A Study in Silks (70 page)

Nick stared at the thing. There had to be a deva inside, just as with Evelina’s bird. “Who were you waiting for?”

Your fathers were my people
.

“I have no father.” But of course that was not true. Technically, everyone had a father. He just had no idea who his had been.

You understand my words. Others do not. You are of my people, the riders of air
.

“What about Evelina?”

She was not the one. You are
.

“Lucky me.” He knew Evelina could hear air devas, just like he could hear those of the earth and forest, but he could hear animals sometimes, too. And, apparently, talking scrap metal.

That is your legacy. I waited and you came
.

And then he noticed the silk bag in the bottom of the basket, a corner of something gold poking out the top. He put down the lump of metal and picked up the bag. When he dumped it out, a king’s ransom in gold and stones poured into his hand.

Ship. You build. I fly
.

Nick was good with his hands, but he didn’t know how to build—not like Tobias or Evelina. He was about to say that, but then stopped himself. He couldn’t be defeated before he’d even begun. Perhaps he wasn’t an engineer, but it seemed he finally had the right Blood for something. Maybe for once in his life he was in luck—he had the airship plans, and he had Striker, who was aching to break free of the Gold King’s leash. And then Nick looked at the cube, suddenly understanding what it was. Athena’s Casket—the deva that the steam barons wanted to use for their fleet of lethal airships.

Dark hells, what have I stumbled on?
Terror crept up his limbs as his fingers, with a will of their own, curled around the fortune in his hand. He had no right to any of it. Not even to escape the Indomitable Niccolo and become somebody else, someone with the kind of power
she
would be forced to notice.

Nick shook his head as if to clear it. Jilted love was a bad
reason to decide anything—he was stronger than that. Whatever he did, he had to do because it was the right thing for Nick and no one else.

You came
.

The casket hummed happily in the basket. It was ugly, stripped of everything that had once made it fearsomely beautiful, but it knew what it was for. Nick wished he had one iota of that clarity. “I’m not a thief.”

But you came. I fly. You fly
.

He dumped the gold back into the basket, his hands tingling with the feel of Evelina’s body struggling against his. “I love her.”

The deva reached out, touching his mind, like a mother soothing her heartbroken child.
Then win her. Make her see who you are
.

Like a frail twig, whatever had kept Nick on the side of the law snapped.

EVELINA SLOWED HER
pace as she reached the gallery. She stopped just outside the large open room, forcing herself to take a moment to gather her wits. There was a marble stand with printed programs. She picked one up, pretending to read it.

It was all she could do not to turn around and walk straight back to Nick. She could feel him like a fire behind her, a warm, dangerous light in the darkness. But what purpose would running back serve? What exactly could she hope to erase? She hadn’t meant to be cruel. Or had she been? She’d told him the truth.

A fresh wave of tears took over. She turned to the wall, burying her nose in the program for cover. She stiffened, forcing her shoulders not to shake. Fighting her body left her weak, her stomach aching as if someone had kicked her. She sniffed, pulling up the sleeve of her dress. Her wrist had blossomed with a bracelet of bruises where Nick had grabbed her. It still throbbed from the force of his grip. He’d been angry. She’d torn his heart out. But that didn’t make hurting her right.

She tugged down her cuff before one of the other guests milling around got curious. Pulling out her handkerchief, she wiped her eyes and nose and wished she could wash her face. If only her face wouldn’t show her emotions, but it was pointless. She couldn’t seem to stop the slow, steady leak of tears.

Some women cried gracefully, but not her. She was doomed to go through the evening with a red nose and bleary eyes. There would be curious stares or, worse, sympathy. Some would put it down to a broken heart. Well, that was true. Just not in the simple way Lady Bancroft’s novels would have it.

Evelina took a handful of deep breaths until the colors in the room stopped swirling around her. She folded the program in her hand, nodding and smiling as a couple walked by arm in arm. Their obvious contentment made her want to scream.

Instead, she strode briskly into the gallery and stopped next to her uncle, who had finally condescended to use the wheeled chair. She kept staring straight ahead. “You did not return to the office.”

