Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger (27 page)

“No,” Mirabella shook her head.
 
“It was a woman from the sound of the laugh. . . And there was something else.
 
I saw a wisp of scarlet chiffon.”

“Like Veronika’s outfit,” Sherlock considered.
 
“Could your attacker have been Miss Vishnevsky?
 
What was her height?”

“I’d say . . . about Ashanti’s height,” she sobbed.
 
“Veronika is closer to Joëlle’s height.”

“Which might make for an excellent disguise—if one were attempting to implicate someone else,” Sherlock considered, his steel-grey eyes full of fury.
 
“The two women are remarkably similar in appearance.
 
And could the attacker have been either Miss Janvier or Miss Vishnevsky?”

“The woman was taller.”

“Perhaps heels or elevated shoes were worn?”

“I couldn’t say.
 
My attentions were elsewhere as I was fighting for my life.”

“Do you think it could have been Ashanti?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” Mirabella shook her head, still crying.

“Because she is your friend?” he asked softly.

“No, because she is the tigers’ friend.
 
She would never do anything that might result in the death of one of her tigers.
 
She never forgave Jo
ëlle
—not for killing Beckham, but for killing Goro.”

“Ah, excellent reasoning, Miss Belle.
 
Even so, I always confirm my suspicions and intend to search three ladies’ wardrobes within the hour.”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“Take off your cape, Miss Belle,” he commanded.
 
He smelled the cape to her surprise.
 
“The scent is on it.”
 
He frowned.
 
“And once again you don’t have a pistol.”

“I didn’t imagine . . . I was only practicing and the tigers’ cages were closed . . .”

But his anger did not seem to be directed at her, but elsewhere.
 
“I believe I know who made the attempt, Miss Belle, and I guarantee that I will hunt her down and kill her myself, as need be.
 
Her reign is, as of this moment,
officially over
.”

“I saw you in the show today, Miss Mirabella.
 
You were marvelous.”

“Was I?”
 
Mirabella cracked her whip in the center of the arena without turning towards John Watson.
 
She had changed into the form fitting white training suit which she wore while fencing and practicing jiu-jitsu.

“And I saw you as well leaving Miss Janvier’s room quite late, Dr. Watson.”
 
She had not recounted her attempted murder to Dr. Watson, as she and Sherlock had agreed it was best that John not treat Miss Janvier any differently.
 
Sherlock was closed-lipped about the entire episode and adamantly opposed to discussing it further.
 
She had never seen him in such a dark mood.

“It is my job,” John shrugged.
 
She caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, displaying his usual happy-go-lucky attitude.
 
His long sideburns were pronounced underneath his brown top hat and his expression had an easy-going frivolity about it.
 

Which utterly annoyed her
.
 
Ordinarily she would find that countenance most attractive, but she had seen a new side to John Watson which made her question the direction of her regard.
 
It seemed to her that John Watson was a bit too enamored of feminine attention—and a bit too free and easy with his affections.

She smiled to herself.
 
Funny that Sherlock Holmes had no desire whatsoever for such attentions, and John Watson could not have enough.

Mirabella glanced in the direction of the tiger cages.
 
It seemed that she was destined to be surrounded by extremes.

As for the tigers, her charges were all sleeping.
 
It was becoming easier to manage them.
 
Insofar as anyone managed a tiger.
 
Her near death experience had actually increased her courage aground the tigers, a surprising outcome.
 

Ashanti had taught her a great deal about loving the tigers—while reminding her that one must be on her guard at all times.
 
Mirabella had most certainly not lost her fear, but that was the sign of a good trainer, Ashanti had said.

She turned momentarily to face the indecorous doctor and he tipped
 
is hat to her, smiling.
 
She sighed.
 
Almost instantly, he was able to work his magic.
 
But at least now, she knew what was happening:
it was all a lovely game
.
 
Which would be fine were she the only other player.

Smiling at her, John Watson looked ever-so-dashing instead of guilty (as he should have!) in his white pin-striped shirt with pearl cuff-links, brown leather suspenders, and grey wool slacks.
 
In fact, far from looking remorseful, he appeared to be having a most delightful time of it.

 
“What?
 
Are you angry because I’ve been spending time with Miss Janvier?”
 
John moved closer to her and she felt a pleasant awareness of his proximity.
 
“I didn’t know you cared, Miss Mirabella.”

 
“It’s none of my affair, I am sure.”
 
She stepped away, returning to her whip.
 
She executed an overhead crack, circling her own head.
 
“And I’ll thank you to return to your
affairs
so that I might attend to mine, Dr. Watson.”

He took her gently by the wrist, willing her to look at him, his entire manner elegantly seductive.
 
“There’s nothing to it, Miss Mirabella.”

“Nothing to
what
, Dr. Watson?”
 
She let out an exasperated sigh, letting her hand fall and turning to him.

“To the whole thing with Miss Janvier,” he replied breezily.
 
“Just following orders.”

“So,” she murmured.
 
“Are you telling me that you’re not enjoying yourself?”

“Did I say such a thing?” he smiled boyishly, looking alarmingly charming.

“Or that you haven’t . . . that you didn’t . . . that you aren’t . . . doing more than the role requires?”

“Miss Hudson!”
 
He winked at her.
 
“A gentleman would never speak of such things—and, for a woman to do so is considered quite forward!”

 
“What an odd turn of events that a forward woman should repulse you, Dr. Watson.”
 
