Tobias picked up the bird, peering at its repaired wing. “Was there anything else you wished to say, Striker?
“No, sir.”
“You may go.”
“As you wish, sir.” The streetkeeper clapped his hat back on his head and started for the door, moving with a visible limp.
“Wait!” Evelina cried. Why didn’t Nick come?
Striker stopped, one brow lifting, a bit of a tease lurking somewhere behind his eyes.
Questions formed and dissolved in her mind. She didn’t know Striker, and wasn’t sure what was safe to ask. “I appreciate that you came. And tell Nick thank you from the bottom of my heart. I hope everything is all right with him.”
Striker’s mouth twitched, as if understanding far more than she would have liked. “I’ll do that, miss. And don’t you worry about him none.”
Evelina watched him go, then closed the sitting room door. It wasn’t proper to be alone with Tobias in a closed room, but nothing about this situation was normal.
He was still examining the creatures. “How did a streetkeeper come to have anything of yours?”
“I lost them. A friend found them.”
“This Nick person?” Tobias asked, a protective edge in his voice. Obviously, he’d missed nothing.
“Yes, Nick.” And where was the Indomitable Niccolo? Being told not to worry was the fast road to indigestion.
Tobias set the bird down with a guarded expression, but he had questions. They were almost visibly swarming around him. “You’re entitled to your secrets.”
He told me his, after all. Evelina drew a ragged breath, explanations and excuses crowding up in a rush, but she didn’t answer right away.
My secrets are even more dangerous to share. Striker’s connection to Nick meant that Evelina’s two worlds had unexpectedly intersected. Worse, her old love for Nick—hopeless, but reawakened—had collided with her fascination for Tobias. There was no good way to explore that mess with either one of her would-be suitors.
But the need to confess was almost a physical pain—to explain about her magic, about her fears, about what Magnus had wanted from her. If they were to succeed at all, there should be nothing between her and Tobias, nothing to hinder what was blooming into real affection. Magnus was gone. Surely, enough danger had passed to make confidences possible?
No. Caution held her back, at least from letting him all the way in. Still, she felt safe enough to give him something. “Nick is a childhood friend. He travels with Ploughman’s Circus.”
She felt sick the moment she said it, but there was no taking it back. Tobias’s gaze traveled the length of her, to her toes and back up again. She fought the urge to squirm in an agony of disappointment and defiance. Her knees trembled as the blood mounted to her face.
“And you?” he asked.
Her fingers twitched, wanting to make fists. “I spent time there as a girl. Imogen knows all about it, but you can understand why I never talk about it.”
“You think it appears too common.”
“I’m sure your father would say so. It’s enough that everyone knows my mother covered herself in scandal by eloping with a base-born soldier, even if he was made an officer in the field for bravery.”
“My father is sometimes an idiot.” He stepped closer, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You’re unconventional, Evelina. I’ve always known you came from someplace different, and it doesn’t surprise me that it was a circus. You’re lighter than air when you move.”
She swallowed hard, unable to answer.
He bent his head so his face was close to hers. “Remember, I saw you when you first arrived at Imogen’s school. You were out of your element then, but you aren’t now. My parents already know your mother had an uneven history—this won’t matter to them as much as you think.”
He was wrong. She had to say it plainly, though she could not help ducking to hide her eyes. “Your father will never let you court me.”
He lifted her chin with his finger. “I can wave my father’s title out the window and a dozen perfect girls will come running. You, by contrast, always have me asking who I’m trying to fool. I’m smart enough to know to whom I should pay attention.”
The shock of confession was receding, to be replaced by surprise that he was accepting it. Then she realized that they were standing very close, mere inches apart. Scandalously close. Her pulse quickened.
“Who are you trying to fool, Tobias?” she asked gently. “I grew up at the circus. I learned to dance on a rope and fly on the trapeze. You’re going to be Bancroft one day and sit in the House of Lords.”
His eyebrow lifted. “A trapeze? That does conjure some fascinating imagery.”
“Think, Tobias!” She took a step back, needing the space.
“I have.” He sobered, looking weary, and closed the distance she’d just made. “I don’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps, however comfortable that might be. I don’t want to be a steam baron’s pet. I want to be my own man. And I don’t say that casually. There will be difficulties. I had hoped Magnus would support me while I struck out on my own. Sadly, I was wrong—more wrong than I care to say.”
She thought about his mood at the dance, and wondered if Magnus was the cause. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “Perhaps it is a lesson. Independence doesn’t come easily, not when one has enjoyed the privileges of rank. It would be simpler if I were a plain tradesman, or a lawyer, or a doctor, but I’m not.”
“And your plan?”
He sighed. “I shall manufacture an immense amount of character in record time?”
“And what if your father’s plan is to marry you to an heiress?”
“I knew I could count on you for the practical question.”
“I’m a bore that way.” Still, she waited for the answer. The sun was streaming in, painting the room with a wash of honeyed gold.
He smiled wanly. “There is only one thing I can do: build. Surely that is of value to someone.”
“I could applaud a man who builds.”
Tobias’s smile vanished. “Could you love him?”
