
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BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Thomas, Sherry (Sherry M.), author.
Title: A study in scarlet women / Sherry Thomas.
Description: Berkley trade paperback edition. | New York : Berkley Books, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016019090 (print) | LCCN 2016024011 (ebook) | ISBN 9780425281406 | ISBN 9780698196353 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Historical. | FICTION / Historical. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3620.H6426 S78 2016 (print) | LCC PS3620.H6426 (ebook)| DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016019090
Ebook ISBN: 9780698196353
First Edition: October 2016
Cover art by Shane Rebenschied
Cover design by Alana Colucci
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
To the beautiful person and constant delight that is Sean
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Kristin Nelson, who never met a book of mine she couldn’t sell.
Wendy McCurdy, who believed the Lady Sherlock series had potential.
Kerry Donovan, who worked tirelessly on this book.
Janine Ballard, who went over the manuscript with a fine-toothed comb.
Shellee Roberts, who kicked my ass when it needed kicking. Traci Andrighetti, who restored my confidence after said ass-kicking.
My husband, who can always be counted on to hold down the fort, deadlines or not.
Everyone who ever cheered on the idea of a female Sherlock Holmes.
And you, if you are reading this, thank you. Thank you for everything.
CONTENTS
Praise for the Novels of Sherry Thomas
Titles by Sherry Thomas
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
About the Author
Prologue
DEVONSHIRE, ENGLAND
1886
Had anyone told the Honorable Harrington Sackville that the investigation into his death would make the name Sherlock Holmes known throughout the land, Mr. Sackville would have scoffed.
He had never heard of Sherlock Holmes. But more importantly, he despised the idea of death. Of his death, to be precise—others could die as they wished.
He loathed old age almost as much: that long, vile decline into helplessness halted only by the final breath, falling like a guillotine blade.
And yet his reflection in the mirror made it increasingly difficult to tell himself that he was still a young man. He remained a fit man, a handsome man, but the skin beneath his jaw sagged. Deep grooves cut into the sides of his mouth. Even his eyelids drooped, heavy from the passage of time.
Fear hooked through him, cold and sharp. Every man was afraid of something. For him, death had long loomed as the ultimate terror. A darkness with fangs.
He turned away from the mirror—and the unwelcome thoughts that always simmered these days a scant inch beneath the surface. It was summer. The glow of twilight suffused the house. From his perch on the headlands, the bay blazed with the flame of the setting sun. A hint of salt fragranced the breeze that meandered in; the top note of that perfumed air was tuberose, bulbs of which he had imported from Grasse, in the south of France.
But a storm was coming; inky clouds gathered at the edge of the sky . . .
He inhaled deeply. No, he must not let his mind wander to shadowy places. Recent weeks h
ad been difficult—the events in London particularly distressing—but in time things would improve. He had many good years left to relish life, and to laugh at death and its still distant grasp.
No premonitions crossed his mind that death was to have him by morning.
But have him it would—and the last laugh.
One
LONDON
On the day Mr. Harrington Sackville met his darkness with fangs, certain parties in the know were bracing for—and eagerly anticipating—a major scandal involving the youngest member of the Holmes family.
Lord Ingram Ashburton did not share in their anticipation. The idea that such a catastrophe could come to pass had haunted him for days. He did not yet know that Holmes was already doomed, but a sense of dread had been growing in him, a tumorlike weight on his lungs.
He stared at the envelope on the desk before him.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
General Post Office
St. Martin’s Le Grand
London
Any idiot could see the frustration that seethed with every stroke of the pen—at several places the nib had nearly torn through the linen paper.
The writing on the note next to the envelope was equally agitated.
Holmes,
Don’t.
And if you must, not with Roger Shrewsbury. You will regret it relentlessly.
For once in your life, listen to me.
He dropped his forehead into his left palm. It would be no use. Holmes would do as Holmes pleased, carried along on that blitheness born of extraordinary ability and favorable circumstances.
Until disaster strikes.
You don’t need to let it happen, said a voice inside him. You step in. You give Holmes what Holmes wants.
And then what? Then I carry on and pretend it never happened?
He stared out of the open window. His unimpeded view of the sky appeared as if seen through a lens that had been smudged with a grimy finger—a polluted blue, a fine day for London. Peals of irrepressible mirth rose from the small park below—his children’s laughter, a sound that would have brought a smile to his face on any other day.
He picked up his pen.
Do not do anything without first consulting me again.
Please.
Was he acquiescing? Was he jettisoning all caution—and all principle as well?
He sealed the unsigned letter in the envelope and walked out of his book-lined study, envelope in pocket. He was scheduled to give an archeological lecture in the evening. But first he wanted to spend some time with his daughter and son, rambunctious children at the peak of their happy innocence.
After that he would decide whether to post the letter or to consign it to the fire, like the dozen others that had preceded it.
The front door opened and in came his wife.
“Afternoon, madam,” he said politely.
“My lord.” She nodded, a strange little smile on her face. “I see you have not heard about what happened to your favorite lady.”
“My favorite lady is my daughter. Is anything the matter with her?”
He kept his voice cool, but he couldn’t stop the hair on the back of his neck from standing up: Lady Ingram was not talking about their child.
“Lucinda is well. I refer to . . .” Her lips curled with disdain. “I refer to Holmes. Your Holmes.”
“How dare you humiliate me this way?” Mrs. Shrewsbury rained down blows on her husband. “How dare you?”
The painted French fan, folded up, made for a surprisingly potent weapon—a cross between a bolt of silk and a police baton. Roger Shrewsbury whimpered.
He didn’t understand the way her mind worked.
