A Study in Silks (3 page)

Imogen couldn’t abide the dark. Evelina pushed open her friend’s door and stepped inside. The room was cool and spacious, a sitting room on one end and a large bed in an alcove at the other. Bed curtains of heavy sky-blue silk were looped back, framing Imogen where she sat propped against a mountain of snow-white pillows.

“Evelina!” she said. “What are you doing up and about at this hour? And why do you look like you rolled through a forest?”

Imogen’s fair hair hung in long, thick braids against the pin tucks of her nightdress. Her face looked pale, but part of that was her porcelain complexion.

“Dora said you couldn’t sleep.” Evelina set down her bag and candle and crossed to the bed. “Are you unwell?”

Her friend’s gray eyes searched the ceiling as if she expected to find poems scribed on the ornate plaster. “I had a nightmare,” she said flatly.

Evelina was silent for a long moment. Night terrors were a symptom of the nervous ailment that had plagued Imogen since she was no more than five or six years old. The illness came and went, until finally her parents had sent her to the Wollaston Academy for Young Ladies, hoping the good Devonshire air could achieve what the doctors could not. That was where Evelina had met her.

More to the point, that was where Imogen had taken her under her wing and given her the social advantage of her companionship. Though Evelina’s disgraced mother had tried to teach her how to act the lady, a lot of polishing had been
required, and Imogen had taken it on with a will. Evelina owed her a great deal for that, as well as for being a steadfast friend.

“You haven’t had one of your bad dreams for a long time.”

“No.” Imogen was still looking at the ceiling, seeming embarrassed. “It wasn’t the usual one about being trapped. This time I was dreaming about the castle in Vienna, where Papa was ambassador. I was floating through the tower. Flying, you know, like a feather on the breeze. I was terrified because I couldn’t find my way back to my bed.”

Vienna. Mention of it reminded Evelina of the trunks in the attic. She thought of asking Imogen if she knew about them, then discarded the idea. Her friend was already having nightmares without bringing up ugly automatons. “My grandmother says that dreams of old houses mean you’re trying to find a lost memory.”

“Your circus grandmother?” Imogen finally looked at Evelina.

“Yes, Grandmother Cooper. She knows what dreams mean. I don’t think Grandmamma Holmes would let such fancies through the door. She’d tell the footman to toss them out.”

Imogen chuckled. “I can see her doing it, too. You’re lucky, having two such different grandmothers. Mine are almost interchangeable.”

Of all Evelina’s acquaintance, Imogen was the only one who knew about Ploughman’s. The circus was all very fine to watch, but the gentry would never embrace someone who grew up with knife throwers and clowns. The first thing Evelina had been forced to learn when she joined the gentry was to hide her past.

“Do you know you have leaves in your hair?” Imogen asked. “Are you coming as a dryad to Mama’s garden party?”

Evelina felt through her tangled locks. “I had to climb a tree.”

“Indeed?” Imogen hitched herself a little higher on the sheets, a smirk curving her lips. She reached over to her
bedside table, picking up an ivory comb and handing it to Evelina. “I think you had better tell me all about it.”

“I did something foolish, and I’m sorry for it.” Evelina perched on the edge of the bed, pulling the pins out of her hair. “I was in the attic.”

“Working on—whatever it is you’re doing. I know you tried to explain it.”

“My toys. I’m indulging my unladylike penchant for gears and springs.”

“You wicked, wicked girl.” Imogen settled back against her pillows, clearly ready to be entertained.

“Fit for nothing but Newgate Prison.”

And she hadn’t even mentioned the magic part of it. Imogen knew a tiny bit about Evelina’s talent—it was impossible to hide such a gift from her very best friend, especially in the confines of the academy—but she had never told her everything. There were only so many secrets she could ask her friend to keep.

Evelina started to drag the comb through her locks, wincing as it snagged. “I was nearly caught by a couple of the servants. I crawled out the window to hide and ended up in the oak tree. I just about fell out.”

Imogen laughed—a hearty chuckle that had nothing to do with her delicate looks. “I wish I’d been there to see that!”

“I beg your pardon? It was most distressing!”