“I have been having some difficulty finding my way to Mr. Keating’s side,” he replied blandly.

She didn’t believe that for an instant. The room was crowded, but that would barely slow him down, chair or no chair. “Nick found me.”

“I thought he might.”

“We argued.”

“Ah.” He made a face. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“It was somewhat inevitable and, unfortunately, necessary.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know foolhardy young men, having had personal experience of the state. They don’t exit the stage quietly, even for their own good. Even if they have no immediate role in what is to come.”

Her insides clenched. “How do you know all this?”

He gave her a grimace that said he detested the topic. “He has no role because you won’t permit it. Therefore, his proud
nature demands that he leave. The math is simple. I took advantage of it to play something of a long game.”

She hiccuped, her roiling emotions at war with his so-called simple math. “I don’t understand.”

Her uncle waved an impatient hand. “Tears and explanations must wait. But remember I told you that your friends would be out of harm’s way.”

He had saved Nick. That was good, but what about the Roths? Panic seized her. Imogen and Tobias were in trouble, because there was no way Lord Bancroft was innocent.

Holmes gave her an impatient look as he read the panic on her face. “Focus. Right now the show is about to begin. Look carefully about the room and take note of who is here.”

She did as she was told, beginning on her left and sweeping her gaze slowly to the right. Many of the guests were very familiar. The Roths, of course. Jasper Keating held court among a clump of hangers-on, his silver hair perfectly waving around his patrician head. She recognized Captain Roberts, a friend of Lord Bancroft, mopping his forehead from the heat. There was Professor Teasdale from Oxford, sipping tea and chatting with the Duke of Westlake. There was another man slumped against the wall, looking sourly at the others.

“Who is he?”

“Harriman, Keating’s cousin and the owner of the warehouse you visited.”

She took a second look. Harriman was younger than his cousin but had blurred versions of the same features, rather like a bad copy of a famous painting. “Very well, now what?”

“Take note of the exhibits. They are as advertised—bowls, wine jars, helmets, jewelry—Schliemann found a burial ground with considerable wealth. They are still translating the inscriptions, but it seems to be the property of a warrior king from Homeric times, but those details are irrelevant.”

A glance around confirmed what he was saying. She thought of the bar of gold Grace Child had been carrying. The stones that had been with it were roughly cut, just like the gems set into the items on display. She suddenly jumped,
an idea filling her with dread. “I left my basket in the curator’s office.”

Sherlock blinked lazily, then looked around for Watson. He waved him over. “Would you please retrieve Evelina’s basket from the curator’s desk? It contains vital evidence.”

Watson nodded and left at once, apparently used to playing errand boy. Evelina pressed a hand to her mouth, a bad feeling filling her.

“Never mind,” Sherlock ordered. “We need to press on.”

She swallowed hard. “What next?”

“A bit of theater. I would like to topple that vase over by the window. The delicate one.”

Evelina stared. “Why? It’s incredibly old and valuable!”

“It is neither. As I said, these are copies. Do you have a means of discreetly knocking it off its display?”

“I do.”

He opened his hands in a showman’s gesture. “Then let the demonstration begin.”

She slipped Mouse out of her pocket and dropped her program at the same instant. As she bent to retrieve the booklet, she set Mouse loose.

“Be careful,” she whispered. “Don’t get stepped on!”

It rose up on its hind legs, nose twitching.
I shall also avoid explosions. I’m not an exhibitionist like that wretched bird
. With that, it disappeared under the skirting of a display table.

She straightened. “Wait a moment.”

Holmes cocked an eyebrow, but Watson returned before he could speak.

“I looked in all the offices,” said the doctor. “The basket is gone.”

“Did you see Nick?” Evelina demanded.

Watson shook his head. “No.”

The meaning of that
no
had barely hit her when there was a metallic crash. For an instant, she imagined it was her heart. Then Evelina whirled around to see a pair of ladies leaping back from the vase, which had fallen, bounced, and was now rolling unevenly through the crowd. A gray shape
streaked toward her on the floor. She knelt, catching Mouse safely in her hands. “Well done!” she whispered.

