A Study in Silks tba-1

by Emma Jane Holloway

  Evelina took one last look around the attic and descended the stairs, pondering her next move. Through the small windows of the stairway landing, she could see that an indigo dusk had just settled on the garden outside. When she got to the main floor, she blew out the candle, left it on a small table, and carried on toward Lord Bancroft’s library.

  The ambassador had a collection of volumes on mechanics—apparently a relic of his youth, since he reviled his son’s interest in the topic. And displaying such books wasn’t the done thing now that the steam barons held sway. Evelina had found them entirely by accident one day. There, behind the plays and poetry, high up on the library shelves, was a second row of books. Evelina had felt like she’d found Aladdin’s treasure cave, and had read as many as she could sneak out unobserved. Maybe there was something in the collection—a pamphlet or a manual—that identified where the automatons had come from. Finding at least this answer might be simple.

  She had learned about clockworks from her father’s father, who made the mechanical wonders at Ploughman’s circus. Through Lord Bancroft’s library, she had studied every new innovation in automatons that had come along, including the elaborate punch-card probability sorters that were supposed to cause the machines to make simple decisions for themselves—a bit of a nonstarter, really. Even the most sophisticated engines seemed to produce machines only slightly brighter than a toasting fork.

  From the glimpse she’d had, Bancroft’s models were at least ten years out of date. Automatons came and went out of fashion, usually making a comeback when some manufacturer laid claim to a new innovation. New! Improved! Same old bunkum as you’ve never seen it before! Guaranteed impractical and finicky to fix!

  Even a stupid servant was more versatile and cost a fraction of the price. Still, the idea of a wood and metal slave, willing to fulfill its owner’s every whim—the more depraved the better—reliably parted the rich from their gold.

  Which raised uncomfortable questions about anyone who had a whole collection.

  The library was considerably warmer than the attic. A small fire was burning in the grate, more for cheer than for necessity. Gaslights filled the space with a gentle glow. Evelina walked into the room, her attention already on the tall shelves of books, before she noticed Lord Bancroft in one of the wing chairs. He was reading a newspaper, a glass of whisky and soda on the tiny carved table at his elbow.

  “Miss Cooper,” he said without moving.

  Most men stood when a lady entered the room, but he rarely observed that nicety with her. She occupied a gray zone halfway between servant and family member, which made his slight both an insult and a compliment.

  “My lord,” she replied, her nerves prickling with irritation. It was hard to snoop in someone’s affairs when they were reading the paper only a few feet away. Nevertheless, she made a slight curtsey before she turned to focus on the books.

  Lord B turned a page, happy to ignore her. She ignored him right back, finding the shelf she wanted, discreetly shifting the books so she could see the titles behind. She started reading the spines quickly, knowing she might be interrupted at any moment and directed toward Lady Bancroft’s collection of insipid novels. Not that Evelina disliked fiction—far from it—but Lady B had a taste for do-good heroes and heroines with all the personality of a dust ruffle.

  On the other hand, Lord Bancroft seemed to have a dozen good volumes on building automatons, though they were all in German. She pulled one off the shelf and opened it, struggling through the introduction. The book seemed to be a comprehensive study on creating walking machines. That made sense. The problem of balance and joint movement had plagued builders for years.

  She lifted her gaze from the page and studied Lord Bancroft—or rather, the back of his newspaper. One hand reached out and picked up the glass. His ring gave a quick flash of gold in the gaslight before the hand and glass disappeared behind the wall of newsprint. For a man robbed of a prized possession, he looked utterly calm. Then again, knowing him, he might have a decent load of whisky on board by this hour.

  She turned back to the shelf, pulling out another volume. This time it wasn’t even German, but something she didn’t recognize. With a huff of exasperation, she closed the book and slid it back on the shelf. There was no owner’s manual for the automatons, so she drifted over to a collection of French plays. If she was going to pretend to be looking for a book to read, she couldn’t leave empty-handed.

