A Study in Silks (38 page)

“Oh, come on, Cooper!” she muttered under her breath, frustration sharpening her tone.

There was nothing Imogen wanted more than to fight at her friend’s side, sword in hand, a battle cry on her lips. But while she might be a good pawn in her father’s empirebuilding schemes, she was really still a sickly girl whose only real talent to date lay in picking out dresses and avoiding her math lessons. Perhaps she could chat up a shopkeeper, but her chest hurt even from the slight bit of running she’d done that day. In a real battle, she would only be in the way, a danger to Evelina and herself.

Disgusted, she flung herself back in the seat, nearly squashing the paper sack of buns she had bought inside the shop. It was the only action she could think of to quiet the flustered proprietor when Evelina shoved Imogen out of the kitchen. Imogen had stumbled into a table displaying a dozen different types of tea, knocking half the packets to the floor—but shopkeepers rarely minded one’s behavior as long as money changed hands. At least the buns smelled good.

Imogen scanned the street to either side of the door, alert in case Evelina emerged from a different building. Applegate walked around the carriage, fussing with the harness and keeping a watchful eye on his charge.

“Shall I go and see if Miss Cooper requires assistance?” he asked for the second time.

“Oh, no,” Imogen replied airily. “She cannot seem to choose fabric for her gown, so I went for tea.”

He gave Imogen a suspicious look, perhaps because she was watching the door of the tea shop and not Mr. Markham’s store. She shifted her gaze accordingly. “Unless, of course, you enjoy looking at trims and laces.”

That made him pale and return to his perch up front. Imogen chewed her lip, nearly twitching with nerves.
Come on, Cooper, slay your dragon and get back here!

Then she saw Bucky Penner strolling down the street, a faint smile on his lips as if he had just heard a cheeky story. Of course, he always looked like that. It was one of the many things that charmed and irritated her about the man.

Imogen’s icy stomach eased a notch. Nuisance though he was, the sight of Bucky made her feel better. He spotted Imogen and that smile widened to a grin, but then he turned aside to look at the blooms in a flower stall.

So I do not even merit a proper greeting
. Imogen shoved the paper sack aside and sank into the seat cushions, her irritation with Bucky swirling into her anxiety over Evelina in a sickening stew. She wanted to scream, rage, do anything but sit like a good girl in the carriage. But then Bucky left the stall, a small bouquet in one hand. With a lift of his hat, he crossed over to the victoria.

“Good day, Miss Roth,” he said pleasantly, his eyes darting to Applegate for just a moment. There was no doubt that anything he said would make it back to Lord Bancroft. There would be no discussion of goddesses today.

“Good day, Mr. Penner,” she answered very properly. “I trust you are well.”

“Indeed I am,” he gave her a sly look. “I see you are once again guarding the supply of tea, this time with an entire equipage.”

Imogen’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed, I am not. Let there be tea for all. Here, have a bun.” She unrolled the top of the paper sack and held it out defiantly.

The corners of his mouth twitched, but then a furrow of
concern appeared between his eyebrows. Imogen looked down to see what he was looking at and saw with horror that her lace cuff was torn. Dirty streaks covered her pale gloves where she had scrabbled to safety in the warehouse. She felt the color mount to her cheeks as Bucky’s brown gaze lifted to meet hers, a question clear in his eyes.

“You’ve had an eventful morning?” he asked blandly and with another quick glance at Applegate.

“Nothing untoward,” she said, widening her eyes in warning. “Just a bit of shopping.”

He fished a bun out of the bag, his look turning conspiratorial. “Far be it from me to question the mercantile conquests of the fairer sex. But do keep in mind that I am always available to carry parcels if the occasion requires. I hope it is not too forward a sentiment, but I’ve been a friend of your brother’s far too long not to consider myself your friend as well.”

Imogen swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry as the sawdust on the warehouse floor. She rolled up the paper sack briskly, refusing to show that she was flustered even if her face was hot clear up to her eyebrows.
Ugh. How sophisticated
.

But after a brief struggle, she found her tongue. “That is most gentlemanly of you, Mr. Penner.” And there was something about his manner that said she
could
trust him if she needed to. Intense gratitude unlaced the tight feeling that had left an ache in her stomach and she took the first proper breath she’d had in what felt like hours.

