A Study in Silks (24 page)

What did you expect to find here, besides old rags and broken armoires?
The mouse sat up, cleaning the dust out of its whiskers.
Love letters? Or are you simply avoiding that fair-haired idiot? I’ve noticed your heart thunders every time that one prances by
.

“We’re not talking about him.”

Suit yourself
.

“I shall.” Evelina watched the creature groom, fascinated by the fact that it could move as if it were made of flesh and not metal. Something about the spirit overrode the reality of
their stiff bodies—maybe it was an affinity between the deva’s elemental nature and the metal that had been forged from the earth. She wondered if an air deva would work equally well. “Actually, I was hoping to find something that would tell me about the automatons. Why did the family keep them? Why would anyone kill for them?”

You said they stank of undesirable magic. Maybe they assembled themselves, killed their captors, and walked away to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting metropolis
.

That mental image was going to haunt her dreams—if she ever slept again. She glared at the tiny mouse. “Their magic wasn’t like yours. They weren’t alive.”

Then perhaps you need to consult the family archives to discover where they came from. They had to be purchased somewhere
.

“Good idea.” It gave her a place to start, anyway. “Though I’m still not sure how Grace is connected.”

The mouse ran up her arm and perched on her shoulder.
My dear girl, I’ve been around since that tree outside was a wee sapling and this house was a few blocks on a green meadow. In the end, everything is connected. You must persevere. Dirty linens always show up in the wash
.

“Perhaps, but I don’t want to drown in the laundry tubs while looking.” Evelina put the wriggling mouse into her pocket.

The most curious part of the whole affair was Lord Bancroft. Not because he kept a placid mien worthy of a cardsharp—that was to be expected of an aristocrat with an eye on high office—nor even that he forbade the servants to speak of the murders. No master wanted his staff so distracted they burned his toast and overstarched his shirts.

No, it was what the housekeeper had overheard and told Dora, who had then told Evelina. Last night, Lord Bancroft—more than a little tipsy—had promised Lestrade a reward if the police would find his trunks. It was imperative that they were returned unopened.

Why? No one knew. All of his servants had joined the household after Lord Bancroft returned to England. No one seemed to know anything about the trunks’ contents, much
less why they mattered. Of course, the mention of a reward had made everyone twice as curious. If Bancroft’s plan had been to keep the trunks and their magic-ridden contents quiet, that was the wrong way to do so. But whisky had never made men smart—and whisky was something she’d noticed on Lord B’s breath more and more of late.

Evelina took one last look around the attic and descended the stairs, pondering her next move. Through the small windows of the stairway landing, she could see that an indigo dusk had just settled on the garden outside. When she got to the main floor, she blew out the candle, left it on a small table, and carried on toward Lord Bancroft’s library.

The ambassador had a collection of volumes on mechanics—apparently a relic of his youth, since he reviled his son’s interest in the topic. And displaying such books wasn’t the done thing now that the steam barons held sway. Evelina had found them entirely by accident one day. There, behind the plays and poetry, high up on the library shelves, was a second row of books. Evelina had felt like she’d found Aladdin’s treasure cave, and had read as many as she could sneak out unobserved. Maybe there was something in the collection—a pamphlet or a manual—that identified where the automatons had come from. Finding at least this answer might be simple.

She had learned about clockworks from her father’s father, who made the mechanical wonders at Ploughman’s circus. Through Lord Bancroft’s library, she had studied every new innovation in automatons that had come along, including the elaborate punch-card probability sorters that were supposed to cause the machines to make simple decisions for themselves—a bit of a nonstarter, really. Even the most sophisticated engines seemed to produce machines only slightly brighter than a toasting fork.

From the glimpse she’d had, Bancroft’s models were at least ten years out of date. Automatons came and went out of fashion, usually making a comeback when some manufacturer laid claim to a new innovation.
New! Improved! Same old bunkum as you’ve never seen it before! Guaranteed impractical and finicky to fix!

Even a stupid servant was more versatile and cost a fraction
of the price. Still, the idea of a wood and metal slave, willing to fulfill its owner’s every whim—the more depraved the better—reliably parted the rich from their gold.

