A Study in Silks tba-1

by Emma Jane Holloway

  “You must believe me. Whoever intimated that there is a missing article is quite mistaken.”

  “Mad, perhaps,” her father conceded. “But he has never been careless about his facts. In any event, this is not a conversation for tonight.”

  And her father walked away, leaving Imogen with an intriguing—and disturbing—scrap of information. She casually glanced in the direction of the other speaker, appearing to look for someone else. Harriman! That was his name. Despite his connection to the Gold King, he was a nobody. What would Father be doing with a man like that?

  Whatever it was had to do with a warehouse and crates—Harriman’s warehouse, apparently—and one of her father’s schemes. Cold terror prickled up her arms. She had long been aware—probably far more than Tobias—that Lord Bancroft always had his fingers in a dozen problematic pies. That was the fate of a girl with some intelligence who was forced to be quiet and polite and part of the furniture. One learned far more than was appetizing.

  Now a thousand details came flooding back. Harriman had come to the house about four days ago, slipping in to see her father and slipping out again without the usual stay-for-tea sociability a home visit implied. Were Harriman and her father involved with the boxes she’d seen in the warehouse? The blood on the floor? Grace Child’s death? Imogen suddenly felt weak, the taste of the sherry sickly and cloying on her tongue. Dear God, what if he’s guilty of something?

  Evelina had said the next step in the investigation was to find out who the warehouse and those crates belonged to. Those crates were for Harriman’s cousin, the Gold King. And her father seemed to think Harriman was responsible for an object going missing. Lord Bancroft had instructed Harriman to return some crates. Return them from where? And why? And do I tell Evelina?

  The question hit her like a physical pain. Her first instinct was to share everything she had just heard, but caution brought her up short. It was one thing to hunt down a killer, believing it would clear Tobias from suspicion. It was another when the murderer might be your father.

  Ridiculous! She pushed the idea away vehemently. That can’t be true. I won’t have it. Her father was a schemer, but that was all. The best thing she could do was forget she ever overheard him talking. That was the problem with eavesdropping—it was too easy to get the wrong end of the stick. Imogen trembled, caught between what her mind knew and what her heart was willing to accept.

  “Miss Roth?”

  She jumped so violently that her sherry nearly spilled down the front of her dress. “Mr. Penner!”

  “I interrupted your thoughts.” He regarded her with steady brown eyes.

  “They weren’t very good ones.” She guessed that he’d watched her all evening, weighing every nuance in her attitude toward him. It had made her jumpy until now—but after the incident with her father, she didn’t have the energy to edit every twitch of her eyelash. “I would welcome some distraction.”

  His mouth quirked. “I’m pleased to have some useful function.”

  “I seem to have lost mine.” She cleared her throat. “There is no teapot nearby for me to guard.”

  They stared at one another for a moment. Imogen grew increasingly uncomfortable, unsure what to say. Her mind groped for subject matter—the weather, the liveliness of the guests, the handsome brocade of his waistcoat. It all seemed boring enough to make anyone scream and run away, and she wanted him close right then.

  “How fare your sisters?” He had three—one older, two younger. She’d visited with them last summer.

  “They flourish,” he said with a polite nod. “Noisily and with gusto. How is Poppy?”

  “She is well and remains with her grandparents at Horne Hill.”

  “In Devonshire?”

  “Yes.” Miraculously, Imogen’s shoulders were starting to unknot, although part of her mind was still occupied with her father’s discussion with Harriman. “I trust in another year or two Poppy will recover from the catapult trauma.”

  “Ah,” Bucky looked away. “Well, it was the season for plums, and my father had just given me a book of da Vinci’s designs.”

  “A parent should know better,” Imogen said with mock severity. The Plum Affair was the outrage of several harvests ago, but she never tired of teasing him about it.

  He smiled at the memory, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “On the contrary, Miss Roth. My father makes guns for a living. The idea of his son and heir shooting at things is hardly a source of parental concern.”