  The newspaper rattled. “Finding what you want?” Lord Bancroft asked quietly.

  There was a slight edge to his voice that made her think he knew exactly which books she’d been looking at and he wasn’t happy about it. Her stomach clenched, and she quickly picked up a volume of Racine. “Yes, thank you.”

  She’d taken a hurried step toward the door when Bigelow, the butler, entered.

  “A gentleman to see you, my lord.” Bigelow intoned.

  “Who is it?” Lord Bancroft let the paper droop so he could see his servant offering a silver salver with a calling card. He picked up the card without much interest, but as he read, his eyes widened with what looked like homicidal rage.

  Evelina quickly made for the door, but someone was shouldering his way past Bigelow. She stopped, arrested by the sight of the figure. He was very tall, with a cape and silver-headed cane. Beneath the brim of his high-crowned hat, a dark, aquiline face made her think of exotic lands and fortunes in pirate gold. Not at all the type to play the lead in one of Lady Bancroft’s novels.

  Lord B’s voice was hard as flint. “I heard you were in town, but prayed it was only vicious gossip. What are you doing here?”

  Evelina jumped back, as if the angry words had been directed at her. The fine hairs on her arms rose. The man wasn’t quite close enough to be sure, but she thought she detected a prickling of magic. Who is this man?

  “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” said the stranger, sweeping off his hat and cape and thrusting them into Bigelow’s arms. “I saw you at the opera, but you refused to acknowledge me. I had to come to you, since you would not speak to me in a public place.”

  Bancroft rose from his chair. “What are you doing in London? You swore to keep away.”

  The stranger laughed. “No, you swore at me until I left you alone. There is a difference. Tell me, how are the children? I haven’t seen them in years.”

  There was a long pause. Bigelow cleared his throat. “My lord, shall I summon the footmen?”

  Lord Bancroft’s expression said he wanted exactly that. Instead, he waved Bigelow and Evelina away with a curt jerk of his hand. They went, Evelina pulling the door shut behind them as the butler’s hands were full with the hat and cloak.

  She could still hear Lord B’s sharp tones. “Is it money you want, Magnus?”

  “Dr. Magnus. I deserve at least that much respect. And what do you think the answer is?” The voice seemed far too intimate, as if he were whispering in Evelina’s ear.

  Bigelow and Evelina lingered outside the door, their eyes meeting in tacit agreement. So what if eavesdropping was a bad idea? Neither was prepared to move. But all that followed for a long moment was silence. Evelina’s nerves began to twitch.

  Finally, Dr. Magnus spoke. Evelina detected a slight accent she couldn’t place. “I performed a service for you, and now I require connections in London. You must rectify that, with your influence. I am desirous of meeting your men of industry. What do you call them? Steam barons?”

  “They would have no use for you.”

  “Nor I them, for the most part. But I require your influence on a small matter, and since I find you such a rising political star, that should be no great feat. Besides, you are very much in my debt. Refusing me would be unwise.”

  Bancroft swore viciously. “Is this blackmail?”

  “Come, come. We go too far back—long before your censorious British morality pinioned your curiosity.”

  “Before you damned my soul, you mean,” Bancroft snarled.

 
; “I have nothing to do with your choices.”

  “How did you get into this house?”

  Magnus laughed but it was filled with sly mockery. “Won’t you offer me a whisky? You can exorcise me later.”

  Bancroft swore again, and then the conversation became muted, as if the men had moved to a different part of the room.

  “Who is he?” Evelina whispered.

  Bigelow’s face was filled with concern. “I don’t know, miss. I have been with the family since their return to England, and I have not seen that man before tonight.”

  “Perhaps they knew each other in Austria?”

  The butler gave a slight shake of his head. “I do not know, miss, though when I think on it, I have heard Dr. Magnus’s name. It was the night that poor young Grace died. When I went to wake His Lordship, he cried out that name, almost leaping from his chair when I touched his arm.”

  “His chair?”