That only made Imogen laugh the harder, a healthier pink rising to her cheeks.

“I’m being serious.” Evelina frowned with mock severity.

Imogen gave her a scathing look. She looked brighter for the conversation, but shadows still smudged the skin under her eyes. She truly wasn’t well.

“I’m sorry for being so thoughtless,” Evelina said. “If I’d been caught, your father would have blamed you as much as me. I’m in this house at your invitation, and I have no right to risk its reputation, or yours.”

Imogen shook her head. “Your escapades don’t frighten me.”

“They should. I’ll land you in trouble yet.”

“I can look after myself.”

Evelina felt something tighten inside. At school, she’d been
the one who’d nursed Imogen when she fell ill. She’d been the guard dog when schoolroom bullies loomed. She still felt fiercely protective. “I should know better.”

“You can’t be anything but what you are.”

“And what is that?”

Her friend squinted in a considering way. “I’m not sure yet.”

“But you’re going to be brilliant, Imogen Roth. The belle of all London.”

Now that they had completed their education—an event slightly delayed because of Imogen’s illness and Evelina’s late start—this would be their first Season. Evelina had promised to be her companion through the balls and routs and the inevitable string of suitors—or at least as much as her modest place in the world would allow. A champion until death, Imogen had called her, although Evelina suspected her role would be short lived. Despite her health, Imogen was too beautiful to remain unmarried long.

As for Evelina—she doubted she would marry. At least not now. Unlike Imogen, she would not be presented to the queen—the seal of approval that granted worthy young women access to Society. Just before Easter, the summons had been sent to those young ladies deemed suitable for the honor, and Evelina had not received one. That limited which parties she would be invited to, and which young men she would have the chance to meet, and how far she could accompany Imogen. Even though her heart yearned to dance at the Duchess of Westlake’s ball, she would never set one slipper on that glorious polished oak floor. Grandmamma Holmes would give her a dowry, but nothing like what Lord Bancroft could bestow on his daughter. Barring a romance worthy of Sir Walter Scott, Evelina’s future lay in something other than a brilliant match.

Perversely, that bothered her less than missing out on the fun of the Season. It was hard to miss a man she would never meet, but she itched to go dancing. As it was, she would have to content herself with family gatherings, like Lady Bancroft’s birthday party, or improving occasions, like the opening of the Gold King’s show of ancient Greek
artifacts at the new Prometheus Gallery. All of the exclusive events, to which only the cream of Society was invited, she would have to experience from the sidelines.

The sense of passing time tugged at Evelina like a dull, persistent pain. She and Imogen had been inseparable for years. This would be the last few months before they went their separate ways into womanhood. No doubt Imogen would rise to a title. Evelina would … well, she had her plans.

Dora’s light step sounded in the passage. Evelina squeezed her friend’s hand. “Shall I stay with you tonight?”

“Stop playing the mother hen. It was just a dream. Nothing more.”

Evelina rose, picking up her things. “Then I had better go to bed myself. Sleep well.”

“Good night.”

Dora entered with the sleeping medication just as Evelina left. The maid bobbed a curtsey as she passed, but gave Evelina another assessing look. No doubt looking for twigs in her hair.

Still, Evelina hovered outside Imogen’s door, unease seeping through her flesh. For all her efforts to avoid getting caught in the attic, Dora had seen her wandering the house. Since Evelina had caught Dora kissing the second footman last Tuesday, the maid was unlikely to speak of her twiggy disgrace. Any good servant knew the value of a little quid pro quo. But what if she’d been found out by someone besides Dora? Someone with the authority to ask questions? Someone who knew what those little mechanical toys really represented?

Evelina stared into the candle flame, no longer bothering to hide its light. Naked, it flickered and dipped in the air currents, as exposed as she felt. She had to be more careful.

Imogen had opened the doors to her heart and her home, and offered it without reserve. But her friendship—the only one Evelina could truly claim—could not shield her if things went wrong. Lord Bancroft’s pretty daughter was only a young woman, with no power or money of her own.

So much hung by a thread. Evelina listened to the rattle of
the oak branch on the window, the quick patter making a counter-rhythm to the longcase clock. The sense of passing time did nothing to soothe her anxiety.

