“I think not.”
Magnus steepled his fingers, his brows furrowing with annoyance. “I can tell that you are hiding the truth from me. Either you are lying and you have lost it, or you are lying and you have it squirreled away for your own purposes. You prevaricate well enough that it is hard to tell which is reality.”
“Believe what you like. The casket is not here.”
“Then for today we are at an impasse.”
“As you wish.”
Magnus gave a small, dry smile. “I think you have it, sir. I shall make it my business to make you surrender it to me.”
Keating had put up with enough. He turned his words to ice. “I will not attempt to dissuade you. I can only warn you that I am a dangerous man to annoy.”
A moment of silence followed. Warm sunlight filtered between the heavy green drapes, gleaming on the brass fire screen. Keating saw their reflections ripple in the polished metal surface, one silver-haired and elegant, one dark and strange. Outside, a carriage clopped by.
Keating’s thoughts tangled: Alice, the Roth boy, Holmes, the casket. He was trying to weave a future with threads that kept breaking. Now there was this Magnus fellow, knotting everything still further. The doctor had to go, with as little fuss and bother as possible. One can only be at an impasse with equals. This posturing crow is beneath me.
Fury clutched at Keating. “I think it is time you left, sir.”
“Not yet. Two days ago, I visited the place where you house your treasure. Chinese workers, closely guarded, and your own cousin in charge of operations. There is no opportunity for a thief to worm through your security measures. They are, shall we say, extreme.”
How closely has he been studying me? And what does he mean by extreme? He left the operation of the warehouse to Harriman, who seemed competent enough at his job—until now. They weren’t expecting any further shipments, so Harriman had let the Chinese go back to their families for a week or so. But then yesterday someone had got into the warehouse after disabling the automaton at the door. The only blessing was that the pieces for the exhibit sat packed in crates in the gallery, so nothing more had been taken. Did Magnus have something to do with the break-in? If he had, would he be here? Keating just couldn’t tell.
His mouth twitch with ire. “What can I do to make you leave?”
Magnus gave an unpleasant chuckle. “Give me the box. Sooner or later, you will accept my viewpoint on the matter.”
The Gold King’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “And why should I do that?”
Magnus rose in a single graceful movement. “Because of who and what I am.”
Bancroft stood, not liking the sensation of Magnus looming over him. Unfortunately, the doctor was taller by inches, and leaned down into his face.
Magnus grinned, and it wasn’t pleasant. “Eventually, it shall be a relief to place the casket in my hands, because that is the price—the only means—of obtaining peace.”
He touched the green gem that pinned his necktie. The sun leached out of the room, leaving it cold and dank and dark. Shadows crept from the corners, leaving all in shades of mildewed gray. Keating felt a chill move up his legs, as if cold hands were reaching up from graves hidden beneath the carpet. Keating felt a sudden, craven urge to beg the doctor to let the light back in. He bit the inside of his cheek, refusing to let his teeth chatter. “This is magic. The use of magic is illegal in the Empire. Punishable by death.”
The doctor waved a finger. “Oh, tut. You are credulous, for a man of business. I am merely a mesmerist.”
“Mesmerist?” Keating’s voice sounded shrill. “This is more than tricks of the mind, sir.”
“Are you so certain of that?” Magnus laughed softly.
Fear lanced through Keating at the sound. He jerked back, as if Magnus were poisonous to the touch. “You will regret this.”
Magnus turned his eyes to the ceiling in a gesture of exaggerated patience. “Please, threatening me is unwise in the extreme. Don’t force me to fall back on the obvious blustering tropes of penny-dreadful adventures.”
Keating was a brave man, but there was something in the darkness that recalled every boyhood terror. “All men bleed. Is that a trope?”
Magnus pulled a face. “But not all men have daughters, Mr. Keating. And yours is so lovely. Think on her while you ponder my request.”
There was a moment of stunned silence while Keating’s breath choked in his throat.
“Good day, Mr. Keating. I shall be seeing you about town. Often.” Magnus gracefully bowed from the room.