  The Penners might have been—as her father put it—common as turnips, but their large weapons manufactories in Yorkshire had turned a tidy profit for the last three generations. “I suppose the future magnate has to learn his marksmanship somewhere, although Poppy is still a trifle disturbed by your efforts. She regards fresh fruit with the utmost suspicion.”

  He made a dismissive sound. “I was determined to hit every pane of glass in her bedroom window. There were fourteen, as I recall. Excellent target practice, but it was only for one afternoon. She will recover.”

  “Are you as rotten to your own sisters?”

  “Rotten?” he grinned. “Such attentions are the highest mark of my regard.”

  Imogen cocked an eyebrow. “It must be extremely sincere regard, to sacrifice so many wormy plums.”

  Then he bowed, all courtly courtesy. “Where it concerns ladies I regard as diamonds of the highest water, I would far rather shower them with more appealing attentions.”

  Imogen felt herself flushing and turned away to set her sherry glass on the tray of a passing servant. “Ah, of course. Your father also has some breweries, I think?”

  He laughed at that, a hearty sound that made her grin in response. She simply couldn’t help it. “That is very true, Miss Roth, and I do prefer my father’s beer to my father’s weapons. But before that statement causes your concern, I promise to spare you a bath of good Yorkshire ale.”

  “That is a relief.”

  He then gave her a look that still held mischief, but of a much more adult kind. “I trust that you will not object to attentions of a dryer nature.”

  “They may be dry,” she returned, “but is that the extent of their wholesome qualities? A lady in this day and age must be careful that there is no rotten fruit involved.” In other words, Bucky Penner, what are you up to?

  Bucky took her hand, bowing over it with all the grace of Sir Walter Raleigh making obeisance to the queen. “My lady, you may rely that my every intention is earnest and honorable, and entirely fruit-free.”

  Imogen sucked in a breath as his lips touched her gloved fingers. This was as serious as she’d ever seen him, and his manner said far more than his words. So he does want to court me!

  Something in her chest gave a tiny pang, and she realized what made Bucky different from the other young men who begged for a dance or a chance to turn pages while she played the piano. Like Evelina, Bucky had spent a good deal of time at their house for years. They had jokes that spanned years. She was the girl who always had to have her toast slightly burned. He was the boy always up to messy mischief. Who they were formed part of the equation between them, not just how much of a fortune she had to offer.

  Bucky straightened, his eyes meeting hers with unusual seriousness. With the lightness of a swift’s shadow, an understanding passed between them that something had turned a corner. They agreed to share more than banter now.

  And then Percy Hamilton’s voice cut through the air, shattering the moment. “Disconnect me! There you are, Miss Roth!”

  Blast. And in that moment, her other anxieties came tumbling back down on her soul—her father, the murder, the steam barons—all summoned by Percy’s shrill voice. Beneath that discomfort was the fearful certainty that she would be sold to whoever could do the most for her father’s career.

  As if reading her need for reassurance, Bucky gave her hand a squeeze.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Evelina had spent the last half hour pretending everything was nor
mal. Guests had come and gone from the room, each arrival making her start, afraid it would be Magnus. Her first instinct was to plead a headache and slip from the gathering, but the crowd made her feel safer. Besides, giving in to abject cowardice was a bad way to begin the Season.

  Courage was sometimes the only meaningful weapon. Back at the Wollaston Academy, on that first day of school, the headmistress had made her stand on a stool at the front of the class while she was introduced, stiff and awkward in ringlets and petticoats. One look at the sea of spiteful faces, and she knew she would never fit in. They’d take her down like a doe among wolves at the first sign of weakness. Only Imogen had shown the least curiosity about who Evelina was. School did prepare a young person for life, but never in the ways parents expected.

  So Evelina smiled and made light conversation, determined to look bright and happy. A champagne fountain appeared, wheeled in by two of the footmen. Evelina wasn’t sure it was quite a success. The pump was steam operated, the heat melted the ice too quickly, and a few of the guests complained behind their hands that the wine was a shade too warm.

