Chapter III: Fashionably Late
by Jordanna (librarie at jordanna.net)
Chapter III: Fashionably Late
Beth Lestrade was feeling inordinately pleased with herself. For
once, she had succeeded in surprising the unshakeable Sherlock
Holmes. That feat alone was well worth the time and money it had
cost her to obtain the perfect replica of a Victorian dress -- not
to mention the discomfort of wearing a corset.
Now she was glad she had submitted to wearing the zedded thing.
Judging by the signals his eyebrow had been telegraphing, she
knew Holmes was acutely conscious of that little detail.
Hey, she had been studying with historyís greatest master of
As for Holmes himself, no matter how anachronistic his clothing
was, Lestrade had decided that he looked spectacular in black.
Most men as tall and thin as he was would have come off looking
like a scarecrow, but somehow he wore it beautifully. He was
built like a greyhound, all long limbs and lean muscle, and the
color accentuated his sharp, trim lines in a most impressive way.
The New Yearís party was being held in the ballroom of a hotel
not far from New Scotland Yard. Lestrade left her cruiser in the
care of the droid who served as parking valet, then turned to
Holmes as, with a courtly gesture, he offered her his arm.
"Thanks for the escort," Lestrade grinned, putting her arm
Holmes chuckled. "On the contrary, you are escorting me.
Remember, I wasnít invited."
"I invited you. Thatís close enough," Lestrade asserted with a
fierce smile, hugging his arm a little tighter against her side.
He didnít seem to mind, and it occurred to her that she should
observe whether the dress made a difference in the way he behaved
Together they strolled into the hotel -- attracting some bemused
double-takes along the way -- and found the ballroom on the top
floor, still fully decked out in its Christmas regalia of the
week before. The room was full to bursting with Yardies of every
rank, along with their spouses and other guests, variously
engaged in conversing, dancing, or browsing the buffet.
It took all of three seconds for Chief Inspector Greyson to zero
in on the newly arrived pair.
"Lestrade, what the devil are you wearing?" Looking out of place
in a tuxedo, the stout, grey-haired man lumbered toward them.
"Didnít anyone tell you this was no bloominí masquerade party?
Why didnít you dress properly?"
Glancing down at her Victorian splendor, Lestrade bristled--but
Holmes spoke up before she could unload both barrels at her
chief. "Inspector Lestrade is properly dressed, sir. More so than
any other woman in this room, I might add," he said coldly,
glancing about with a frown at the unconservative fashions most
of the feminine guests were sporting.
Greyson glanced offhandedly at Holmes, the way he might regard an
angry dog on a leash. "I might have known youíd be in back of it.
Oh, never mind." He waved a finger under the unflinching
detectiveís nose. "Just mind you donít cause the Yard any
embarrassments tonight -- weíve a lot of important guests, and I
wonít stand for any of your antiquated wit."
"Indubitably," Holmes murmured, unruffled, and Lestrade stifled a
"Oh, Charles dear, there you are!" A middle-aged Englishwoman, as
stout and grey-haired as Greyson and clad in an ill-fitting
yellow dress, abruptly inserted herself into the moment. She
latched rather possessively onto Greysonís left arm, smiling
sweetly through her generous layers of makeup. "Good evening,
Inspector Lestrade. What a lovely dress youíre wearing. Is that a
Greyson made a noise like a bird being choked.
With a soaring sense of vindictive smugness, Lestrade beamed
proudly. "Why, thank you, Mrs. Greyson. You havenít met Sherlock
Holmes, have you?" She gave her companion a casual gesture,
inwardly hoping he was enjoying Greysonís consternation as much
as she was.
Holmes might as well have been reading her mind, because his...
Victorian-ness... suddenly shot up about a dozen levels. He swept
up Mrs. Greysonís hand in his and bowed over it, in a stiflingly
stately manner that was nothing short of a parody. Then glancing
up into her small hazel eyes, he said in a low and husky voice,
Mrs. Greysonís overly rouged cheeks darkened still further, and
she giggled like a young girl. "Oh, Mister Holmes, Iím thrilled
to meet you at last! Iíve heard so much about you... from Charles."
"Nothing good, I trust." Holmes was smirking -- and Lestrade, while
desperately maintaining a polite smile, was afraid she might die
of suppressed laughter.
In the meantime, Greysonís ruddy face had turned a fascinating
shade of purple. He abruptly sucked in a breath and took his wife
by the arm, prying her away from her hypnotized stare at Holmes.
"Come along, my dear, you havenít said hello to the Forsbys... Iíll
deal with you two later," he grumbled over his shoulder at
Lestrade and Holmes, as he began steering the missus toward a
particularly raucous clutch of partygoers across the room.
"I hope we have the chance to chat later, Mister Holmes!" Mrs.
Greyson managed to say before she was hustled off into the crowd.
Lestrade vaguely heard Holmes give a genteel reply, but she
couldnít quite make it out, because she was doubled over with
laughter -- or at least, bent as far as the corset would allow.
"Iím glad youíre amused," Holmesí level voice remarked somewhere
above her ear. She took a deep breath and straightened, hoping
her tears of laughter had not damaged her rarely-worn and
judiciously applied makeup.
"That was fantastic!" she exclaimed, squeezing his shoulder.
"That," he said flatly, producing a handkerchief and offering it
to her, "was something I saw in a twentieth-century motion
picture. Now what sort of idiot would sincerely act like that, in
Swallowing her laughter, Lestrade gave him a bemused look as she
accepted the handkerchief. He frowned in response -- but as she
wiped her eyes, she could have sworn she saw a gleam in his.
On to Chapter 4!
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