Keating fell backward into his chair, glad of the light that came rushing back through the window glass, but not feeling one bit warmer.
Until his rage breached like a furious kraken.
Chapter Twenty-four
The only antidote to Dr. Magnus was action. And the Gold King had resources for this kind of thing. He had Striker.
South of Marlborough and East of Regent Street lay one of the poorest parts of the Gold district. St. James Workhouse formed one corner of a neighborhood made up of people surviving on a few shillings a week. For a few shillings more, Keating had bought himself an army of Yellowbacks.
Striker, as their leader, had been an even greater find. He was strong and hard and ambitious, but he also had a talent for firearms. Not just to use them, but to make them from bits and scraps. Illiterate, barely articulate, Striker was a natural savant, a primitive Mozart of weaponry.
Keating had snatched him up, a rare and useful specimen to keep close by—but not too close. A streetkeeper had privileges—a place of his own and enough money for regular food, liquor, and the occasional whore—but Striker could still see the workhouse from his rooms. A useful reminder.
Striker’s home was not the kind of place Keating preferred to go, but some orders were better delivered in person. Still, he took extra grooms to watch the carriage, and another pair to follow him into to the rooming house where Striker lived, just in case.
It was daytime, so the place felt oddly subdued, as if the very bricks of the ramshackle building were sleeping off last night’s gin. The main floor had a communal parlor to the left of the front door, probably where whores entertained their customers. Above that were three floors of supposedly private quarters. Striker was up a long, steep flight of the narrow, filthy stairs in one of the corner rooms.
Keating followed behind one of his men, another bringing up the rear. The middle of the steps sagged and creaked, so he found himself walking close to the wall for safety, and then leaning away so his sleeve wouldn’t brush against the grimy paint.
The first man, who had moved up the steps more quickly, pounded on Striker’s door.
“Go away,” came the streetkeeper’s growl, muffled by the wood.
The man pounded again.
“What the bleeding hell do you want?”
By that time Keating had caught up, puffing a little from the climb. “It’s Keating.”
“Then do come in, sir.” More polite, but not exactly welcoming.
Keating turned the rattling knob and pushed open the door. The sight reminded him of an illustration to a cautionary tale, something to do with the wages of sin. The stench was worse—cheap gin cycled through the human body and sweated out again.
Striker sat at a wood table littered with odds and ends, his ragged shirt half buttoned and his bandaged leg stretched out in front of him. His dark complexion had a gray cast, his eyes pink with lack of sleep. Perhaps pain was keeping him up nights.
If so, the man had found his solace. An open bottle hung loosely from his hand. Striker shoved the other through his spiky hair, as if dimly aware of his disheveled state.
It was the first time Keating had ever seen him without the metal-encrusted coat. Now he could see the outline of heavily muscled arms beneath his filthy shirt.
Striker began to struggle out of the chair, but Keating waved him back. “Don’t try to stand.” If he didn’t fall from his injury, the drink might do the job.
/> Striker subsided. “Thank you, sir. Right kind of you.”
Keating looked around, the floor crunching as he shifted his feet. There was almost no furniture. There was an unmade bed in the corner and a fireplace with a cook pot, but little else. Something had crusted inside the pot that added to the malodorous fug hanging in the room.
Keating felt his gorge rise. “How’s the leg?”
Striker’s face darkened, but he shrugged his bulky shoulders. “It’ll heal. The wound’s clean enough.”
“Glad to hear it.” Probably the cleanest thing in the room.
Keating looked down at the table. Among the plates and string and garbage were several of Striker’s weapons, the housing cracked open and the guts spilling out like cornucopias of gears and wires. Fixing, inventing, improving—he was never done with his creations. They were always works in progress. Always better than anything Keating could buy for his street rats, no matter the price. He’s an asset, if an ill-mannered, grubby piece of work.
He flicked through the mess with one gloved finger, until he uncovered the handle of a silver paper knife. Not something a streetkeeper would own. “Is this the weapon that hurt you?”
