A Study in Silks tba-1

by Emma Jane Holloway

  He swallowed the last of the brandy, feeling the heat of it flow into his veins. What was he to do about Evelina? Women usually made him lusty, bored, or annoyed—and usually in that order. The Cooper girl just confused him, but he enjoyed every moment of it—which was simply perverse and inconvenient and intriguing.

  The door swung open, the Negro boy stepping forward with an obsequious bow. “Margaretha will join you momentarily.”

  To his surprise, Tobias found himself shaking his head. “I’m going to sit here awhile. Bring me a cold supper instead.”

  This time, there was the faintest trace of curiosity on the boy’s face as he withdrew. Tobias was glad he didn’t owe anyone under this roof an explanation, because there was no good way to explain himself. He was starting to want a girl he had no business even thinking about, and he wanted her badly enough that it was putting him off his game.

  Tobias left the establishment with the violet door hours later. Margaretha and the boy received a generous sum to say that he had paid an unremarkable visit that had begun at seven o’clock that night. The next steps were up to him. Absolutely no one could see him sneaking into the house. He had to be careful—with the fashion for lights everywhere, it was extremely hard to find a shadow to skulk in.

  Tobias rounded the corner, hurrying past a dark, shuttered house that stood a street away from Beaulieu Square. It had been Disconnected for a year and squatted like an inky blot beside its brightly lit neighbors. It was odd, but he couldn’t actually remember the names of the family that had lived there. He was almost sure that he’d seen people coming and going until a few months ago. It was true—once the barons cut you off, you disappeared.

  With relief, he saw the bright outline of Hilliard House come into view. He knew there would likely be a servant or two still up in the kitchen, cleaning up the last of the day’s pots and pans, but the kitchens were at the back. His best bet was the side door. He had a key for that. It would be a quick trip up the stairs, into fresh clothes, and then out again to get rid of the brown suit he still wore.

  Tobias began crossing the street at an angle, trying to aim for the house without looking as if that were his destination.

  “Mr. Roth.”

  He wheeled, his stomach knotting. A young girl in shabby clothes was standing a few feet away, looking hesitant. One of the kitchen girls. Damn it all to hell.

  “Gracie,” he said, forcing his voice into pleasant tones. He knew the girl from the kitchen, where he’d sometimes roam in search of a bite to eat after everyone else had retired. She’d be there late, and up to her elbows in soap suds—something he’d found oddly fetching.

  Surprise turned to simmering irritation. He didn’t find her presence fetching now. It was damned inconvenient. The last thing he needed was a witness. Nevertheless, he’d have to make the best of it. There was nothing else he could do.

  “Good evening, sir,” she said, bobbing a curtsey. “Seems we’re both out late tonight. Mr. Bigelow’s gone and bolted the door. I meant to be here on time, sir, really I did, but the Chinaman was so slow and I had to run a long, long way.”

  He wondered vaguely who the Chinaman was, but then dismissed the thought. Excuses didn’t matter. The butler locked up at midnight sharp. Any servant out past curfew was not only barred from the dubious comfort of their tiny bedrooms, but would be disciplined in the morning. Tobias felt sorry for the girl, and then relieved. It wouldn’t be hard to convince her to keep quiet about his presence here since he was the one with a door key.

  He gave her a smile. It made the flesh around his eye throb, and he touched it gingerly. The hot ache told him he would have a black eye by morning. Damn that baritone.

  “You’ve been in scrap,” she said, drawing a little closer.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You need to put something cold on it.” She reached up, barely touching his cheek with the fingertips of her shabby gloves. She had the most beautiful eyes, huge and long-lashed. The darkness muted the color and he couldn’t tell if they were gray or blue, but their almond shape was exotic, tilted upward at the corners. “It won’t swell up if you keep it cold.”

  “Then I’d better let you in so that you can find me some ice,” he said.

  “I’d be happy to, sir,” she said with obvious relief. “Especially if it means dodging Mr. Bigelow’s scolding in the morning when he finds me out here instead of peeling the potatoes.”

  She spoke carefully, as if trying to erase the accent that marked her as a girl from the East End. It fit with everything else about her—the carefully mended clothes, her tidy hair, the neat, dainty way she walked. She might only have been a scullery maid, but she was trying to move up in the world. The last thing she needed was to be dismissed from her post.

  Tobias wasn’t going to be the one to ruin her chances. “I won’t tell Bigelow, but only if you promise never to say you saw me out here tonight.”

  She drew her hand away. “You sound deadly serious about that!”

  “I am. So can we keep secrets?”

