The Clockwork Scarab (10 page)

I managed a muffled
“Drat!”
before the underskirt pulled my shoe off rhythm and I lost my balance. I released Grayling’s arm, but not before I jolted into him.

He’d stopped after that one step and looked down at me. “Miss Holmes, is everything quite all right?” The bemusement was gone, and now he wore an expression of wariness.

That was when I noticed the dark mark on his square chin. A small cut from shaving. How could I have missed it? And then it occurred to me with a cold shock that I’d been standing next to him for several minutes and had
forgotten
to be observant.

“Erm,” I managed to say. My head was pounding from the heat on my face and my thoughts had scattered. “Yes, I just
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
I tripped and—”

“Yes, I can see that,” he said. “Although I’m not certain on
what
you tripped,” he muttered, looking around on the ground, which happened to be devoid of anything trippable.

Once again, I had the strong desire to see one of the lamps veer down and slam into his forehead.

He was still looking down around the hem of my skirts, as if to discover what nonexistent item I’d tripped over. “Oh,”
he said. “Have you caught a shoe on your skirt? May I?” He made a move as if to bend and assist me in extricating the recalcitrant heel, then paused and straightened, as if realizing how improper that would be, fumbling around at the hem of my skirts and possibly seeing my ankles. Or worse—
my legs
.

Now
his
face was flushed.

“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself,” I said with sharpness meant to cover my mortification. I bent down to free my heel, taking care not to show anything more than a flash of ankle in that endeavor.

My shoe thus liberated, a section of my delicate crinoline in tatters and dragging on the floor, I once again curved my fingers around the wool sleeve of his forearm.

I’d never had occasion to dance with a young man before. Practicing the waltz with a Sure-Step Debonair Dance-Tutor and its creaking, mechanical pacing was hardly the same as waltzing with a tall, arrogant, ginger-haired, freckled Scot.

My palms were damp beneath my fingerless gloves, and my bare digits had turned to ice. My stomach fluttered as Grayling maneuvered us out onto the dance floor and turned me to face him. His movements were careful and deliberate, almost as if he wasn’t any more sure of himself than I was. Or, more likely, as if he were expecting me to somehow trip again.

He put his right hand lightly on my waist and collected my fingers in the left. His hand, despite its white glove, was warm around mine. This proximity affirmed that not only was
he nearly a head taller than I, but that his shoulders were so broad I could hardly see around them. He was so solid. I drew in a deep breath, trying to steady my pulse. He smelled pleasant, like German cedar, lemon, and Mediterranean sandalwood, with an underlying scent of—mechanical grease? Of course. From the steamcycle.

My other hand had settled on his shoulder, my fingertips sensing the soft bristle of wool and the movement of shoulder muscle beneath them. My skirts swayed, rustling between us as he stepped into the rhythm of the waltz. It was more of a hitch than a confident step, and the second one was just as jerky and abrupt.

“Miss Holmes,” he murmured, his mouth just above my temple, “if you would allow me to lead, we might perhaps find ourselves waltzing a bit more gracefully.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” I forced myself to relax and allow him to dictate our movements.

Soon, to my astonishment, we were gliding about the dance floor in a sedate but smooth rhythm. If it weren’t for the full layers of my skirts, our legs might have
brushed against each other
. He was so close to me I could feel the warmth of his body, and I found myself having to gaze fixedly over his arm to keep from staring up at the smooth skin of his clean-shaven neck and chin. The sandalwood and lemon scents were likely from his shaving lotion. And we must have been moving more energetically than I realized, for I found it hard to catch my breath.

“I must apologize for putting you in such an awkward situation,” I blurted out.

Grayling pulled back a bit to look down at me and made a slight misstep that told me he wasn’t quite as accomplished a dancer as he seemed. I wasn’t sure why I felt a surge of gratification at that realization.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

I didn’t know what I meant either, and I felt ridiculous. My thoughts simply seemed to disintegrate when I tried to make conversation with a member of the opposite gender. I hoped I wouldn’t be required to interrogate many of them as part of my work for Her Royal Highness. Although I seemed to have no problem interrogating and conversing with Mr. Eckhert.