  “That night, he fell asleep over a book right there in the library. He does that sometimes.”

  After one too many drinks. “He saw Dr. Magnus at the opera, and then dreamed of it.” And nightmares at that—but at least Bigelow’s story means Lord B did not slit Grace’s throat. Not if he was asleep then.

  “That is not for me to say. I should return to my duties, miss.”

  Evelina glanced down at the book she had no intention of reading. “So should I.”

  She intentionally let the Racine fall, and stooped to pick it up. As she bent, she scooped the mouse out of her pocket, and it ran under the door to spy on the two men.

  Bigelow disappeared down the corridor. Evelina watched him go, a knot of anxiety heavy in her stomach. The last few days had not been reassuring. Automatons coated in dark magic. Murder. Coded messages. Gems and gold. Mysterious strangers from the ambassador’s past. And the Season hasn’t even properly started yet.

  Evelina began walking, barely paying attention to where her steps led. She turned and went back up the stairs to the second floor. The longcase clock struck eight as she reached the landing.

  Tobias was there with his hands stuffed into his pockets, watching the mechanism with his habitual air of nonchalance. When he saw her, a half smile lazily curled his lips.

  Her stomach flipped, but she took a deep breath, determined not to show her nerves. The mouse was right that she had been avoiding him since the kiss in the morning room. Did she want to see him or not? Common sense told her to run. Curiosity begged her to stay.

  “The weather dial says there is a storm coming,” said Tobias. “What a terrible blow. I shall be obliged to forego the pleasures of the racetrack.”

  “I hope there is no storm. It is your mother’s garden party tomorrow.”

  “Blast, you’re quite right.” He laughed a little, making it hard to tell if he had really forgotten or was just putting on a show.

  “The clock is always wrong, anyhow.”

  “So it is.” He gave her a lazy smile.

  “But there is a real storm brewing, I think,” said Evelina. “Someone named Dr. Magnus arrived tonight to talk to your father. Lord Bancroft wasn’t happy about it. They seemed to know each other.”

  The smile faded a little, a crease forming between his fair brows. “I remember the name from Vienna. He was a friend of my father’s once—I believe he was a mesmerist. I vaguely recall that he gave me a wooden horse for my birthday when I was still in the nursery.”

  “What kind of a man is he?”

  “I don’t know. I was a child.”

  How old was Tobias? About twenty-three? Magnus barely looked old enough to be an adult mixing with ambassadors so many years ago. Then again, some men looked almost the same between thirty and fifty. Perhaps Magnus was one of the lucky ones.

  Tobias looked down at her. “What are you thinking? You have the most puzzled expression on your face.”

  “There is a lot going on.”

  “Including the murder of Grace Child?” His smile was completely gone now. “And then the grooms?”

  Evelina hesitated, then decided there was no point in avoiding what she most wanted to know. “Did you talk to Grace just before she died?”

  For a moment, he looked almost as stern as his father. “Yes.”

  She studied him, thinking about their kiss and then about Grace and finally wondering what manner of man Tobias Roth really was. The only part of him she felt utterly sure of was his taste for pneumatics and magnetic currents. That seemed to be his one absolute truth.

  Frustration itched along her nerves. She cursed inwardly, wishing she knew what hid behind those solemn gray eyes. He was so rarely still and never serious, always on his way out to a club or music hall or mistress. If they were alone, he seemed to smile from a point just out of her reach.

  Her mouth had gone dry. “How did Grace seem?”

  He shrugged, looking out the narrow window beside the clock. “What you’d expect. She had stayed out past curfew. She was afraid Bigelow would sack her. He locks all the doors at midnight. She wanted me to sneak her inside, so I did.”

  “That’s all? She didn’t say anything else?”

  “She didn’t name her murderer, if that’s what you’re asking. She muttered something about a Chinaman being idiotic or slow or something to that effect. I thought perhaps she’d been in the Limehouse area.”

