A Study in Silks (61 page)

“Bloody hell, mate.” Striker hauled Nick up by his collar,
then his eyes widened as he saw the blood-soaked side of Nick’s clothes.

A police whistle shrilled.

The streetkeeper swore viciously. “You just keep making my life interesting, don’t you?”

EVELINA WAS ATTEMPTING TO READ
Barrett
’
s Guide to
The Mechanics of Ancient Europe
. However, the events of the day before had taken their toll, and she was exhausted, anxious, and unable to concentrate for more than three words at a stretch.

And the problems just kept mounting. A whole week had passed, and she still hadn’t found out who had killed Grace Child and the grooms, or why the automatons were so valuable. And she had a hundred questions about the ancient Greek object they called Athena’s Casket. She’d looked it up in what books she could find, but they all said it was an instrument used for navigation. Magnus had suggested it had magical properties—infusing spirit into mechanics and all
that—but none of the volumes in Lord Bancroft’s library mentioned any such thing.

And what had been going on at the warehouse? A lot of people were dead, including the Chinese workers, but what exactly had they been doing there? Whatever it was, somehow Grace Child and her silk bag of gold was the link between the warehouse and Hilliard House.

Evelina had started to investigate in order to protect Imogen and her family from scandal. Unfortunately, all she’d managed to do was piece together a reason someone in the house was guilty. It was simple math. Gold artifacts arrived at the warehouse in crates, and melted gold and unset stones were carried away by a servant who worked at Hilliard House. It didn’t take a huge intellect to make a connection. Clearly, someone with no respect for archaeology was melting down the treasures. And since Keating was mad for all things Greek and Roman, it would be out of character for him to allow the destruction of historical treasures. And besides, the wealth was showing up in Lord B’s cloakroom, not Jasper Keating’s bank. Everything pointed to the fact that he was being robbed.

So who was doing it and how? Was that where the Chinese came in? So why had they been murdered? If she had to guess, they were the worker bees and their usefulness had expired—and that meant the villain was beating a retreat. If she meant to find out who that was, she had better do it now.

For more reasons than one. Her Uncle Sherlock was back in London and had written to say that he had begun work on Jasper Keating’s case. He planned to stop by that afternoon to see her. At any other time, she would have been delighted by a visit. Now, with so much at stake, it was a glaring reminder of her failure to preemptively solve Grace’s murder.

And Lestrade would be sure to contact him, because Scotland Yard was having no better luck than Evelina. There had been no progress in solving the murders of any of Lord Bancroft’s servants, the dozen Chinese, and now Dr. Magnus. Public opinion was growing foul.

If Uncle Sherlock got involved, the question of the magic-infested automatons would be sure to come to light. The
only thing Evelina could do was try to deflect her uncle from that part of the puzzle. It wouldn’t be easy, because Sherlock Holmes was not a man easily fooled.

Evelina buried her face in her hands, summoning her strength. It was hard to believe, but her uncle was only one problem. There were others.

She’d sent Bird for help, hoping the creature would find Nick, but it hadn’t returned. She’d seen—with the sense of an answered prayer—the article on Magnus’s death, but there had been no sign of Mouse scampering back home. A frantic need to find the two creatures gnawed at her, but London was a vast city. She’d search the sorcerer’s house, or his personal effects at the morgue, but she’d need her uncle’s help to gain access. Explaining her need to search a corpse was going to take some doing.

Then again, it was Uncle Sherlock.

“Evelina?”

Tobias came through the door of the sitting room. She greeted the interruption with relief, and set the book aside. “Yes?”

“There is, um, a person who wishes to see you.”

“Uncle Sherlock?”

“No. Mr. Keating’s streetkeeper, I understand.” Tobias frowned. “Highly irregular, so I told Bigelow I’d see to this personally. I don’t like the looks of him. Says his name is Striker.”

“What does he want from me?”

“He won’t say.” Tobias was clearly irritated. “Since he’s Keating’s man, it’s harder to simply toss him down the steps.”

She was intrigued. “Then I suppose I must see what he wants.”

A minute later, the man called Striker was standing in the middle of the sunny green and yellow room, with its flowers in the pretty china jug. At first glance, he resembled a cross between a pugilist and an armadillo masquerading as a rusted-out boiler. He smelled of grease, gunpowder, and gin with an underlying tang of dried blood. A man who lived hard.

If one looked closer, however, there was a quick and wary
intelligence in the man’s brown eyes. He held his hat in his hands and studied Evelina with some curiosity.

“Miss,” he said. “Pardon the intrusion.”

He was clearly minding his manners to the utmost of his ability. Tobias was watching from a few feet away, arms crossed and a disapproving scowl on his face that made him look alarmingly like his father.

“Consider it pardoned,” said Evelina, wanting to ease Striker’s discomfort. “What brings you here?”

“I came to give you these.” He held out a cloth bundle in one grease-stained paw.

She recognized Nick’s neckcloth immediately. It was the one he had been wearing last night. Alarm ran chilly fingers over her body.
Why does a streetkeeper have it?

A coppery taste of fear flooded her mouth. She darted forward, reaching for the bundle, but Tobias got there first. “Tobias!”

“Let me see,” he said, setting the package on the table and working at the knots. “Before you go touching whatever is inside.” The contents gave an interesting metallic sound.

Evelina looked from Tobias to Striker, who looked unimpressed.

“It’s quite safe, sir,” the streetkeeper said.

The corners of the neckcloth parted. Mouse and Bird sprawled on the table, frozen as wind-up toys that had lost their keys. Both looked the worse for wear, Bird in particular sporting unfamiliar patches of metal that looked like they might have come from Striker’s coat. She reached out with her mind. They were still and silent, but they were both alive.

Evelina whirled to Striker. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

Flushing slightly, the young man shifted, the coat giving a faint rattle. “The bird was in bad shape. I tried a bit o’ repair, miss, but I don’t have the tools for work that fine. Nick said you could take it from here.”

Tobias was intrigued, picking up Mouse and turning it over in his hand. “Did you make these, Evelina?”

She suddenly realized her secret was slipping out of the
bag. She shot Striker a look, but his face was completely neutral. A man used to keeping his mouth shut.

“Yes,” she forced her voice to be calm. “As you know, I have an interest in clockwork toys.”

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 whom 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.

“Whom 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?”