It was a cautious question, a foot set gingerly on a newly frozen pond. The power of it weighed on her; he had laid himself bare. Her mouth went dry as she searched his face. Her emotions were a bonfire, but her mind was alert, weighing everything. I could love him. In time, I think I could build a future with him.
He was handsome, as he had always been, but she saw the harder lines beneath the prettiness now. There were the beginnings of maturity in his expression, and she liked what she was hearing. He wanted something different. She was different. If she could let go of the past, it might, just might, work.
“I could,” she answered, barely above a whisper. “Building means something.”
She had come so far, making it into her first Season. She had done the presentation and her first ball. But this was the first moment that felt like it belonged to the real Evelina, not just Evelina the debutante, the woman her Grandmamma Holmes had done her best to invent. Tobias wanted her, not just the ideal of a well-trained Society girl.
“I’m glad,” he said, taking her hands. “Making is good. Making a life with you will be even better.”
With that, Tobias leaned down that last inch, pressing his warm mouth over hers. Evelina’s mind went hazy, all her critical faculties melting like snow on a hot stove. He smelled of soap and the linen of his shirt. Her fingers instinctively sought out his face, tracing the clean line of his jaw and lean, freshly shaved cheeks.
And then he deepened the kiss, and a shiver ran through her, sending an electric pulse that melted her core. She arched into it, letting him run his hand over the side of her ribs, down the curve of her waist. Her breasts crushed against him, deliciously sensitive. It was as if her whole body were suddenly awake.
When they broke the kiss, she was panting like she’d run a mile. There were no devas or silver lights, but his kiss was definitely magic.
<
br /> His grin was pure wickedness, as if the shadow on his spirits had been lifted. “Testing out your investigative skills?”
For a moment, she couldn’t form words. She thought she might need to lie down. “Are you a mystery that needs solving?”
“Perhaps I’m simply a crime about to be perpetrated.”
That seemed all too likely. He’d scrambled her wits to custard. “Then perhaps I shall call Inspector Lestrade for an arrest.”
Tobias squeezed her hands, his grin turning a little rueful. “A spell in the lockup might do me good. I have some plans to make.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner.
—Sherlock Holmes, as recorded by John H. Watson, M.D., The Sign of the Four
Evelina had locked herself in her room, disgusted with herself. She had spent the last hour elated, and then agonizing over what seemed to be the next best thing to a formal proposal. And then elated again. How she managed to be shocked and riven and desperately buoyant all at once was boggling. No wonder so much paper was covered with love poetry. People were just trying to make sense of the turmoil of emotion.
Young men were extremely complicated creatures. The Duchess of Westlake had compared them to ships. She didn’t know much about the sea, but Tobias would have been something beautifully crafted and elegant with lots of white sails—the meeting place of tradition and innovation. Evelina turned the image around in her head, wondering where she fit into that metaphor without it sounding rude.
Nick, on the other hand, would have been a sleek pirate ship. He already had the gold rings in his ears.
Speaking of unfathomable young men, now there was this Striker, who—according to Mouse and Bird—began as Nick’s foe and ended up his comrade in arms.
Nick and Striker had killed Magnus together—one saving the other’s life and then vice versa—drunk an enormous amount of Blue Ruin, ogled over some airship plans Nick had accidentally stolen from Magnus in an attempt to pack his bleeding wounds, and then ended up visiting a surgeon when it became absolutely clear Nick required proper medical attention, which the Gold King’s streetkeeper could command for his Yellowbacks at will. Keating at least did something for his people.
In the end, everyone was fine—except Magnus.
And how do I feel about any of that? Happy that Mouse and Bird were back. Ecstatic that Nick would be all right. Relieved that Magnus was gone. Gratitude—enormous gratitude—to Nick for seeing it done.
And yet? Loss yawned inside her and unexpected tears dimmed her sight. Magnus had known what she was. He could have told her much, although probably for a price she would never willingly pay. He had threatened her, stolen from her, and tried to seduce her. Still, knowledge and life were never lightly lost.
She gave a shuddering sigh. In contrast, the logic of gear and spring was soothing.
The gimcrack bird stood on the edge of her train case, pecking at the screws and wheels as if they were seeds.
She’d had to rework some of Striker’s repairs, but most were as good as she could have managed without a complete recasting of the brass. The patches gave Bird a rakish air a bit like Striker himself. Mouse had been nowhere as badly damaged, but had experienced a rough ride during Dr. Magnus’s last stand.
Evelina polished a scratch out of Mouse’s belly.
I don’t know why you’re bothering with that—thing, Bird complained.
“Don’t you want a friend?” she asked.
What do I have in common with a rodent?
As part of the repair, she’d tipped the little paws in velvet so that its scampering would be utterly silent. Now they waggled in the air as she rubbed.
“You can complain about brass cats.”
Mouse piped up. And after that extensive conversation, perhaps we can move on to the cricket scores? How am I supposed to work with something that but for the grace of the gods might have been an omelet?
“You’re both just jealous. You want to be the only living mechanical device.”
Nonsense, Bird replied stiffly.
I am unique, huffed Mouse.
“That you are,” she replied dryly, still rubbing at the scratch.