“I had no intention of dancing tonight,” I replied. “I have other reasons for being here.”

“As do I.” His voice took on that Scottish burr and its proximity sent little prickles over my temple. “But taking a turn around the dance floor is a convenient way to observe the room and get my bearings.”

“Indeed.” So it wasn’t that he had the desire to dance with me. He merely wanted an excuse to look around the room. My cheeks were hot again, and I felt the weight of my hair shifting as if one of my clockwork gears was coming loose. “I’m delighted I was able to be of assistance,” I added crisply.

“Miss Holmes, I—”

“You need say no more, Inspector Grayling. I presume you’ve observed enough that you might release me to my own
devices? Do you perhaps know where I might find some cool refreshments?”

I felt him swallow hard, then he seemed to release a pent-up breath. “My apologies, Miss Holmes. I meant no insult. Perhaps—
oow-mph
.” He stifled a cry of surprise as my pointed copper heel landed on one of his toes.

The misstep was an accident, but I cannot say I regretted it.

Grayling looked down at me, his expression of exasperation mingled with apprehension and perhaps a bit of chagrin. “Very well, then,” he said. “You’ve made your—ah—point. Perhaps you’d prefer to get some lemonade on the Star Terrace instead of finishing this dance? I’m quite certain my toes, at least, will appreciate it,” he added not quite under his breath.

The
Star
Terrace?

My aggravation evaporated. “What time is it?”

“It’s ten of nine. Did you not hear the clock chime the quarter hour?”

“I must go.” I pulled away. “To—ah—attend to something.”

He frowned but didn’t release my hand. “Miss Holmes, I do hope you aren’t about to get involved in something you shouldn’t be.”

“I’m quite certain,” I said, pulling free of his fingers, “that you haven’t any idea with what I should and shouldn’t get involved. Good evening, Inspector Grayling.”

With one well-placed query to a handsome young waiter, I learned that the Star Terrace was on the same level as the ballroom, but on the east side of the building.

Just as the clock struck nine, I broached the terrace in question. It was aptly named, for natural stars glittered above in a wide swath, and there were few lights to distract from those celestial bodies. Small sparkling lights hung around the edges of the space, but the area was darker than the main terrace, where Evaline and I had made our arrival.

Miss Stoker had disappeared into the crush of people shortly after our conversation with Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. I didn’t have time to search for her, and even if I had, I would have done so only cursorily. She might have been pressed into service just as I had, but she was also more comfortable in these social gatherings than I. Aside from that, I preferred to work alone and saw no need to constantly point out information and data to someone who couldn’t see it herself.

I turned my attention from thoughts of Miss Stoker—who was probably chattering happily with some other young ladies, her dance card (unlike mine) filled with the names of partners for the evening—and observed the area. There was, as Grayling had suggested, a long table filled with libations at one end of the terrace. People stood nearby, talking, laughing, and drinking their lemonade-strawberry punch. Others strolled around the terrace. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to draw my attention.

Then I noticed a movement near the dark line of arborvitae and thick dwarf pines separating the stone terrace from the rest of the grounds. A well-hidden someone was standing there. As I watched, a young woman approached. She walked up to the figure, handed over something white and flat, then progressed past and into the shadows.

My heart began to pound, and excitement made my mouth go dry as I made my decision. I had the fake invitation. I was going to use it.

I pulled it from my reticule and made my way quickly across the stones. When I approached, I saw the figure was cloaked and hooded in dark fabric so as to obscure gender and any other identifying factors. I felt certain the individual wouldn’t be able to discern my features due to its enveloping cloak and the drassy light.

He or she held out a white-gloved hand, and I saw that the image of a scarab beetle had been inked on the palm.

I handed over my invitation and was gestured toward a narrow pass between two tall arborvitae. Drawing in a deep breath, I stepped through.

B
y the time I made my way through the crowded party to find the familiar-looking waiter, he’d disappeared.