She yanked her arm from him and snapped her whip in a figure eight beside her, just missing him.
 

“I’m not repulsed at all,” he remarked, moving closer to her in the moment her whip dropped.
 
He took her chin in his hand, and she felt her heartbeat increase.
 
“I am, Miss Mirabella, excessively flattered.”

 
“And why should you be flattered, Dr. Watson?” she demanded breathlessly, backing up, even as she felt flushed.
 
He took her into his strong arms, looking down at her, and she held onto the whip with some difficulty.

“Because you, Miss Mirabella, are
jealous
.”
 

“J-j-jealous?”
 
she gasped, but she did not attempt to move away from him.
 
Instead the whip fell out of her now limp hands as she gazed into eyes the color of the sea, utterly focused on her.
 
“You can’t be serious!”

He moved forward to kiss her.

She thought about pulling away from him.
 
Truly she did.
 
But he was so focused on her.
 
John Watson was a wonderful man and an incomparable friend.
 
And so handsome
.

“Miss Mirabella,” he continued.
 
“Would you like me to kiss you?”

“Why?” she demanded coolly, but her heartbeat was rapidly increasing.
 
“Are you not being kissed enough, John?”

“I won’t lie to you, Miss Mirabella.
 
I am being kissed.
 
But I venture to state the warmth of those kisses are based on the state of my pocketbook.
 
Were that to go empty . . . Well, enough said on that.
 
I would prefer to kiss someone I . . . have some feelings for.”

“And what feelings might those be?” she asked lightly.

“Admiration.
 
Affection.
 
Fascination
.”
 
He took off his top hat and held it in his left hand.
 
With her chin in his right hand, slowly he bent towards her lips even as she felt her chest rise and fall in anticipation.
 

Stop!
 
She knew she should stop him since she wasn’t seriously considering a relationship with the good doctor any longer.
 
Only a strumpet would encourage a man in such a way!

And yet—he was so dreamy!—what was the harm?
 
She had wondered for so long what it would be like to kiss John.
 
Would he think her a loose woman?
 
Clearly that was precisely the type of woman he liked!

Her lips were shaking she knew.
 
But she shut her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy the kiss—perhaps the only real kiss she would ever have.
 

Which was quite wonderful to be sure.
 
A magical foray into the unknown.
 
She felt that she might melt as the softness of his lips touched hers.
 

His kiss was teasing, enticing,
exciting
.
 

But it felt more like playing around than love—or even desire.

“John,” she pulled away.
 
“This wasn’t a good idea.”

“It’s the best idea I’ve had all day,” he murmured.
 
Boldly, he moved his arms around her waist.
 
She was a beautiful woman, and her performances in every manner of shimmering and revealing costume had made him inescapably aware of that fact.

And what a form!
 
The girl was slim, but muscular, amply endowed, and with gorgeous long legs.
 
Her chestnut brown hair sat atop her head, and her large, warm brown eyes were mesmerizing.
 

How could I have not seen it before?

Mirabella Hudson was also everything a man could want in a woman:
 
pure, loyal, engaging—all this, and without airs.
 
There was nothing manipulative about her.
 

She wouldn’t know how.

The fire in her eyes thrilled him.
 
She was alive with a passion not yet expressed.

A
real
passion.
 
Not a contrived passion which Miss Janvier utilized to manipulate men.
 
He sometimes wondered if the Russian femme fatale felt anything at all.

He leaned down to kiss her again.
 

“Watson!” commanded Holmes, entering the arena.
 
“What are you about?”
 

Holmes’ eyes moved from one to the other.
 
Anger flushed his face, but he regained his composure almost instantly, one of his remarkable gifts.
 

And yet, Holmes’ manner was even more brusque than usual as he moved towards them.
 
“Miss Janvier is calling for you.
 
Make haste, Watson.”

As John reluctantly headed for the tent entrance, their paths crossed, both of them some twenty feet from Miss Hudson but within hearing range of each other.

“Miss Belle is not for you, Watson,” Holmes muttered under his breath.
 

“How do you know, Holmes?
 
I never met a finer girl,” John replied.
 
And so inexperienced
.
 
He would love to teach her the art of love.
 
He had always planned to settle down at some point; he was not strange like Holmes.
 
He wished for love and family.
 

But the war had happened, then he had almost died, then Holmes had saved him.
 
In the meantime, women found him appealing and he was not one to disavow them of the notion.

The truth be told, he wasn’t ready to settle down yet, but when he was . . .
 

Sherlock’s expression grew somber.
 
“Do catch a clue, my good fellow.”

“It appears I am without one,” John replied, ducking out of the tent.

***

Ah, well, then let me provide you with a clue, my friend—but I warn you, I shall not repeat it
,
so you had best take note of it.
 
Sherlock turned to move towards Miss Belle, furious.
 
He knew she was not truly to blame with such an experienced ladies’ man as Watson, and yet Sherlock felt an intense anger which required a release.

“What are you about Miss Hudson?
 
Do you find it utterly impossible to behave in a professional manner?”

Why am I so angry?
 
If she wishes to throw herself at libertines, who am I to stop her?
 
She shall learn soon enough
.

“Why?
 
Because I like John Watson?”
 

“Because we three have a professional relationship and you are to treat both Watson and myself as such.
 
Do you have no sense of propriety, Miss Hudson?
 
Do you wish to compromise every mission with your childish pranks and girlish whims?”