A Study in Silks (35 page)

At least Lord Bancroft—who looked and moved like he’d fallen down the stairs this morning—had made his peace with the Gold King and the utilities had been reconnected overnight, which meant the glorious luxury of a truly hot bath. Although she had lived for years without such indulgences, Evelina had to admit she had grown very fond of them.

“I was just thinking how convenient dirigible underthings would be. One could self-inflate with hydrogen and sail over this bothersome traffic.” Imogen winked. “I can think of a hundred uses for your scientific skills, you know.”

Evelina imagined flocks of well-dressed women dangling from their posteriors, then wished she hadn’t. “Steering could be a problem.”

“Propellers?”

“Wouldn’t they make one look fat?”

“You have a point there.” Imogen leaned forward, peering out at the street. “I believe the shop we want is over here on the right. Applegate, you may let us out anywhere along here.”

The driver, an older man with a comfortable girth, brought the pair of grays to a stop and then handed the ladies out of the victoria.

“Wait for us here,” said Imogen. “We shan’t be long.”

“Certainly, miss. Take your time.” He smiled fondly. Imogen had all the manservants wrapped around her little finger.

“It’s not always easy to choose just one pair of gloves,” she replied. “Or hat. Or parasol.”

“Never mind me, I’ve brought my pipe. I can wait as long as you need.”

Imogen gave Applegate her sweetest smile, then led
Evelina toward a little shop with steps painted in the Gold King’s bright yellow. Almost every shop along the street had yellow somewhere on its front, showing its allegiance to the steam baron. Of course, that also meant that a percentage of every sale went into Jasper Keating’s pocket, and in the wealthy West End, that meant thousands or maybe millions of pounds a year. Evelina couldn’t begin to guess.

She took in every detail. The district fascinated her, from the theater to the gentlemen’s clubs to the so-called universal providers—one could buy everything from boots to biscuits there—to what were supposedly the most fashionable whorehouses in London. Not that she was supposed to notice those.

The streets were crammed with women from respectable and wealthy classes, including many that looked like they’d escaped the protected suburban family enclave and taken the train into London for a day of shopping. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, they ran from merchant to merchant in a positive orgy of acquisition.

That only put Evelina’s senses on alert. With so many easy targets on the loose, there were undoubtedly expert pickpockets in the crowd. She glanced warily at the shadows between buildings and in the corners behind waiting cabs and a pie-man’s stall. There were urchins aplenty, and there were older toughs. One boldly caught her eye and winked, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Evelina stuck close to Imogen’s side. Her friend, of course, hadn’t noticed the street life. The rich never did.

A bell chimed as they entered Markham’s Drapery. Behind the polished oak counter, cubbyholes were stuffed with bolts of every imaginable fabric and spools of trim. Cheval glasses stood to the right and left of the desk, allowing the customers to hold up the silks and calicos and imagine them made into a dress.

Imogen began working her magic the moment she parted her lips. “Mr. Markham, I know you have the most complete selection of fine Eastern silks. I’ve known that ever since my mama brought me here when we first returned to London.”

She gave him the full benefit of her charming smile. The
stout shopkeeper flushed with pleasure right to the crown of his balding head.

“Well of course, Miss Roth, and it is a pleasure as always to serve your family. And you, too, Miss Cooper. It has always been an honor to have the Quality as my customers. In this day and age when people travel willy-nilly on the railways, it’s not a given anymore that a merchant will know his clients and his clients will know him.”

“Indeed not, sir,” Imogen replied with a slight widening of her eyes. “I’ve never seen such a crush on the street as there is this afternoon.”

“It’s sheer mayhem,” Evelina put in, playing the role of chorus. “I imagine it’s been ever so much busier since Keating Rail has put half-price fares on for special shopping days.”

He puffed out his cheeks. “That it has, with special trips straight from the countryside to the local station twice a week. Mr. Keating promised to increase local trade if we agreed to show his colors hereabouts, and he’s kept his word. Can’t say that he hasn’t.”