  “I just don’t think these new inventions are the thing. I mean, certainly the trains are efficient and industry finds them useful, but steam has no part in a gentleman’s home,” said a whiskered man named Sir Darius Thorne.

  “I rather like the novelty,” protested another. “Something new. Tradition can stand to be shaken up a bit from time to time.”

  “Tradition might be dull, but it is seldom smelly, noisy, and greasy, not to mention vulgar.”

  “You should come ’round to my in-laws at Christmas dinner. They might prove you wrong about that. Nevertheless, I’d watch what you say. With talk of the gentry joining the rebels, it’s best to love steam and all its workings, at least in public.”

  She edged around the room, looking for someone she wanted to talk to. She thought she’d seen Alice Keating’s red head go by. Unfortunately, she got stuck in a crush near the doorway before she could find the Gold King’s daughter.

  There was a conversation going on behind her. “Did you hear the Reynolds trial is set for next week?” asked a basso voice that sounded like a human tuba.

  “That was fast,” someone responded in a light tenor.

  “They don’t expect it to last more than a day or two. They’re already clearing the prison courtyard for the pyre.”

  “I hope it lights faster than the last one.”

  “You mean the sorcerer from the boys’ school?”

  “I paid good money to get in to see that, and the man died of smoke before we got to see him burn.”

  Agitated, Evelina inched back the way she had come, nearly locking bustles with Lady Liverton. When the clockwork trolley bearing drinks rattled by, she took a glass of sherry to fortify herself. There were just too many people in the room.

  She’d just sipped the sweet liquid when a fat, jolly laugh sounded behind her. She turned to see the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police chatting amiably with Jasper Keating. No wonder Uncle Sherlock is sometimes wary of the police force. They’re cozy with the steam barons.

  “It was the damnedest thing,” the commissioner was saying. “At least half a dozen bodies found in pieces yesterday, washed up by the tides. So sorry they turned out to be your cousin’s Chinamen. Damned inconvenient to lose a whole set. Some sort of tribal war, I suppose. Can’t get anything out of that bunch. Can’t understand a word they say. Some babble about a dragon. Their kingpin, perhaps?”

  “They’ve been smoking their own opium.” Keating sounded put upon. “Harriman will have to hire a fresh crew. I’ll tell him to make them local boys this time.”

  Chill horror drove the warmth of the sherry from her stomach. Evelina bit her lip, recalling the blood Imogen had seen on the floor of the warehouse and the Chinese tailors who worked in the area. Dragon? Bodies? There hadn’t been anything in the papers, but then the death of foreigners, however gruesome, never seemed to count as much as someone like the Gray King.

  She didn’t have time to think further. With a sudden start, she saw Dr. Magnus bowing over Alice Keating’s hand, giving the red-haired girl a lingering look that seemed more scientific curiosity than male appreciation.

  Evelina calculated the distance to the door, but before she could react, he had seen her. His tall, dark form was coming her way, the force of his personality preceeding him like a wave. Evelina braced herself.

  “My dear Miss Cooper, well met.” He bowed low, his dark eyes crinkling pleasantly. “I was hoping we would meet again. Our acquaintance has so far been limited to passing in doorways.”

  “No, we’ve not been properly introduced.”

  “I know such things are properly done by a mutual acquaintance, but they all appear to be having a splendid time elsewhere. I am Dr. Magnus, an old friend of the Roth family.”

  He stood so close that she could feel power radiating from him. Evelina looked him in the eye, doing her best to hide the fact that she felt the prickle of his magic against her skin. It wasn’t a clean, bright power, but dark and somehow oily.

  She was tongue-tied for a long moment, and then gave in to her impulse to come to the point. If he was as dangerous as she surmised, games were useless. “I understand you are the one who found my toy bird. I’m extremely grateful for its return.”

  He gave a long, slow smile. “It was my pleasure to be of service.”

  “How did you know it was mine?” She supposed that it was the feel of her magic that had given her away, but she was interested in his answer.

