Excerpt

Turning from my review of the chamber, I bestowed my full attention on our hostess. She was no longer half concealed by dim light and a door, allowing me to recognize her from the portrait Uncle Sherlock had on his mantel. Until now, I'd never met the individual whom he called the woman.

Irene Adler.

"Please, sit," she said, gesturing with an elegant hand and a warm smile. "Miss Stoker, Miss Holmes. It is a pleasure to meet you at last."

I wasn't clear on the details, but there had been some scandal involving the woman and the King of Bohemia in which the king had required my uncle's assistance. The case was resolved, but only after Miss Adler had outsmarted Uncle Sherlock by being one step ahead of him during the entire affair. As he was often heard to say, the people who'd outsmarted him in his life numbered fewer than the fingers on one hand. Three of them were men, and here, now in front of me, stood the fourth. In reluctant honor and admiration for his feminine opponent, my uncle's only request for compensation from the King of Bohemia had been a picture of her.

Approximately the age of thirty, Miss Adler looked at me from the head of the table, her fingers curled around a pair of spectacles. An air of competence and intelligence emanated from her, and though her dark eyes sparkled with wit, I suspected they could sharpen with thought and determination.

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Adler," I said, trying not to appear in awe of the woman who had outwitted my famed uncle.

She was a tall woman, slender, dark of hair, pale of complexion. One couldn't precisely call her beautiful, but I considered her appearance striking, and her presence mesmerizing. Tonight she wore a sateen bodice the color of chocolate, striped with bronze and decorated with jet buttons marching down the curve of her substantial bosom. A faint sparkle dusted her cheekbones, hardly detectable unless one was looking for it. And beneath the musty, damp smell of this antiquities-ridden chamber I scented a hint of the perfume that had clung to her message.

"Perhaps you're wondering why I did not contact you openly," Miss Adler said, looking between the two of us. The faint hint of her American heritage colored her voice.

"Indeed not," I replied as I selected the seat nearest her, for I had already deduced the reasons for her secrecy. "When one considers your previous encounter with my uncle, it would be out of the question that you would make an open attempt to contact me."

"But of course," Miss Adler said, a smile twitching the corners of her mouth.

"Apparently the two of you are acquainted," said Miss Stoker pointedly. She'd declined to take a seat even as I settled into mine and she pushed back the hood of her cloak.

Her hair was thick and ink-black. I knew that one branch of the Stokers was a family named Gardella from Italy, explaining the faint olive tone of her skin. Her eyes were dark, and her face very pretty in an arresting sort of way. The sort of girl young men would find attractive. The sort of girl who danced at parties and shopped and laughed with her friends, and who knew just what to say when she met an interesting young man.

The sort of girl who had friends.

I pushed away the wistful thought and concentrated on examining my companion.

Miss Stoker was petite while I was tall for a woman, and she boasted a much more feminine figure than my own gawky, angular one. Now that she had thrown back her dashing cloak, exposing a simple skirt and bodice without bustles or crinolines, I observed several accoutrements tucked into the waistband. Mostly wooden stakes, as well as a sheathed dagger and a slender wooden device I couldn't readily identify. Relatively primitive weapons.

"Please forgive me, Miss Stoker," said our hostess. "I hope you'll accept my apologies for the manner by which I contacted you and Miss Holmes. If you'll make yourself comfortable and allow me to explain, your concerns will be allayed. If not, I assure you, you are free to go at any time."

She settled herself in the chair at the head of the table. "First, I'd like to introduce myself. I am Irene Adler." She pronounced her name the American way, as Eye-reen. "I'm here in London and in the employment of the British Museum at the direction of none other than Her Royal Highness."

Miss Adler withdrew a small metallic object from her voluminous skirts and offered it to Miss Stoker. Even from my position across the table, I recognized it as a Royal Medallion, a token that is bestowed upon someone who has found favor with a member of the Royal Family. My father was in the possession of several of the peach-pit sized spheres, each engraved with the seal of the individual who'd given it. If one pushed on it a certain way and released its hidden lever, the contraption snapped open to display the name of the bearer and a full seal and signature of the Royal.

In this case it was clear who had given the token, for Her Royal Highness could only refer to the Princess of Wales, the wife of Prince Edward, Her Majesty the Queen's daughter-in-law. Princess Alexandra had requested Miss Adler's assistance.

Miss Adler looked at us with a sober expression. "Miss Holmes. Miss Stoker. There are many young men your age who are called into the service of their country. Who risk life and limb for their queen, their countrymen, and the Empire. Tonight, I ask, on behalf of Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales: will you do what no other young woman is called to do, and place your life and honor at the feet of your country?"