Which meant that the Gold King not only solidified his hold on the wealthiest shopping district in London, but also tithed the merchants on the increased sales and collected the extra rail fares. Evelina remembered Old Ploughman’s maxim never to do a piece of business unless it earned money three ways. Jasper Keating could have a future in circus management if his plans for dominating the Empire’s economy fell through.

“These new days are busier to be sure, although there are times I miss the old, slow way of doing business with families I know,” Markham admitted. “What with these special trains and the department stores drawing in all manner of people with their advertising and their cut-rate prices, there’s no telling who might wander through my door.”

Or which ladies have husbands with good credit
, Evelina thought dryly. Some stores only accepted cash these days, a departure from the times when it was normal to run an account and settle up only a few times a year.

“Nothing’s the same as it once was,” he said. “Except our
fine merchandise, of course. Markham’s has never compromised on excellence.”

“Or selection, I’m sure,” Imogen replied, sounding a little relieved to be returning to familiar ground. “I’m looking for a very particular pattern, and I’m sure you will have it.”

She began to describe the fabric from the bag of treasure Grace Child had been carrying. They had agreed not to show it to Markham, just in case. It was one thing to turn up asking for a particular fabric, another to wave evidence of crime under his nose. They had no idea how deeply the shopkeeper might be involved.

While Imogen rattled on, Evelina examined the draper’s shop in more detail. She wished she’d been able to bring Mouse and Bird to help her look, but she’d rewarded them both with the promised wine and honey. On slurping down the sticky mixture—which seemed to disappear without actually reappearing inside their clockwork stomachs—the devas had fallen into a contented sleep so deep that Evelina had no idea when they’d rouse themselves. She’d had to pack them away in the bottom of her drawer beneath a pile of underthings, because it turned out the idiot creatures snored.

So Evelina had to do her own investigating. She let Imogen carry on her conversation and began a slow circuit around the room, affecting the air of a bored young lady too polite to tell her friend to hurry up. The public area was tiny, every inch of wall covered with shelves, and every shelf filled with bolts and boxes. In one dark corner, there was a clockwork machine for sale for tightening the laces of one’s stays—the very idea made Evelina cringe—and a space of wall covered with the yellowing cards of various dressmakers. Beside that was a dusty velvet curtain that separated the front of the store from the back. She pushed it aside a few inches.

She caught a glimpse of more shelving with more merchandise as well as a steam-driven sewing machine and ironing press. She also heard voices, low and hurried. At first she couldn’t make out what they were saying, but then she understood why. She recognized the language, or something
like it, from a team of acrobats she had met years and years ago. Markham didn’t just sell Chinese silks; he had Chinese tailors.

She wouldn’t have thought anything of it—there were plenty of foreigners of all kinds living in London, especially near the docks—except that she caught a whiff of powerful magic. It wasn’t at all like what she’d sensed on the automatons. That was dark, somehow slippery and oily, and if she had to describe it, she would say that it was made up, like a recipe. This was more like her devas, a living entity pressed into service. Actually, when she thought about it, there might be elements of two different magical beings.

And that combination—as unique as a vintage of wine—was exactly the same as what she’d sensed on Grace Child’s stolen treasure. Excitement bubbled through her. This was a clue. A real, tangible link with the dead girl and whatever she’d got herself into. Evelina clenched her hands into fists and nearly bounced on her toes with excitement. Suddenly a lot of things didn’t matter—circus girl or lady, debutante or bluestocking—she was in her element, doing what she was made for.

But Grace was dead, and that meant danger lurked nearby. Evelina swallowed hard, bottling up her glee, and turned back to see how Imogen was doing. Her friend gave her a significant look. A bolt of green silk was spread out on the counter with exactly the same pattern as the bag.

The door chimed as two more ladies came into the shop. Markham greeted them obsequiously.

“This fabric is exactly the thing, Mr. Markham,” Imogen said brightly. “I’m just not sure there’s enough here for my needs. Do you have more in stock?”

“Well, miss, this is the last bolt of it, I’m afraid.”

“No remnants?”

“Not of this, or of any of the finer silks. My tailors make any remnants into bags for shoes and jewelry and the like and sell them to the other merchants for their stock. I’m afraid what you see here is all I have left of this fabric.”