  He flashed white teeth. “I have my means, which shall hopefully be made plain as the evening progresses. I do believe we are being called to dinner. Shall we?” He offered Evelina his arm.

  She didn’t want to be near him a moment longer, but it would have been the height of rudeness to refuse. Gingerly, she slipped her gloved hand over his sleeve and let herself be led into the dining room. She heard Imogen’s laugh somewhere ahead, and wished she had stayed close to her friend, even if Imogen had been dogged by Stanford Whitlock and Captain Smythe all evening. The captain had nearly poured champagne down his front when Imogen had smiled in his direction—although that smile might have been meant for Bucky, who was standing directly behind him at the time. It seemed Imogen and Bucky hadn’t been more than a dozen feet apart all night. If there had been any doubt that something was going on between the two, it had been dispelled in Evelina’s mind.

  And she felt just as overset as Smythe, but for quite different reasons. Dr. Magnus had a hungry look that reminded her of one of Ploughman’s tigers.

  The room was large and elegant, the gaslights softened to cast a gentle glow on the glittering company. The table decorations were tastefully simple arrangements of spring blossoms set into chalices of silver. Footmen glided to and fro, all efficiency in their white gloves and stony faces. Evelina found her place card, done in Lady Bancroft’s elegant hand.

  With a twist of anxiety, she discovered it was next to her escort’s. She swallowed hard, barely resisting the urge to tear up the offending scrap of paper. Dr. Magnus wanted a conversation with her, and she guessed he left nothing to chance. In some men it would be endearing, but after the bird in the bakery box, it was creepy.

  “Are you going to sit, Miss Cooper?” he asked in a faintly mocking tone.

  She didn’t like to be toyed with. Evelina’s vision blackened around the edges, anger and the tight lacing of her stays strangling her. She took a step back from the table.

  Magnus raised an eyebrow. The room was filling with guests, the light shimmering on jewels and silks. A babble filled Evelina’s ears like a spring stream, making it hard to think. If she caused a scene, she would never find the nerve to return. Courage. He’s just another bully to be faced down. Evelina swallowed down her discomfort and settled into her chair.

  The evening did not immediately improve. The first course was a chilled green soup the color of pond scum. There was no way it would pass her lip
s, so she had to look busy or get dragged into a chat with the doctor. She tried talking to the man on her left, but he was a banker who had no idea what to say to young ladies.

  Bored, she looked around the table. Lord Bancroft had the flush of a man who had been drinking steadily. To his right was the Gold King. Despite their smiles, the air between them sparked with tension. If there had been any other option, Bancroft would clearly have tossed his guest into the street.

  Both men were older, proud, and perfectly dressed, but there the resemblance ended. Where Keating was hard and clean-edged as steel, Bancroft was old stone, porous, and crumbling, his features blurring as time and drink had their way. Mind you, there was nothing indistinct about his bad temper that night. Lord B was watching Magnus with a look akin to hatred.

  Keating’s perusal of Tobias reminded her of a scientist scrutinizing a new form of algae. Tobias appeared to be doing his best to entertain Keating’s red-haired daughter, but she could tell it was just good manners. He was restless and trying to hide it, while poor Alice was making every effort to charm him. Evelina felt a pang of dislike that had nothing to do with Alice herself and everything to do with her proximity to Tobias.

  Seeing Evelina unoccupied, Magnus moved in like a polite shark. “To answer your earlier question,” he said in a quiet voice, clearly meant for her ears only, “my first clue about your bird was easily obtained from the vibrations left on the metal it was made of. I think you and I recognize each other for what we are.”

  She remembered Bird saying that Magnus had caught her scent. So it’s true. Magic users can tell each other’s traces apart. She’d never known enough practitioners to test the theory.

  He smiled gently. “I am a mesmerist by profession, but we share an interest in imaginative mechanics.”

  She wondered just how imaginative he meant. Up to and including bringing them to life? She struggled to find polite words. “Is that so?”

  “How were you introduced to the subject?”