And then Bucky held up the bouquet. It was a small, round confection of primroses framed in a paper lace doily. Reflexively, she accepted it, even though there were a thousand warnings about accepting flowers from young men. It was a signal that he was courting her, and that simply wasn’t possible. Not Bucky. At least, not in any world she was familiar with.

“What is this?” she asked, thinking the question stupid even as she said it.

“Flowers,” he replied dryly. “Or, if you prefer, an earnest
against future events.” His mouth curled wickedly as he bit into the bun with strong, white teeth.

Imogen gulped. She’d demanded flowers before he kissed her, she recalled now. The realization made her fingers clumsy, and she nearly dropped the bouquet into her lap. “Primroses. How lovely.”

“My sisters claim flowers have a meaning. I do hope I made an appropriate choice.”

Primroses were the flower of the silent but enduring admirer. Did that mean Bucky had been nursing feelings for her? With a sudden flood of panic, Imogen raised her eyes, but Bucky was looking away.

“Here comes Miss Cooper out of the tea shop,” he said jovially, and raised his hat as the dark-haired girl approached.

Evelina!
And Evelina was alone—not in leg irons or on a stretcher—looking a little disheveled but otherwise unhurt. Relief crashed into Imogen, but somehow got tangled in this new worry over Bucky. She parted her lips to speak, but no sound came out.
Am I making too much out of a simple bouquet?

Bucky still had his face turned away. “Miss Cooper looks a trifle harassed. What is it about refreshments that obtaining them seems to be fraught with complications?”

Imogen’s mind flashed back to the garden party and her encounter with Bucky beside the tea urn. She’d felt something stir inside her, a recognition of attraction for this man who had been no more than her big brother’s teasing friend. She looked at him seriously now, realizing that what she felt for him promised hours of interesting contemplation.

“Tea is never as simple as it appears, Mr. Penner.”

He finally turned to face her, that smile of his a bit less certain now. This was the moment she could end this flirtation before it began.
And this is Bucky Penner, the one who rigged my pianoforte so that it set off a miniature explosion every time I hit the D below middle C
. Her heart had nearly stopped the first time he’d done that. She still flinched every time she played that particular piece by Czerny.

“Then perhaps I should take my leave,” he said with an edge of disappointment.

“As Miss Cooper has returned, I must be on my way,” Imogen agreed.

“You do not wish me to stay and assist in any way?”

“Thank you, but no.” His face contracted a minute degree, but she held out her hand, torn cuff and all. “Until another day, then.”

That was clearly the message he wanted to hear. With a spark in his brown eyes, he took her dirty glove in his, kissing her fingers lightly. “Until another day, Miss Roth. And thank you ever so much for the bun.”

He straightened, bowed to Evelina, and set off down the street, eating the sweet with obvious enjoyment. Imogen watched him go, unexpected butterflies in her chest, wondering if she had wakened a second and even more unpredictable dragon.

WHEN EVELINA REACHED
the street, the victoria was in front and waiting. With—of all people—Bucky Penner looking like a canary-eating cat. He departed quickly enough that she got the impression he was doing his best to appear a chance passerby. But despite everything, she couldn’t help a prickle of curiosity. Was she missing something? It was hard to tell. She had the feeling that like so many who appeared easygoing, Bucky was expert at hiding what he was really thinking.

When she reached the safety of the carriage, Evelina’s strength ebbed. She grabbed the edge of the victoria, refusing to let her knees buckle. Suitably dismayed, Imogen and Applegate bundled her into the vehicle.

“Good gracious, what happened?” Imogen scolded, looking pale as paper. “You were gone so long, I was about to summon the cavalry!”

Since Captain Diogenes Smythe was one of Imogen’s admirers, that wasn’t an entirely empty threat. “I took care of our smoky friend.”

“Pardon me, Miss Cooper,” the old driver broke in, “but may I ask what happened?”

It was a polite way of warning her that Lord Bancroft
would get a full report on the day’s events. He clicked to the horses and eased them into the busy traffic.