Striker grunted and took a pull at the bottle, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Keating saw the crest on the handle of the knife and frowned, first shock, and then a worm of anger, sliding through his guts. He picked it up, making a fist around the elegant coat of arms. Bancroft. What was his knife doing in Striker’s leg? The Roth family kept turning up these days like an invasive weed.
“May I keep this?” he said, already sliding the knife into his pocket.
Striker’s lip curled. “Why not? I’ve got others. A knife’s a knife, and that’s not the sharpest. Did for me well enough, though. Gypsy bastard who had it was a professional.”
Interesting. What was Bancroft doing with a professional knife man? Or was this the work of bizarre coincidence? It was one more thing to follow up on. He watched Striker take another swig and decided to get down to business. “I have a job for you. There’s a man who needs killing.”
The streetkeeper glanced at his bandaged thigh. “How soon?”
“Now. The man’s name is Dr. Magnus. I expect he’ll be staying somewhere close at hand. He means to annoy me, and I won’t have it.”
“Give me another day or two and I’ll be back on my feet.”
“Get others and do it now. Use some of those interesting guns you’ve made. I know you have plenty stored at the dockyard.”
He’d only just arranged for Striker’s excess arsenal to be moved to a locked and guarded shed at a yard owned by Keating Utility. The streetkeeper had been stockpiling his lethal inventions in a seaman’s chest at the foot of his bed. Given the neighborhood’s reputation as a den of thieves and cutthroats, it was only a matter of time before the guns found their way into the worst possible hands. Peace of mind was worth the price of cutting a new key.
But at the mention of the dockyard, Striker flinched. He covered it quickly, but Keating caught it all the same. “What is it?”
“The Gypsy bastard took my key.”
Keating’s vision went white, the room disappearing for a beat. Then it was back, red-tinged with rage. “What?” He spat the word with such fury, the two grooms who had come with him backed away. They knew his temper.
Keating could barely breathe. The Harter Engine supplies were also in that locker, and much more. But that wasn’t the point. It was the disappointment. “That was careless, Striker.” This time it was a whisper. “I trusted you to guard my back. Do you understand me? I trusted you, and you let me down.”
Striker’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “I’ll get it back. I’ve got a thirst for payback. A terrible thirst, sir.”
Keating leaned in closer, smelling the stink of the man, but he didn’t recoil even when his lips nearly touched Striker’s ear. “Why am I just hearing about this now? Why didn’t you come and tell me right away?”
Striker’s gaze flicked his way, but didn’t hold his regard. “I couldn’t walk, sir.”
Keating swore softly. The street value of the supplies from Harter’s was incalculable. If the thief knew what he was about, the locker was already empty. Rogue power vendors sought to rob the steam barons at every turn—and every barber, baker, and candlestick maker wanted to pay the filth to do it. The only way to exert control was to ensure that nothing—no machine, no generator, no wind-driven device—would ever be built in the sheds and alleys of the city’s underbelly.
“That’s a poor showing for a man who is supposed to run my streets. You could have sent a note.”
“I never learned my letters. And I couldn’t send a runner, ’cause then they’d know my business.”
“Excuses.” And the delay meant that changing the padlock would be an afterthought at best. Still, he turned to one of his men. “Grimsby, get someone down there to check the shed. Get a new lock on it.”
With an air that verged on insolence, Striker pushed the bottle onto the table. It was empty. “My apologies, again, sir.”
The statement was as sincere as he was likely to get, but Keating felt as chill as January ditch water. Apologies meant nothing. They were an epilogue to carelessness.
“You’re lucky I let you live to say you’re sorry. Do you know what my father did to me when I failed as a boy?”
“No, sir.”
Keating ground his teeth a moment before he replied. “He would not permit me to eat until the fault was corrected. Oh, I was allowed at the table, and the food was set before me, but I was not to touch it. If I did, I would be beaten until my back was raw. So I learned to sit and smell my supper, and my mouth would water and my belly would cramp, but there would be no eating. Not until whatever sin I had committed was sponged away. And just to be sure I felt the full force of my shortcomings, my mother would not be allowed to eat, nor my brothers or sisters. We would endure together, if any one of us erred. Father was evenhanded that way.”
