A Study in Silks (34 page)

Han made a growl like a Rottweiler. The congealing smoke twined up his legs, a slow, sensual caress. The huge man stepped forward, as graceful as he was massive, and reached for Bancroft. An image of the bloodstained floor upstairs flashed through Bancroft’s brain.

Bancroft groped for the Enfield, slapped and fumbled for the butt beneath his coat, got tangled in his watch chain, and finally discovered it under his hip. He rolled as Han’s paw clutched the back of his coat, pinning him for a second, but Bancroft kicked out, twisting hard enough to rip the seams that held the fabric together. The motion brought him directly under the man’s ugly face. Bancroft drew the Enfield, cocked it, and fired. The sound blared against the stone walls, echoing as if a dozen charges fired. A small, round hole appeared on Han’s forehead. Brains and skull spewed into the air behind him. Bancroft squirmed out of the way just in time to avoid the crushing fall of Han’s body.

Something screamed, long and fierce. Bancroft staggered to his feet with a grunt, feeling every bone and muscle in searing detail. He clutched his weapon and swept the muzzle in an arc, aiming toward one corner, then another, but the shadows were fading, seeping back into the stone and fetid air. He realized he was breathing too fast, and forced himself to slow. He was shivering, his gut cramping with fear, but the crisis was past.
I lived
.

A quick look down told him Han wouldn’t be getting up again—not without the back of his head. For good or ill, Harriman would fight another day. After pawing the ground a moment, the man hauled himself to his knees with a moan. “Is it over?”

“Yes.”

“That was fast.”

Bancroft grimaced as he felt his shoulder protest. He picked up his hat, which had rolled into a puddle of shadow. “It doesn’t take long to die from a bullet to the face. Your detail is taken care of, it seems.”

Harriman didn’t answer at once, but licked his lips. “The shadow beast will be back. Han set it to guard the warehouse.”

“Han is dead.”

“But it is not. It will still guard what it believes belonged to its master.”

Bancroft’s skin crawled and he took an involuntary step back from Harriman. “You’re a fool to dabble in magic. Sooner or later, it turns on you.”

Harriman let his head drop forward. “How is that different from the rest of our existence?”

Bancroft snorted. “Courage, man. So far you have made everyone else do your murdering for you. That’s a sign of talent even your cousin could be proud of.”

Harriman straightened, annoyance on his face. Then he took one look at the ruin of Han Zuiweng and heaved out his guts. Determined not to leave without the gold, Bancroft left him to it and set about searching the broken cell. He turned everything over, using his boot to topple the heap of stinking rags and cursing as fleas jumped in every direction. By the time he emerged empty-handed, Harriman was upright and bracing himself against the wall.

“Where is my gold?” he demanded.

“If it’s not there, Han took it. If he took it, he put it with the rest of his things.” Harriman’s voice was weary.

“And where are they?”

The man turned to look at the endless shadows that stretched under the streets. “He was a secretive bastard. He kept his lair somewhere out there, which means it’s as good as lost. There are miles of tunnels, and very few of them are empty, if you take my meaning.”

Fury burned like acid. Bancroft launched himself at Harriman, smashing his fist into the man’s jaw. Harriman reeled, the back of his head smacking the wall. He slid down until he sat on the floor, knees crooked awkwardly before him.

Pain shot up Bancroft’s arm, sharp as a sword, but it cleared his head. He pulled the Enfield, pressing it to Harriman’s forehead. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

The man shook. “I’ll pay you everything. I swear.”

“How? You’ve killed all your workmen.”

Tears flooded Harriman’s eyes, snot glistening on his
upper lip. “But Jasper doesn’t know. I’ve fooled him once. I can do it again.”

“You’ve seen what I can do if you fail me. I need money. I need it fast.”

Harriman nodded frantically.

Bancroft weighed his decision. He’d killed one man already tonight, and he had no taste for killing another—but that was the least of his considerations. Letting Harriman go was a risk. The man was weak and treacherous. But if he killed him now, there would be no chance of recouping one shilling of his loss. And there was some appeal to having a pet viper so close to the Gold King.
I’m so far on the edge now, what is one more throw of the dice?

Bancroft put the gun away. “I’m leaving.”

Perhaps it was the look on his face, but this time Harriman didn’t argue.

BANCROFT LEFT THE
way he had come, turning back onto Bond Street and toward home. The rain had stopped, but mist was creeping between the buildings, reminding him uncomfortably of the shadow beast. As he had left, Harriman had been weeping at the prospect of cutting up the body and dragging it to the underground river, but Bancroft had been unmoved. If Harriman was going to cheat his cousin, he was going to have to develop a backbone. That was the way of secret wars. Every player had to learn the lesson of consequences, and tonight was Harriman’s turn.

As Bancroft walked, he fingered the empty space in his pocket. There should have been gold there. Some would have gone to repairing his personal fortunes, but most had been earmarked for his private projects—the many irons in the fire he had organized and funded in hopes of crushing Jasper Keating and the other steam barons. The schemes that would buy him a place in the shadow government. Someday Lord Bancroft would rise, stepping on the rubble of their industrial juggernauts to accept the wealth and titles due to a savior of the Empire. Counselor to the queen, perhaps. Prime minister?

Bancroft allowed himself a dry smile, amused by his own fantasies—but no one ever made great strides by dreaming modestly. He had been born a second son—heir to nothing—and had dreamed his way into a title and lands. He had married the daughter of an earl. Was there a reason he shouldn’t be victor in the struggle against a handful of shopkeepers-turned-thugs?

