A Study in Silks (22 page)

“I’ll send word to come when the time is right.”

Bancroft sucked in a breath. He could feel his gut roiling with anger, but his mind was utterly clear.
Let him have his moment
. “Very well.”

Harriman’s mouth tightened. “Bring a pistol.”

The bugger has something in mind
. “I shall do that, Mr. Harriman.”

“Then I will bid you good day.” The man rose.

Bancroft rose, reaching across the desk to shake the man’s hand. It was clammy with perspiration.
Why do I bother with these cretins?
But he knew the answer already.

Gold and secrecy were both so damned hard to get. He wondered how much the bastard would make him pay.

NICK STRETCHED HIS SPYGLASS TO ITS FULL LENGTH, BALANCING
its end on the window frame of his fourth-floor perch. With a sense of satisfaction, he adjusted the brass tube slowly, pulling and pushing the slide until the image came into focus. There it was; the front of the tailoring shop on Old Bond Street, the tidy facade washed in spring afternoon sunlight.

The street ambled through the West End—the section of London that was home to the finest shops, gentlemen’s clubs, and fashionable residences. A steady stream of carriages and pedestrians passed up and down the avenues, but it was a leisurely sort of bustle, and one with lots of coin at its beck and call. Looking down on the scene, focusing in on his quarry, Nick had a flash of kinship with a hawk spying a flock of lazy, overfed pigeons. Lucky for them he was there to watch, not to hunt.

His vantage point was perfect. He crouched in an empty room in an empty building across the street and down from the tailor’s. It looked like it had been Disconnected. Dust clung to the corners; the oak floors were gritty with sand. By the few bits of furniture left, the place had once been a counting house. From its empty shell, he could see without being seen.

“Steam for a ha’penny,” came the cry from the street. It
floated through the broken window like the fading memory of a dream. “Pennies for power.”

Nick winced. That crier wouldn’t last long if the streetkeepers found him. Rogue makers sometimes cobbled together engines small enough to move around on a wheeled cart, selling the power for everything from illegal forges and machinery to powering back-alley surgeries. Some used the steam hawkers because they’d rather buy from a person than from a company. Some simply couldn’t afford what the barons charged.

And there were always rebellious fools. From time to time, Nick got into trouble, but he was careful about whom he made his enemy. Speak courteously and finish every fight, that was his motto. Never leave an angry man behind you.

Two nights ago, Dr. Magnus had saved Nick from the police in return for information about Tobias Roth. Nick had spent the day paying that debt. He didn’t fancy owing a man like Magnus.

However, in the first hours of his researches, Nick hadn’t made a lot of progress. He’d followed Bancroft for a day and found nothing of interest, so today he’d decided to focus his attentions on the son and heir.

Nick knew next to nothing about the ponce, except that he occupied the same house as
her
. Breathed the same air. Ate the same food. Could see her every day, the way Nick had once done. Sudden bitterness flooded him, blotting out his senses. Nick ached to find some excuse to trip him up.

Unfortunately, today the rich boy had gone only as far as the tailor’s shop. Roth was still inside, taking so long that Nick began to wonder if they were weaving the cloth for whatever His Nobship was buying.

Nick swung the spyglass a hair to the left. A pair of steam cycles whirred by, moving twice as fast as any horse. He followed the sight of a pretty girl until she was handed up into a freshly painted victoria drawn by a single gray mare. She was at least worth watching.

Although there was only one dark-haired beauty he truly wanted. Going to see Evelina had reopened wounds that
were deeper than he remembered, and the fact that she’d grown to womanhood only made them throb the worse. All their history aside, the simple fact was that she had always been the only girl who’d ever made his whole being come alive just by walking into a room. He had recognized her scent like the return of spring. That alone should make her his woman. And now Evie was grown up, every curve and valley of her, and his body knew it. Even the thought of her made him ache in ways that could only lead to a hangman’s noose. Evie was right. There would be no mercy if he were caught inside a rich man’s house.

It had been a murder that had the place in an uproar the night he’d paid a visit. He’d found that out from one of the gardener’s boys, and the news had left him worried for Evie’s safety. Not that she’d appreciate his concern, he supposed, but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t just switch his heart off like an engine, all their history disappearing in a puff of leftover steam.

“Oy.” The voice came from behind him.

Unconcerned, Nick turned his head just enough to see who had addressed him. The city crawled with street rats, both two- and four-legged. The rich districts were no exception. After all, they had the best pickings.

Nick had no fear of rats. This one was big, though, built in a thick, beefy way that had nothing to do with fat. Nick rose from his crouch, snapping the spyglass shut and sliding it into the leather pouch slung beneath his coat.

“What can I do for you?” Nick asked, polite with just a pinch of nonchalance. He was willing to bet this was one of the streetkeepers—bullies who were the lowest rank of authority in any steam baron’s organization. Like all those who worked for Keating Utility, they called themselves Yellowbacks. Others called them Yellowbellies, but usually not to their face.

“The name’s Striker,” said the streetkeeper. “I don’t know your vile mug, Gypsy. What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Striker.” Was that a real name? Probably not. “As you so astutely observe, I’m a stranger to this neighborhood.”

“Don’t like strangers. What’s your business?”

“My name is Nick, and my business isn’t yours.”

“Fair enough,” said Striker.

“I’m pleased to hear it.” Nick started to turn back to the window, already dismissing the man.

“Not so fast. You picked the lock to this here building.”

With a sigh, he turned back. “So did you, if you’re standing here.”

“My territory, my lock.”

No doubt the landlord of the old counting house would argue ownership, but Nick shrugged. “Just borrowing the window.”

“No one breaks in nowhere without my say-so.” Striker’s voice dipped in a sneer. “The Gold King fines criminals who break the law.”