She heaved a quick breath, her chest too tight for a proper sigh. How on edge was she that a small incident could overset her?

Positive action was the only antidote to this mood. Her problems could wait. She would hide her box and then take her old place in the armchair by Imogen’s bed—just in case the nightmares returned. No one, especially not Imogen, should wake up alone and afraid.

She’d no sooner finished the thought than a flicker of shadow caught the corner of her eye. With the candle held aloft, she scanned the corridor.

No one was there. The only movement was her own reflection in a narrow mirror that hung outside Imogen’s door. Maybe that was what she had seen: the swing of her skirts. Forcing herself to breathe, Evelina strode toward her bedroom door.

The candle blew out, leaving her in utter blackness. Evelina stopped midstride, nerves straining. Someone passed by to her left, leaving a scent of sweat and brandy. She didn’t hear footsteps on the soft carpet, but felt the displacement of air—a light exhalation like the sound of a gloating smile.

Her skin shrank against her bones. Panic sent her skittering a few steps. “Who’s there?” she whispered.

But there was no reply, just the insistent
tap-tap
of the branches outside.

The silence shredded her nerves. She listened intently, straining every sense, but could detect no sound—no footfall, no whisper, no breath. Had the figure been going toward the stairs or away from them? She couldn’t tell.

She retraced her steps, finding her way back to Imogen’s door, but still she sensed nothing. At last, she decided it would be safe to leave for the time it would take to put her box away. The presence she had felt—if there had been one at all—was gone.

With one hand skimming the wall, she hurried to her door, groping to find the familiar shape of the handle. It rattled
open and she plunged inside. Moonlight streamed in the windows, giving the impression of a photograph. For a long moment, Evelina stood with her back to the door, one hand grasping the key that she used to lock herself in.

Had she been imagining things? Should she wake the footmen and have them search the house?

No, that would be awkward. And she hadn’t actually seen anyone. It was probably just Tobias, come home after a night of carousing.
Or a rampaging ghost. How mortifyingly Gothic
.

She allowed herself a wry smile. That had been no remnant of the dead. She knew spirits well enough—anyone with her gifts saw them once in a while. It had to be Tobias.

Her heart still pattered, but slowly the calm dignity of the guest room—the pale counterpane, the wardrobe painted in Italian scenes, and the heavy velvet curtains—had its effect. Finally relaxed enough to move, Evelina left her post by the door.

Still working by moonlight, she set the candlestick on the desk, then slid the box out of the bag and placed it carefully on the polished wood surface. The box was really a train case—one her Grandmamma Holmes had given her—covered in black leather and fitted with twin brass hasps.

The stern old lady would have an apoplexy if she knew what her gift concealed. Evelina studied the train case for a moment, her mind flicking from Imogen to her fright in the corridor.
Tobias. It must have been him
.

Sliding into her desk chair, she drew the candle closer, smelling the smoke from its extinguished wick. With gentle fingers, she touched the warm wax, noting the shape and texture of it, feeling the potential energy inside. She let her mind drift a moment, envisioning the bright veils of flame she desired.
Come
.

Light sprang back to the wick, flaring up a second before settling back to a normal flame. Evelina pushed the candle back, satisfied. Though the bloodlines that granted such magic were thin these days, she could call the essence of things: fire, water, perhaps the deva living in a stream or a tree.

And it was a power that could damn her. Science was the currency of the educated, monied, polite classes. With the rise of industry, magic—impossible to measure, regulate, or rule—was banned by Church and State, and especially by the steam barons who controlled so much with their vast wealth. Fortune-tellers and mediums were usually tolerated as amusing if immoral tricksters. Anyone claiming to use real power was subject to jail and probably execution or—if there was some suspicion they actually had the Blood—a trip to Her Majesty’s laboratories for testing.

The specter of the latter terrified her into nightmares at least as bad as her friend’s. When she’d read about the arrest of Nellie Reynolds, she had wept with fear. And yet, Reynolds was far from the first magic user put on trial even in the last twelve months. It was hard not to grow numb and, from there, resigned that someday it would be her standing in the dock.