Which raised uncomfortable questions about anyone who had a whole collection.

The library was considerably warmer than the attic. A small fire was burning in the grate, more for cheer than for necessity. Gaslights filled the space with a gentle glow. Evelina walked into the room, her attention already on the tall shelves of books, before she noticed Lord Bancroft in one of the wing chairs. He was reading a newspaper, a glass of whisky on the tiny carved table at his elbow.

“Miss Cooper,” he said without moving.

Most men stood when a lady entered the room, but he rarely observed that nicety with her. She occupied a gray zone halfway between servant and family member, which made his slight both an insult and a compliment.

“My lord,” she replied, her nerves prickling with irritation. It was hard to snoop in someone’s affairs when they were reading the paper only a few feet away. Nevertheless, she made a slight curtsey before she turned to focus on the books.

Lord B turned a page, happy to ignore her. She ignored him right back, finding the shelf she wanted, discreetly shifting the books so she could see the titles behind. She started reading the spines quickly, knowing she might be interrupted at any moment and directed toward Lady Bancroft’s collection of insipid novels. Not that Evelina disliked fiction—far from it—but Lady B had a taste for do-good heroes and heroines with all the personality of a dust ruffle.

On the other hand, Lord Bancroft seemed to have a dozen good volumes on building automatons, though they were all in German. She pulled one off the shelf and opened it, struggling through the introduction. The book seemed to be a comprehensive study on creating walking machines. That made sense. The problem of balance and joint movement had plagued builders for years.

She lifted her gaze from the page and studied Lord Bancroft—or rather, the back of his newspaper. One hand
reached out and picked up the glass. His ring gave a quick flash of gold in the gaslight before the hand and glass disappeared behind the wall of newsprint. For a man robbed of a prized possession, he looked utterly calm. Then again, knowing him, he might have a decent load of whisky on board by this hour.

She turned back to the shelf, pulling out another volume. This time it wasn’t even German, but something she didn’t recognize. With a huff of exasperation, she closed the book and slid it back on the shelf. There was no owner’s manual for the automatons, so she drifted over to a collection of French plays. If she was going to pretend to be looking for a book to read, she couldn’t leave empty-handed.

The newspaper rattled. “Finding what you want?” Lord Bancroft asked quietly.

There was a slight edge to his voice that made her think he knew exactly which books she’d been looking at and he wasn’t happy about it. Her stomach clenched, and she quickly picked up a volume of Racine. “Yes, thank you.”

She’d taken a hurried step toward the door when Bigelow, the butler, entered.

“A gentleman to see you, my lord.” Bigelow intoned.

“Who is it?” Lord Bancroft let the paper droop so he could see his servant offering a silver salver with a calling card. He picked up the card without much interest, but as he read, his eyes widened with what looked like homicidal rage.

Evelina quickly made for the door, but someone was shouldering his way past Bigelow. She stopped, arrested by the sight of the figure. He was very tall, with a cape and silver-headed cane. Beneath the brim of his high-crowned hat, a dark, aquiline face made her think of exotic lands and fortunes in pirate gold. Not at all the type to play the lead in one of Lady Bancroft’s novels.

Lord B’s voice was hard as flint. “I heard you were in town, but prayed it was only vicious gossip. What are you doing here?”

Evelina jumped back, as if the angry words had been directed at her. The fine hairs on her arms rose. The man
wasn’t quite close enough to be sure, but she thought she detected a prickling of magic.
Who is this man?

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” said the stranger, sweeping off his hat and cape and thrusting them into Bigelow’s arms. “I saw you at the opera, but you refused to acknowledge me. I had to come to you, since you would not speak to me in a public place.”

Bancroft rose from his chair. “What are you doing in London? You swore to keep away.”

The stranger laughed. “No, you swore at me until I left you alone. There is a difference. Tell me, how are the children? I haven’t seen them in years.”

There was a long pause. Bigelow cleared his throat. “My lord, shall I summon the footmen?”