Imogen furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure it’s enough. Allow me to consult with my friend.”

“Of course, Miss Roth,” he replied with a bow, and turned his attention to his new clients.

Evelina beckoned urgently, and Imogen strolled over, fingering a length of trim as she passed by.

“That’s it,” Imogen said casually, as if she were talking about no more than the material for her next dressing gown. “That is exactly the bolt of cloth we were looking for.”

“There’s more.” Evelina kept her voice low, glancing at the shopkeeper, who was completely absorbed in making his next sale. “Are you up for some mild exploration?”

Imogen lifted a brow. “Always.”

Evelina grabbed her sleeve and pulled her to the other side of the curtain. The back of the shop was larger than the front, with wide double doors open to the sunlit alleyway. Evelina barely caught more than a fleeting impression of worktables and machinery before two pigtailed men in Chinese garb jumped to their feet, exclaiming loudly. One held an enormous pair of shears. She heard Imogen’s quick intake of breath and felt an answering flutter in her own stomach.

Evelina grabbed Imogen’s hand and lunged for the open door. “ ’Scuse us. Just passing through.”

The men looked confused, as if caught between ordering them out and bowing graciously because they were clearly patrons of their employer. Evelina wasted no time hurrying past.

“Where are we going?” Imogen demanded, nearly bumping into Evelina when she stopped running. “What are we looking for?”

Evelina wished she knew. Her immediate goal was to find the source of the magic, but what that would be was a mystery. She spun on her heel, looking around.

“What?” Imogen demanded.

“Hm.” Evelina adjusted a hat pin, making sure the jaunty angle of her
chapeau
hadn’t budged. She didn’t actually care about the hat, but wanted an excuse to stall and think for a beat.

The alley was fairly typical—smelly and dirty, brick walls black with soot and age. Some of the bricks and cobbles
looked scorched, like there had been a fire. Wider than some, it got enough sunlight that a few weeds grew beside the trough of filthy water trickling down the middle of the path. What was less typical was that no one was in sight. There should at least have been stray dogs and grubby children. Not a good sign. With a cold shudder, she suddenly wished she were alone and Imogen safe at home. Imogen wanted adventure, but didn’t truly understand what that meant.

“Come on.” She took Imogen’s hand and started walking. A few doors down squatted a barnlike building she guessed was a warehouse. As they drew closer, she got a better view of the strange pile of metal outside the warehouse door. She’d assumed it was a pile of scrap.

Unfortunately, it was a nine-foot automaton. It had no head per se, and had clearly been built for brawn, not philosophical rumination.
A guard dog
.

The nervous fluttering in her stomach stilled into a deep apprehension. She was close enough to sense the warehouse was the source of the magic.
Why can’t it be a nice tearoom? Why always the nasty, grotty places?

Evelina cleared her throat. “That’s where I’m going.”

“Um—why?” Imogen looked dubiously at the metal figure.

Evelina wet her lips, suddenly feeling like her stays were far too tight. “Because the residue of magic that was on the gold came from there.”

“Skipping past the fact that I was handling something with magic on it, and you knew and didn’t tell me, how can you tell it’s the same?”

“It feels prickly.”

“Prickly?”

“Like a mustard plaster. Hot and irritating.”

“Are you sure that’s not my irritation you’re feeling? You should warn people—”

Evelina twitched with impatience. “Imogen! Worry about that later. I cleaned the magic off the bag before you ever touched it.”

Her friend pulled a face. “Oh, very well. And this sensation is coming from over there?”

“Right.”

Imogen sighed, toying with the handle of her reticule. “I think I’ll just have to take your word for it. To me, the place feels wrong, but that’s not really proof of anything.”

“But it is. It explains why there’s no one in this alley. Everyone can feel magic, even if they don’t realize it. And if it’s a charm to keep people away, that’s exactly what it’s going to do.” Evelina looked at her friend, trying to weigh the slight mockery in her voice. “You’re taking this very much in stride.”

Imogen gave a low laugh. “There’s something about nearly dying a few times when I was little that makes everything else look very manageable. Although that ugly automaton is giving me pause.”