The only constraint was that his fight had to be invisible—and there was his own lesson in consequences. He had been too public with the Harter’s affair, and now his whole family was paying the price, with the lights off and their future hanging by a thread. Adele and the children were right at the core of his tangled motivations, and he knew with bitter certainty that he had let them down with that mistake. Bancroft had to fix matters and see that they stayed fixed—and, among other considerations, that meant ensuring that Evelina Cooper and her detective uncle kept out of his affairs.

Bancroft’s path took him south. Ahead, he saw a crush of carriages that meant someone—Lord Hansby, by the address—was having a party. Bancroft crossed the street to avoid meeting the throng crowding the sidewalk, and took a quick glance over his person to check for unwanted pieces of Big Han. He was rumpled, but relatively clean. There was nothing he could do about the rip in his shoulder seam, though, or the fact that every joint throbbed from the struggle.

His attention was caught by a figure waiting in the golden glow of a light standard just ahead.
Keating. Speak of the devil and he shall come
. Keating’s head turned and he straightened. It was clear the man had seen him, so Bancroft approached. There was no point in hiding.

Keating was wrapped in a cape of soft black wool. His eyes, always a peculiar shade of amber, looked yellow in the gaslight. They slid over him in a quick, dismissive glance, as if he was hardly worth looking at. “Enjoying the night air, Bancroft?”

Bancroft forced a smile to his lips, thinking again about
his empty pocket. “Just out for a stroll after a quiet evening at the club.”

“Too dark and cold at home, eh?” Keating tilted his head, his expression saying that he only half listened to Bancroft’s words. “I trust I’ve made my point. I don’t like seeing you out in the cold, but it had to be done. There’s only one way the wind blows anymore, and that’s where I send it.”

Bancroft swallowed down a quip about poor digestion. Instead, he regarded Keating with studied calm, even though his heart was pounding with nervous excitement. Apparently the moment for polite fiction had ended, and Keating was prepared to speak openly about what he’d done. That was a bit nerve-racking, but if the Gold King was utterly done with him, he wouldn’t be starting up a conversation. Bancroft hated himself for feeling a twinge of hope, but he had to survive.

He forced his voice to be bland and pleasant. “Are you looking for a show of defiance or submission, sir?”

“That’s your choice. I’ll give you a second chance, but never a third.”

The gall of it was breathtaking, and Bancroft found himself momentarily robbed of words. The noise of a passing steam tram covered his lapse long enough to recover. “What does a second chance entail, Mr. Keating?”

Keating made an expansive gesture, clearly enjoying the moment. “I’ll forgive your boy his outrage over the affair at your garden party, but bring him in line, Bancroft. He does you no credit.”

Bancroft bristled. It was one thing to wish he could still smack his son’s backside at times, but no one else had that privilege. Still, he felt Keating’s eyes on him and held his peace.

The Gold King flicked a speck from his cape. “And I’ll overlook your bad judgment with Harter’s Engines. The lights at Hilliard House go back on this one time, but it stops there. We’re friends, or you’re finished. Am I clear?”

“As crystal.”
He’s right. As long as I have no money, he has power over me
.

Bancroft had hoped to leave Harriman’s workshop with
more gold tonight, but his luck had run out. Big Han had stowed it somewhere in the maze of underground tunnels that made up the territory of the Black Kingdom. Bancroft could search for it, but it was a poor gamble that he would come out alive.

That left Keating in control. Anything more Bancroft could do—at least until he had a new fortune to pour into his plans and projects—would be no better than a suicide. And Keating was no fool. He would watch Bancroft like the proverbial hawk and ensure he never got his hands on fresh resources.

The realization crept through his veins like venom, the agony of it so acute that his breath hissed through his teeth. He was trapped as surely as if he were locked in Harriman’s underground cages. He had fought so hard and so long for his career, and this money-grubbing boilermaker had taken everything.
It’s not possible. Surely I have cards left to play
.

But he didn’t. Not right now, at any rate.

Keating smiled affably, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I think we understand each other perfectly, Lord Bancroft. Ah, here comes my carriage at last.”

Bancroft watched the steam baron climb into the vehicle, noting the arrogant set of Keating’s shoulders. Clearly, the man thought he owned the Empire. If he could get rid of the other barons, he would be right. The driver snapped his whip and the carriage drove away.

Bancroft watched it go, waves of fury pounding through his body until he went numb. Sickness welled up, driven by pure hate. He turned and heaved his guts into the gutter.

Gods above
, thought Bancroft, saliva dangling from his lips.
I need a drink
.

IMOGEN AND EVELINA LEANED BACK IN THE VICTORIA, THE
picture of idle elegance in perfectly turned-out day dresses and brand-new hats. It was a time to be admired. The low vehicle was just large enough for the two young women to sit side-by-side, with the driver perched on his raised box in front and managing a pair of grays.

The calash top was down. They might as well enjoy the fine weather; the fashionable West End streets were jammed with shoppers. The driver had been forced to slow their vehicle to a crawl.

“How long do you think it will be before someone invents an inflatable bustle?” Imogen asked, her tone filled with ennui.

“Excuse me?” Evelina replied, her mind snapping to the here and now with an almost audible twang. She’d been inwardly cursing the fact that a young lady’s life, with dress fittings, at-homes, the garden party, and then church yesterday—not to mention the time lost to dealing with the blackout at Hilliard House—left little room for discreetly hunting down leads. It had taken the most determined effort to wrestle free an afternoon to follow up the clue of Grace’s silk bag.
Never mind the automatons and Dr. Magnus and all the rest of it. Thank Heaven Lord B hasn’t learned about The Stare’s proposal to Imogen
. At least they hadn’t had to deal with that crisis.

It was becoming rapidly clear that proper detective work meant organizing one’s schedule. Uncle Sherlock hardly slept or ate while working a case, and now she knew why. Daily life took up too much time. If she was going to be an effective investigator, she was going to have to do a much better job of managing her routine—though she doubted she could give up meals.