  She tried to weigh his tone and expression, wondering if he lied. She couldn’t tell. “Was Grace waiting outside or was she just arriving at the house when you met her?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “She was waiting. I think.”

  “For long?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Did you say anything to Inspector Lestrade about your conversation with Grace?”

  “No. Then he would ask me where I had been, why I was out, and I have no intention of answering that question until I absolutely have to.”

  “But—”

  He put a finger over her lips, silencing her. “A man has to keep some secrets. And I swear to you it has nothing to do with Grace or the grooms.”

  Where had he been that late? With whom and on how many occasions? If it had no bearing on the problem at hand, her uncle would declare it immaterial to the investigation, so she had to as well, even if the questions burned like red-hot coals.

  Still, Evelina gave a mutinous glare, pulling away from his touch. She could taste his skin on her lips, bitter with tobacco. He smelled of cigar smoke. “A girl died, Tobias.”

  “And I didn’t kill her. We talked, we went inside.”

  “Did you lock the door again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the killer was already inside.” Was that who passed me in the hall that night?

  He froze, as if the import of her words just sank in. Then he shook himself. “I can’t believe that.”

  “Do you have another theory?” she asked, unable to stifle a shudder.

  The killer could still be inside, right then. Hiding or, worse, wearing a familiar face. The clock ticked, loud and slow, as if prompting them to continue.

  All of a sudden, he looked startled, then worried, his eyes widening. He’d thought of something. She would have traded her best bonnet to know what was passing through his mind.

  Then his face changed again, becoming soft as he reached out a hand. “Evelina, this isn’t something you should be getting involved in. Father assures me that there is no danger to the family, but I still think that it’s not safe for you to be asking all these questions.”

  Not safe was balancing on a whisper of rope twenty feet from the ground. Not safe was being the maid carrying a fortune in gems at midnight through dark alleys infested with street rats. All Evelina had to worry about was dodging half-truths, and she was fairly sure Tobias was feeding her some now.

  No, her biggest danger was desire, because she wanted to believe that look of concern on his face. She took a small step back, putting another inch or two between them. “You wanted me to examine th
e body. Why stop me now?”

  His gaze lingered on her face, working lower and lower a degree at a time. “Honestly, I’m afraid for you. You’re too important to me to take needless risks.”

  She raised her eyebrows, unable to keep the sarcastic edge from her voice. “I’m important to you?”

  “Of course.”

  Long ago, lying in her narrow bed at the Wollaston Academy for Young Ladies, she’d daydreamed of Tobias Roth falling on his knees and declaring his love. Of course, her dream Tobias was an ideal—this man of flesh and blood was not. In her dreams he’d meant every word. Now she could not tell, and caution warred against her desire.

  “Aren’t I important to you?” he asked softly, angling his body closer. “Please say that I am.”

  “You are Imogen’s brother.” She had tried to make the words crisp, but they had come out far too breathy for comfort. He was standing too close again, the warmth of his breath brushing her cheek.

  “No more than that?” His hand was on her waist. There were too many layers of clothes between them to feel the warmth, but she sensed the pressure of his caress. Was this how her mother had ended up eloping? A touch in a dark hallway?

  The moment his arm was around her, Tobias lowered his lips to hers. Instinct urged her to run, but she ached to taste what he had to offer—and properly this time.

  His mouth was soft, so soft and warm. Just like before, except now it was spiced with brandy. He smelled of wool and soap and smoke and just a faint undertone of machine oil. That made her smile against his mouth. Tobias was rich, spoiled, and willful, but there was more to him. He had an artist’s urge to create that disarmed her.

  Their noses bumped as they shifted, finding a better position. Her palms brushed the front of his jacket, feeling the soft, expensive fabric and the swell of firm, young muscle beneath. An ache throbbed deep in her body, blotting out common sense. A slow burn began low in her belly, tingling upward until she was sure she glowed with hot little sparkles of sinful sensation. Her stays suddenly felt too tight, too hot, too rough against her skin.