Lord Bancroft’s expression said he wanted exactly that. Instead, he waved Bigelow and Evelina away with a curt jerk of his hand. They went, Evelina pulling the door shut behind them as the butler’s hands were full with the hat and cloak.

She could still hear Lord B’s sharp tones. “Is it money you want, Magnus?”

“
Dr. Magnus
. I deserve at least that much respect. And what do you think the answer is?” The voice seemed far too intimate, as if he were whispering in Evelina’s ear.

Bigelow and Evelina lingered outside the door, their eyes meeting in tacit agreement. So what if eavesdropping was a bad idea? Neither was prepared to move. But all that followed for a long moment was silence. Evelina’s nerves began to twitch.

Finally, Dr. Magnus spoke. Evelina detected a slight accent she couldn’t place. “I performed a service for you, and now I require connections in London. You must rectify that, with your influence. I am desirous of meeting your men of industry. What do you call them? Steam barons?”

“They would have no use for you.”

“Nor I them, for the most part. But I require your influence on a small matter, and since I find you such a rising political star, that should be no great feat. Besides, you are very much in my debt. Refusing me would be unwise.”

Bancroft swore viciously. “Is this blackmail?”

“Come, come. We go too far back—long before your censorious British morality pinioned your curiosity.”

“Before you damned my soul, you mean,” Bancroft snarled.

“I have nothing to do with your choices.”

“How did you get into this house?”

Magnus laughed but it was filled with sly mockery. “Won’t you offer me a whisky? You can exorcise me later.”

Bancroft swore again, and then the conversation became muted, as if the men had moved to a different part of the room.

“Who is he?” Evelina whispered.

Bigelow’s face was filled with concern. “I don’t know, miss. I have been with the family since their return to England, and I have not seen that man before tonight.”

“Perhaps they knew each other in Austria?”

The butler gave a slight shake of his head. “I do not know, miss, though when I think on it, I have heard Dr. Magnus’s name. It was the night that poor young Grace died. When I went to wake His Lordship, he cried out that name, almost leaping from his chair when I touched his arm.”

“His chair?”

“That night, he fell asleep over a book right there in the library. He does that sometimes.”

After one too many drinks
. “He saw Dr. Magnus at the opera, and then dreamed of it.”
And nightmares at that—but at least Bigelow’s story means Lord B did not slit Grace’s throat. Not if he was asleep then
.

“That is not for me to say. I should return to my duties, miss.”

Evelina glanced down at the book she had no intention of reading. “So should I.”

She intentionally let the Racine fall, and stooped to pick it up. As she bent, she scooped the mouse out of her pocket, and it ran under the door to spy on the two men.

Bigelow disappeared down the corridor. Evelina watched him go, a knot of anxiety heavy in her stomach. The last few days had not been reassuring. Automatons coated in dark
magic. Murder. Coded messages. Gems and gold. Mysterious strangers from the ambassador’s past.
And the Season hasn’t even properly started yet
.

Evelina began walking, barely paying attention to where her steps led. She turned and went back up the stairs to the second floor. The longcase clock struck eight as she reached the landing.

Tobias was there with his hands stuffed into his pockets, watching the mechanism with his habitual air of nonchalance. When he saw her, a half smile lazily curled his lips.

Her stomach flipped, but she took a deep breath, determined not to show her nerves. The mouse was right that she had been avoiding him since the kiss in the morning room. Did she want to see him or not? Common sense told her to run. Curiosity begged her to stay.

“The weather dial says there is a storm coming,” said Tobias. “What a terrible blow. I shall be obliged to forego the pleasures of the racetrack.”

“I hope there is no storm. It is your mother’s garden party tomorrow.”

“Blast, you’re quite right.” He laughed a little, making it hard to tell if he had really forgotten or was just putting on a show.

“The clock is always wrong, anyhow.”

“So it is.” He gave her a lazy smile.

“But there is a real storm brewing, I think,” said Evelina. “Someone named Dr. Magnus arrived tonight to talk to your father. Lord Bancroft wasn’t happy about it. They seemed to know each other.”