Piece of junk, that was!

And best of all, no one could blame her or Uncle Sherlock for knocking it over. She kissed Mouse’s nose and put it back into her pocket.

“Clever,” her uncle said softly. “Now watch everyone’s reactions.”

Jasper Keating had picked up the vase and was staring at it with a thunderous expression. Never a man to hide his displeasure, he vented his wrath in a spray of spittle. “It’s chipped! The gold is flaking right off! But this piece is supposed to be solid gold!”

“They’re running!” Evelina cried. “Look at Captain Roberts and the professor!”

“Never mind. Lestrade has his men waiting outside the doors.”

“Then they’ll catch Nick!”

“Do you really think so? From what I understand that young man has a penchant for crawling along rooftops. Now pay attention.”

Jasper Keating exploded. “What is the meaning of this?” He rounded on his cousin, grabbing him by the arm and bodily dragging him over to the wreckage of the vase. “Explain!”

“Why are you looking at me?” Harriman raised his hands like a bank robber surrendering to Scotland Yard.

Holmes swung into action, ordering Watson to roll him forward. “Because you run an interesting business, Mr. Harriman.”

“Who the devil are you, sir?” Harriman demanded, pulling out of his cousin’s grasp to round on Holmes.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Keating said with a satisfaction dreadful to behold. “Your ship is sinking, Harriman. Start bailing.”

The man’s jaw dropped, but nothing intelligent came out of his mouth.

“You used to employ a number of Chinese workers, I believe,” Holmes said to Harriman. “They worked at the warehouse
where the collection was unpacked, up until the time their dismembered bodies were found floating in the Thames. Some were goldsmiths.”

Harriman remained silent.

Keating looked at his cousin, and the chipped and dented vase in his hand, then at Sherlock. “Tell me.”

Her uncle pointed at the vase. “Evelina, hand me that travesty.”

She took the offending item from Keating and handed it to her uncle. The once-beautiful object seemed naked and fractured. She couldn’t help handling it almost tenderly, as if it were a patient.

He took it one-handed. “They made casts of your treasures, then replicated them in base metals, then electroplated them with a thin layer of the original gold so that it matched precisely. Gems were easily replaced with glass.”

Keating had turned gray, looking from one display case to the next in visible panic. “Why did I not see the difference?”

“The replicas were cleverly done, though not perfect.” Holmes picked up a graceful urn in his good hand, turning it over. “If you look carefully at the bottom of this one, there is the faintest trace of a seam from the mold.”

“But surely this would be found out! This exhibit was to go to the British Museum!”

“Not before it was stolen,” Holmes said with a tight smile. “Lestrade uncovered that piece of the plot after interviewing the finest among the brotherhood of London’s thieves. Before the weekend was over, this entire collection would disappear in a robbery, and all evidence of forgery along with it.”

They all looked at Harriman, who looked dumbfounded. Evelina guessed this was news to him, too.

“I don’t understand,” said the duke, shouldering his way forward. “Why go to such a fabulous amount of work?”

“I would have never known the difference,” Keating rasped. “A staged robbery? I must have been robbed months ago, to allow enough time for the forgeries to be made. Even with slave labor, it would have been a long and expensive process.” He turned on Harriman. “Where is my treasure?”

“Melted down,” Holmes said to the man.

Lestrade had come forward and pinned Harriman’s arms. The man glared at Keating with a hatred that made Evelina’s stomach churn.

“I’m your kin, damn you!” the Gold King snarled.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harriman returned. “You lord it over all of us. What do you expect?”

“Those were priceless artifacts!”

“So was our pride.”

“Who were your confederates?” Lestrade snapped. “We shall want a list.”

“I doubt you shall ever find out,” Holmes interrupted again.

Holmes cast a quick glance at Evelina, as if to say that no matter how he felt about the matter, Bancroft’s fall would not come at his hand. But it was plain that her uncle’s reticence would not be enough to save the conspirators.

Keating’s jaw worked. “Leave Harriman with me and you shall have your list.”