Irritation prickled through Nick’s limbs. “I owe you nothing.”

Striker clapped his hands together, making the empty room ring with the smack of his fingerless leather gauntlets. “You do if I say you do. I’m the Gold King’s law down here in the streets, and Yellow is the color a smart body fears most.” He ducked his head, shoulders rising, clearly ready for a fight.

Sullen silence followed. Nick took the moment to examine Striker more seriously. Dark hair stuck up like a hedgehog’s spines, framing a face that had been smashed in one too many times. His skin was the brown of so many of those born around the docks, making him perhaps the son of a lascar who had sailed to the western end of the Empire and took a local woman to his bed.

Nick’s scrutiny went on. Striker wore the thick boots of a laborer. A tattered leather coat hung to his knees, covered in metal bits and pieces, as if he’d attached every bit of iron and brass ever lost in the city of London to improvise armor. It gave him status, when raw materials for building anything were in such short supply. Plus, the coat looked like it had already deflected a bullet or two.

Most telling were his big hands, held loosely at his sides,
ready to fight. Nick was about the same age and height, but Striker had at least twenty pounds more mass.

Nick cleared his face of all expression. If it was to be a contest of dominance, so be it. “There is no point to this conversation. We shall disagree, then fight, I shall probably win, and you’ll go home with a broken head and tell everyone how there were five of me. I, on the other hand, will be annoyed because you interrupted my work.”

Striker shifted from foot to foot. The chains hanging around his neck swayed and rattled, the flat surfaces of charms and keys catching the sunlight glancing through the window. One key was new, and flashed bright enough to attract Nick’s eye. He wondered what a rat like this would lock up.

“I don’t give a mouse’s fart about your work,” said Striker.

“You should. There is poetry in the satisfaction of a day well spent. I’m willing to include breaking your head among today’s tasks.”

Striker’s thick brows drew together. “How about you shut your gob and hand over that pretty piece of brass you had in your hand a moment ago?”

Nick didn’t bother to reply. He’d won the spyglass at cards, and it was one of the few things he had that was of any value. It would be a long, cold night in hell before he let it go—especially to this vermin.

He took a step to the right, just to see what Striker would do. The man took a diagonal step forward, closing the distance between them. The coat clattered as he moved, the chime of metal deadened by the heavy leather behind it. Nick’s mind cleared, calling on the same sharp, calculating focus he used when he performed. He feinted back, then went left. As he suspected, Striker was nowhere near as light on his feet. There was no doubt he could beat him with speed.

“Stand still, Gypsy boy.” Striker glared.

“Why should I? Are you too slow to dance?”

“I’m no wee street sparrow and this is no light dodge. If I say I want something of yours, you don’t get to walk away.”

Nick didn’t doubt he meant it. The street rabble fought for
survival like starving dogs, and only the fiercest lived. If anyone challenged the streetkeepers and won, their master lost face. If Striker let his side down and word got out, he would be punished. He couldn’t afford to let Nick go without taking something to prove he was stronger.

But Nick had no intention of letting Striker win. There was no way he could put his life on the line every time he performed without believing—without
being
—the best. Confidence was everything.

All this flashed through Nick’s head in seconds. He had to fight and win, but there was a fierceness to this lout that made him uneasy. Tweaking his tail would be dangerous. And irresistible.

Nick’s hand darted out, grabbing the shiny key and yanking it from Striker’s neck. The man cried out as the chain broke, his fist hammering toward Nick’s head. Nick ducked, his reflexes far faster. “A point to me!”

He stuffed the key into the pocket of his coat, curious to see what his adversary would do next. Slow and strong had few ways to beat light and quick.

The angle of Striker’s body said he was going for a weapon almost before his hand was in motion. The coat swept back to reveal a studded leather harness. There were enough weapons strapped to Striker’s chest to arm half the queen’s dragoons. “A point to me.”

Mother of hell!
A jolt of alarm made Nick fall back. He only had a knife.

The weapon Striker pulled was nothing Nick had ever seen. He had an impression of a pistol mated with a bulbous brass gourd, horns of metal curling above the bulge of its barrel. Nick dove for the floor, using his momentum to somersault beneath Striker’s aim. The bigger man whirled around, coat flying as Nick hurtled down the stairwell, half running, half sliding on the heavy oak banister. Striker flew after him, thundering down the stairs like a charging bull.

Nick’s mind scrambled for sense. This was appalling. Since when did street rats carry bloody cannons? And since when did the Indomitable Niccolo run?

About three floors down, Nick realized the whine he
heard came from Striker’s gun. It escalated to a tooth-rattling shriek. Nick grabbed the banister, vaulting over it to land on the dirty marble floor of the foyer. He landed in a roll, the breath leaving his body in a painful rush as pain shot up his shin. Cold, pale stone bruised his knees as he scrambled to his feet, looking for the door. A strange, scorched smell flooded the air as the hair on Nick’s arms stood to attention.

Light flared, blasting through the dim building, scorching every last shadow to oblivion. Reflexively, he ducked. Somewhere above him, the banister exploded in a blast of toothpick-size splinters. Nick felt them scraping his cheek, raking through his hair. Hot blood trickled down his neck where one had flown by.

Dark Mother of Basilisks!
The noise echoed long moments afterward. Nick glanced up, but the flare of light had blinded him. He blinked furiously, tears trying to wash away the afterimage of the explosion. A stink of chemicals clawed his throat. Before, he had felt healthy caution. Now, for the first time, real fear ran through his gut. No gun he knew could do that.

“Come ’ere, Gypsy boy.” Striker’s words were muffled. Nick’s ears still rang from the blast. “Pay the piper, or I’ll teach you to jig on a beam of light.”