I protest this illogical servitude, Mouse complained.
“Yet you do seem to like sneaking about.” She set down the cloth. “I might go so far as to say you relish it.”
It has a certain sensationalist interest.
Evelina pulled off her magnifying lenses. “If you really want to go, I won’t make you stay, but then you won’t get to find out how the case ends.”
They were both silent.
“I’m serious. In his own way, Magnus tried to catch me like I caught you, and I didn’t like it. I don’t want to do that to anyone else.”
Bird hopped from the train case to the desk, feet skidding on the smooth surface. We’ll let you know. Which seemed to say complaining was more fun than actually getting their way.
Evelina could feel another presence prodding her consciousness. The cube reminded her of a cat wanting to be stroked, the gentle tap-tapping of a paw to get her attention.
She’d hidden the cube at the back of her wardrobe, but brought it out when she was sitting in her room. It seemed to like the company, even though the other devas couldn’t understand it any better than she could. No amount of scrubbing had made the thing attractive. It was still a rusty mass of partially melted gears and wheels, but the intelligence inside it was so much more.
It perched on the corner of the desk. Mouse had climbed it, and was cleaning its whiskers of metal polish. She touched the cube’s surface with her fingertips, feeling the pitted roughness of the cool metal. In return, it reached out to her mind, gentle and almost adoring. There was something feminine about it, almost maternal.
“What are you?” Evelina whispered. “What do you need?”
An answer came, the voice clear and firm in her head, but it was in no language she knew. She’d never thought about the fact that nature spirits spoke different tongues—or perhaps there was another reason they couldn’t understand one another. Devas spoke to those of the Blood, but Gran Cooper said that in the old days there were many different tribes, and each had different talents and an affinity for different types of deva. That seemed to make sense. Over the years, Evelina had talked to one or two air spirits, but hundreds of devas of earth and plant and tree.
Of course, none of that helped her now. “I don’t understand.”
The voice came again, husky and sweet but vibrant with urgency. It pulled at her heartstrings. It wanted her to understand—something. Tired as she was, tears of frustration pricked Evelina’s eyes.
“I wish I could help.”
Helen.
Evelina started. “What did you call me?”
Helen? The second time sounded hopeful. It wasn’t much, but it was a speck of real communication. It was also the same name that Dr. Magnus had used at the ball.
And he had told her about Athena’s Casket at the ball, and hinted that it combined magic and machine. She stared at the cube, wondering who had tossed it among the junk in the warehouse. Someone with no ability to hear devas talk. A careless worker? Definitely someone who was blind to anything that did not glitter. If the cube were shiny and gold, I would wonder if this was the object everyone was hunting for. But if I’m right, and some of Keating’s treasures were stolen and melted down, the story might be quite different. Is this all that remains of the casket?
The idea was staggering. She grabbed the edge of her desk, as if contact with the hard edges would keep her from floating off into wild speculation. I must go slowly here, and not jump to conclusions!
A knock on her bedroom door shattered her thoughts.
Evelina grabbed Bird and stuffed it into the pocket of her skirt, stifling its indignant peeps. She dropped Mouse into the train case, slammed the lid, and picked up the watch she was pretending to r
epair. As an afterthought, she tossed a doily onto the cube. The effect was odd, but the best she could do at a moment’s notice.
“Come in!” she called out, turning around so that her back was to her desk.
Imogen put her head around the corner of the door. “Your uncle has arrived.”
“It’s about time.” Evelina shook out her skirts and hurried after her friend.
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, stood in the front hall of Hilliard House, somehow occupying every square inch of the space without moving a muscle. Tall and wiry, he looked enviably at ease in a light summer coat, as if he had just happened by after a stroll.
Evelina’s step hitched. Though he was impeccably turned out, dark circles bagged under his eyes, as if he’d been up for the past three weeks. What had he been working on? Something to do with Bohemia?
“Lord Bancroft is not at home, sir,” Bigelow intoned.
“I did not ask to see Lord Bancroft,” Holmes said evenly. “I came to inquire after my niece.”
“Here I am, Uncle.” Evelina stopped and dropped a slight curtsy. If it had been Dr. Watson, there would have been hugs and smiles, but Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the type of man one automatically embraced.
“I stopped to see your grandmother on the way back from the Continent.” Holmes doffed his tall hat. “She is much better. I believe news of your success at the palace was the best tonic available.” He said it dryly, but not unkindly. “During the course of the conversation, I established that she knows every dress regulation and step of the procedure by rote.”
They exchanged a wry smile, sharing volumes of commiseration without speaking a word. “It’s a fine day. Shall we take a stroll?” he asked. “I believe there is much of interest to review.”
Five minutes later, Evelina walked down the street, hurrying to match Holmes’s long stride. They were making a circuit of the round garden that graced the middle of Beaulieu Square. “I stopped by here specifically because Lestrade wrote me a letter,” he said. “I understand three of Lord Bancroft’s servants have been murdered. I vacillated between utter confidence that you could manage anything and anxiety that a knife-wielding maniac was stalking the halls. Then I wondered why no one else had bothered to inform me.” He awarded her a sour look.
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