“There were ruffians.” That sounded lame, but it was the best Evelina could think of on short notice.

“They were bothering me,” Imogen put in. “Extremely rude.”

“Ruffians with a giant, um, dog,” Evelina elaborated. “I stayed behind to point out the villains to some baker’s boys who took care of the matter. It got a little rough.”

“You always were adventurous for a young lady,” the driver replied easily. “It would have been better if you had come and fetched me to sort them out. But as long as you’re not hurt, there’s no harm done I suppose. Though I can’t imagine what ruffians with a giant dog were doing in a draper’s shop that caters to fine ladies like yourselves.”

There was no good answer. The two young women exchanged a conspiratorial look. Evelina smothered a nervous laugh. “They weren’t in the draper’s. They were behind the tea shop.”

Imogen held up a paper bag. “Tea bun?”

“You bought buns? I was fighting for my life and you bought buns?”

Imogen shrugged. “I thought I might as well, since I was in the shop anyway. The currant and lemon ones are excellent.”

Evelina pulled one out and bit into the soft, sweet bread. Ladies didn’t eat in the street, but Imogen grabbed one, too, dropping sugary crumbs all over her dress. Something about danger and derring-do negated even the best table manners.

“So what did we learn?” Imogen asked.

Evelina glanced toward the driver. “That’s where the, um, cloth sample came from. It must have something to do with the warehouse out back.”

Imogen leaned close, lowering her voice to the point where Evelina was mostly reading her lips. “Do you mean the foreign connection? Are they importing something they shouldn’t? I thought opium and the slavers and all that was down in the East End.”

“So did I.” Not that crime stopped at even the steam barons’ borders. If a crook could make a shilling, he’d do it anywhere he could get away with it. Evelina put her lips to Imogen’s ear. “But I don’t think we’d be out of line to speculate that whatever they’re importing has a connection to the contents of Grace’s bag.”

“But we don’t know that for sure, do we?” Imogen replied.

“You sound like my uncle.” She could almost hear Uncle Sherlock intoning, “Speculation is not fact.”

Imogen cast a nervous glance at Applegate, but he was shouting at a clutch of street urchins to get out of the way of the carriage. “So what can we be certain is true?” she whispered to Evelina.

“Whatever was in that warehouse was well-guarded. There was no chance the locals were going to bother it, and even if a determined thief figured out the automaton was no better than scrap metal, there was a guardian inside. The merchandise has to be valuable, or why go to all that trouble?”

But what did any of it have to do with Grace Child, the Roths, or anything else? She felt the hard surface of the cube against her foot, where she’d set it on the floorboards of the victoria for safekeeping. Tobias had said that Grace mentioned something about a Chinaman. Was it significant that there were Chinese workers near the warehouse? Probably, since her bag had come from the area—no doubt one of the ones made up from Mr. Markham’s scraps. And Evelina had figured out what she’d sensed on Grace’s gold was a combination of two magics, and found them both: the dragon and the cube. She’d conquered one and absconded with the other. Evelina had learned a lot in one visit to the shops.

But now that the rush of triumph was fading, the implications of what she’d done slithered over and under her courage like cold, slimy eels. How vulnerable was she?

The people using the warehouse knew enough magic to control the guardian, yet they had buried the cube in a pile of scrap. What did that say about them? Didn’t they know it
also had magic? If only the deva in the cube could talk! But as much as she could feel its presence, it knew no words that she could understand. It couldn’t tell her who had put it on that shelf, only that it had to get away.

By all rights, Evelina should have been able to count the adventure a success, but she’d raised too many new questions and might well have poked the wrong hornet’s nest.
Who would know how to trap a fire drake? Magnus, perhaps?
He was a sorcerer, but something told her he wouldn’t have left the cube in a scrap heap. He would have felt its magic.

“What next?” Imogen asked.

Evelina didn’t hesitate. At least now she had an idea where to start looking. Applegate had stopped shouting, so she leaned over to whisper in Imogen’s ear. “We need to discover who owns the warehouse and what on earth was in those crates. I’ll bet you your lace mantelet that Grace’s gold was in those shipments. I want to know who sent them and where they were going.”