Keating looked into Striker’s eyes and saw nothing but a kind of dull curiosity. Whatever Keating’s lot had been, it was fair to say a brown-skinned bastard from the dockside had seen worse. That just made Keating angrier, his resentment gnawing from his groin to his throat.
“My father was a holy man,” he spat. “He dressed up his punishments in scripture. It was hard for a child to argue with chapter and verse.”
As he was speaking, Keating took a step away from his streetkeeper. It gave him the chance to find firm footing. When he struck, he put his weight behind a perfect left hook. Keating’s knuckles cracked against the side of Striker’s head with a meaty thud. And he was fast; too fast for the man to block the unexpected blow.
Striker sailed from the chair, sprawling facedown on the floor, sliding like a sack of meal through the grit.
Didn’t expect that from me, did you? Keating’s blood fizzed, the violence of the moment like a tonic. He flexed his throbbing hand, grimacing with pain and the beginnings of a smile. Sometimes blood is a better release than a whore. “You’ll get no sermons from me. I prefer to keep things simple.”
Striker rolled to his side, cradling his face in one hand. Keating’s groom moved forward, just in case he planned to fight back. Striker’s eyes had gone dark with murderous anger, but he stayed down.
Keating moved closer so that he stood with the man at his feet. He nudged him with a toe. “Sometimes dogs need a good beating. Now get up and start hunting.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“How do I look?” Imogen asked, executing a sharp turn so her train curled around her feet like an affectionate kitten.
“Lovely as always,” Evelina replied. “Every man in the place will faint dead away, overwhelmed by your astonishing beauty.”
Imogen made a face. “I’m not too pale for this color?”
“No. It suits you.”
Imogen wore a shell pink, a shade just off cream, the bodice embroidered with pale green and pink ros
es twining around a shimmering latticework of tiny brass gears. The style was called à l’automate, the latest mode since à la girafe and à l’égyptienne. There was no possibility anyone would mistake Imogen for an automaton, but the glittering effect was lovely.
“And why are you so particular about your toilette?” Evelina asked airily. “Have you set your cap at some fine young peer of the realm?”
Evelina had chosen a simpler dress in a shade of rose that set off her darker coloring. Imogen’s face flushed until she almost matched it. “No special reason.”
They linked arms, starting down the stairs. “Is Mr. Penner going to be in attendance?” Evelina asked, thinking of what she had seen as she had come out of the tea shop. Bucky had been kissing Imogen’s hand, and the look on her friend’s face had been anything but displeased.
But now Imogen was the picture of innocence. “I assure you I have no idea.”
Evelina let the matter drop, making up her mind to keep an eye on matters that evening.
The two girls had spent the afternoon getting ready for the Season; the presentation was only days away. Evelina had collected three new dresses she had ordered when she first got to London and, at her grandmamma’s insistence, ordered three more. The seamstress had also finished altering her mother’s presentation gown, and now that was spread out on the bed—too pretty to put away quite yet.
To be sure, there were many, many more important things to do than buy new clothes—such as find out who owned the warehouse where she had found the cube. There seemed to be no way of finding out without drawing attention to herself, which was the very last thing she wanted. In addition, a copy of Barrett’s Guide to the Mechanics of Ancient Europe sat on the desk, waiting for her to do some research on the mysterious cube—but she was only human. No young, bright woman on the threshold of life was immune to the fascination of a months-long orgy of parties, and there was something wonderful about seeing her name inscribed on so many invitations. She’d had to order more calling cards.
And, to be honest, the encounter in the warehouse had made her cautious. She had lost none of her determination to protect Imogen and her family, but whoever had kept the dragon would be scouring London for news of other adepts. And by returning Bird to her, Magnus had shown that he knew more about Evelina than she liked. She was no coward, but she had an increasingly sharp urge to dissolve into the crowd of innocent young debutantes and concern herself with nothing more than waltzes and bonnet ribbons and blessed security.
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