Very well, he had committed an unforgivable error: The night before he’d been so drunk he mistook his wife for Mimi, his mistress, and told the wife what he was going to do this afternoon with Charlotte Holmes. But if Mrs. Shrewsbury hadn’t wanted him to deflower Miss Holmes, why hadn’t she smacked him then and there and forbidden him to do anything of the sort? Or she could have gone ’round to Miss Holmes’s and slapped her for not having a higher regard for her hymen.
Instead she had mustered a regiment of sisters, cousins, and friends, set his mother at the helm of the entire enterprise, and stormed the Bastille just as he settled into Miss Holmes. So how could she accuse him of humiliating her, when she was the one who had made sure that a good dozen other women saw her husband in flagrante delicto?
He knew better than to give voice to his thoughts. After twenty-six years as Lady Shrewsbury’s son and three as Anne Shrewsbury’s husband, he’d learned that he was always wrong. The less he said, the better.
The missus continued to hit him. He wrapped his arms around his head, made himself as small as possible, and tried to disappear into a nice memory, a time and a place in which he wasn’t a bounder twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
Lady Shrewsbury frowned mightily at the young woman who sat opposite her in the brougham. Charlotte Holmes was still, her face pale but composed.
Eerily composed, given she was now ruined beyond repair.
So composed that Lady Shrewsbury, who had been prepared for any amount of hysterical sobbing and frantic pleas, was beginning to feel rattled—a sensation she hadn’t experienced in years.
Lady Shrewsbury had been the one to throw a sheet over the girl. She had then ordered her son to go home with his wife, and the rest of the women to disperse. Miss Holmes had not trembled in a corner, her hands over her face. Nor had she stared numbly at the floor. Instead she had watched the goings-on as if she were a mere bystander, one whose own fate had not in the least taken an unthinkable turn. As Roger was shoved out by his wife, Miss Holmes glanced at him, without anger, loathing, or any reflection of his helplessness.
It had been a sympathetic and apologetic look, the kind the ringleader of a gang of unruly children might give one of her followers, after she had got the latter into unlimited trouble.
Lady Shrewsbury had fully expected this bravado to disintegrate once the others had gone. She was famous for her sternness. Roger, whenever he found himself alone with her, perspired even when she hadn’t planned to inquire into what he had been doing with himself of late.
But her formidableness had no effect on Charlotte Holmes. After the gaggle of eyewitnesses departed to spread the salacious story in drawing rooms all over London, Miss Holmes, instead of dissolving into tears, dressed and ordered a considerable tea service.
Then, under Lady Shrewsbury’s increasingly incredulous gaze, she proceeded to polish off a plate of plum cake, a plate of cherry tartlets, and a plate of sardines and toast. All without saying a single word, or even acknowledging Lady Shrewsbury’s presence.
Lady Shrewsbury controlled her vexation. Silence was one of her greatest weapons and she would not be goaded into abandoning that strategic advantage. Alas, her magnificent silence had no effect on Charlotte Holmes, who dined as if she were a queen and Lady Shrewsbury a lowly lackey, not worthy of even a spare glance.
When the girl was ready to leave, she simply walked out, forcing Lady Shrewsbury to catch up. Again, as if she weren’t a strict moral guardian escorting a fallen woman to her consequences, but a simpleminded maid scampering behind her mistress.
The silence continued in the brougham. Miss Holmes studied the carriages that clogged the street—shiny, lacquered town coaches jostling for space amidst long queues of hansom cabs. From time to time her gaze fell on Lady Shrewsbury and Lady Shrewsbury had the distinct sensation that of the two of them, Miss Holmes considered Lady Shrewsbury the far stranger specimen.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” she snapped, unable to stand the silence another second.
“For myself, no,” Charlotte Holmes said softly. “But I hope you will not be too harsh on Roger. He is not to blame for thi
s.”
Inspector Robert Treadles of the Metropolitan Police always enjoyed an outing to Burlington House, especially to attend Lord Ingram’s lectures. They had met via a shared ardor for archeology—Lord Ingram had sponsored Treadles’s entry into the London Society of Antiquaries, in fact.
But this evening his friend was not himself.
To the casual observer, his lordship would seem to command the meeting room, thorough in his knowledge, eloquent in his presentation, and deft with a touch of dry humor—his comparison of the ancient family strife caused by variation in size and ornateness of each member’s jeweled brooches with the modern jealousy aroused by the handsomeness of a sibling’s new brougham drew peals of laughter from the audience.
To Inspector Treadles, however, Lord Ingram’s delivery had little of its usual élan. It was a struggle. A futile struggle, moreover: Sisyphus pushing that enormous boulder up the hill, knowing that it would roll away from him near the top, condemning him to start all over again, ad infinitum.
What could be the matter? Lord Ingram was the scion of a ducal family, an Old Etonian, and one of the finest polo players in the world. Of course Inspector Treadles knew that no one’s existence was perfect behind closed doors, but whatever turbulence Lord Ingram navigated in his private life had never before been made visible in his public demeanor.
After the lecture, after the throng of admirers had dispersed, the two men met in a book-lined nook of the society’s soaring library.
“I’d hoped we could dine together, Inspector,” said Lord Ingram. “But I’m afraid I must take leave of you very soon.”
Treadles was both disappointed and relieved—he didn’t think he would be able to offer Lord Ingram much consolation, in the latter’s current state.
“I hope your family is well,” he said.
“They are, thank you. I’m obliged to pay a call on short notice, that is all.” Lord Ingram’s words were calm, yet there was a hollowness to his tone. “I trust we shall have the pleasure of a more leisurely meeting in the not too distant future.”
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