Surely it wasn’t Pix. It was impossible for a streetwise Cockney pickpocket to be hired for the event of the season. I put the thought of him out of my mind and in doing so, let down my guard. This was a mistake, for I was promptly caught up in conversation with one of those anemic young men I preferred to avoid. But though I had to listen to him compare my lips to rose petals and my hair to spirals of ink, I also learned that the Cosgrove-Pitt home boasted a Star Terrace.

Miss Mina Holmes wasn’t the only person who could make a deduction.

Moments later, as I stepped onto the Star Terrace, I saw a young woman making her way quickly toward the dark end of the patio. Miss Holmes.

Here I was, only a moment in deduction behind Miss Observation herself, and she hadn’t even searched for me before continuing on her way. Satisfaction with my discovery faded into aggravation. A flimsy brain-beak like Mina Holmes had no bloody business walking into dark shadows alone. Blooming idiot.

I followed her across the terrace, grudgingly grateful that she’d had the foresight to mark up my invitation to match hers. Careful not to accidentally pull out my stake, I dug the crumpled card out of a hidden pocket in my skirt and handed it to the cloaked figure who reached out a silent, gloved hand. He gestured for me to move forward.

A rush of energy pumped through my veins as I walked between two tall bushes. Finally, things were getting interesting.

On the other side of the bushes and trees, I found a mechanized vehicle. It was in a secluded area of the grounds of Cosgrove Terrace. A tall wall ran along behind it and ended in an open gate. A lamp burned in the street beyond and in the distance, the spiky, oblong shapes of London proper loomed.

Several cloaked figures stood there, mixing with the shadows. Someone handed me a wad of black fabric, and I found the head and armholes of an enveloping cloak. As I finished pulling my hood up and over, a black-garbed figure stumbled into me as it contorted beneath its cloak. Snickering, I helped Miss Holmes find her way out from beneath the
fabric. When her head appeared, I shifted my hood so she would recognize me.

To my disappointment, she didn’t seem surprised. “So you figured it out. Excellent.”

“Of course I did,” I replied, noticing that the other figures were climbing into the vehicle. A soft rumble accompanied by the familiar hiss of steam indicated that the trolley-like carriage had been started.

“Yes, of course,” she said dismissively as we edged along with the cluster of figures. “Once discovered, the message had to be exceedingly simple to interpret.”

I was proud of myself for
not
planting my foot on the hems of her full skirts. Instead, I fingered the stake deep in my pocket and bit my tongue.

We climbed into the automated vehicle amid other cloaked figures who spoke briefly and in hushed voices. I’d never encountered a group of females who could be this quiet for so long. There’d hardly been a titter or giggle since I arrived.

I disliked the new carriages, propelled by a steam engine and with no visible driver or engineer. They ran on some sort of magnetic tracking system. Ever since the Moseley-Haft Steam-Promotion Act had been passed by Lord Cosgrove-Pitt and his Parliament, everyone in London had been keen on them and anything else that could be mechanized and automated. The current favorites were the sleek trolleys that were narrow enough to pass along even the uppermost streetwalk
levels, the vehicles just wide enough for two people to sit side by side.

The trolley’s doors closed. Miss Holmes tensed as I swallowed a thrill of excitement. The only thing I had cause to fear was a vampire
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
and as I didn’t sense any UnDead in the vicinity, I settled in for an adventure.

There were no more than a dozen of us. From the amount of
eau de toilette
clogging my nose, it smelled as if each one of those present had spilled an entire bottle of perfume over her bodice. In the close quarters, my eyes began to water, and I had to pinch my nose to keep from sneezing.

My partner murmured street names, landmarks, and observations as we drove along at ground level. I had to reluctantly appreciate her comments. Unlike Miss Holmes, I didn’t know the name of every single alleyway, bypass, or mews, let alone the different combinations of street levels and how the addresses worked. I’d always been awestruck by the height of the buildings and how close they swayed toward one another. And I wasn’t convinced that the helium-filled sky-anchors attached to the tops of the tall structures did anything to keep their tops from bumping into each other.