  She looked up from under her lashes, a gesture that must have broken a good many hearts. “To be sure!” She had a triangular face with a tiny, bowed mouth and turned-up nose. With those eyes, she looked feline—and beautiful, even by the standards of the Mayfair courtesans. The figure under her shabby clothes was rounded and lush. Tobias felt his body stir. He never poached the servant girls, but that didn’t mean he was blind to their charms. “I’ll keep mum, Mr. Roth.”

  “Good girl.” He began hunting in his pockets for his keys. “So what were you doing tonight? Making merry?”

  She didn’t answer at once, and he didn’t push. It wasn’t really any of his business. But just as the key turned in the lock, she caught his arm. “Mr. Roth?”

  “What is it?”

  Her voice came in a quaver. “You’ve always been a good sort. A kind man. That’s what they say below stairs. Not too high and mighty to care what happens to the likes of us.”

  He felt a stirring of pride, but pushed it down at once. It was true that he did what he could for the people who worked at Hilliard House, but servants flattered when they wanted something. It was one of the few tools they had. “I’m glad you believe so, but why does that matter right now?”

  Grace tightened her grip, as if he were a handhold against a raging wind. “I’m in terrible trouble, you see.”

  She’s pregnant and needs money. Or at least, that was the most probable calamity to befall a young and pretty girl with no future. “A child?”

  She gave a faint nod, as if that admission cost far more than he could guess.

  “Oh, Grace,” he said softly. There was no need to tell her she had been foolish. That painful awareness was written in every line of her body.

  “That’s not the half of it, Mr. Roth.” Tears were starting to trickle down her face. Those beautiful eyes crumpled shut, as if holding her misery in. “I’m afraid.”

  Tobias caught her hand and squeezed it. “Of what?”

  “Not just for me, but for my poor baby, too.” She squeezed back so hard that his fingers ached. This was no dainty miss, but a hardworking girl.

  Now he was alarmed, forgetting his own troubles as she started to weep in earnest. “Whatever for?”

  She lifted her chin, forcing her eyes open. Tears shone on her cheeks, reflecting back the distant streetlights. It made her look as if her tiny, pointed features were washed in liquid silver. “Us girls got to takes their chances where they find them.”

  “What?” Tobias felt like an idiot, unable to put the pieces together.

  Suddenly, she was sobbing. “I agreed to do something for some bad men. I didn’t hurt anyone, I promise, but it was wrong. I didn’t know it at first, I just went back and forth for them, but I saw what they were doing tonight! And now I know why he wanted me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t stop, or they’ll hurt me. I can’t keep on with it, because sooner or lat
er, I’ll be caught. And now there’s a baby to think of!”

  Tobias was losing the thread of the conversation. “Why did you do—whatever it was—at all?”

  “I loved him, I did. What a foolish, foolish girl I am.” She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her shoulder shaking in silent grief.

  He could feel it all the way to his guts. “You need to go far away from here.”

  She nodded, eyes wet. “But I’ve never been more than a few miles from home.”

  “Are you brave enough to try?” he asked. “For the baby?”

  She nodded.

  The Penners had an estate up in Yorkshire. If he asked, Bucky would find her a place up there—somewhere to be until the child was born, and then a position on their household staff. There were any number of young widows with babies in the world. Who was to say Grace wasn’t one of them? “I’ll get you away from here. Someplace good and safe.”

  “Do you really mean that?” She sounded like a small child herself. In truth, she was barely older than Poppy, who was still in the schoolroom. He tried to imagine his youngest sister with child, and his stomach turned.

  He managed a smile. “I might be a rascal, but I’m not a liar. Now come inside and get to bed.”

  She grabbed his arm again. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about the baby!”

  He stopped. “I’ll have to tell something to the people in Yorkshire. Not much, but enough to make them understand.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “But no more than that. I’ve my parents to think of. If I have to go, let them keep a clean memory of me. I never meant to bring them shame.”

  That was simple enough. “Of course.”

  He opened the side door and ushered Grace inside. The door was just down the hall from the cloakroom. The stairway to the servants’ quarters was next to the kitchen, far to his left, the stairway that led to his own bed to his right.

  They stopped in the hall, suddenly awkward. “Thank you so much, Mr. Roth,” she said. “You’ve saved my life.”

  He felt suddenly confused, as if he’d glimpsed the edge of something far darker than he fully understood. Maybe she was taking advantage of him, playing on his sympathies, but every instinct said her distress was genuine. Suddenly, the entire escapade at the opera house seemed like a surreal nightmare, insubstantial and ludicrous. This was real—whatever it was.

  He cleared his throat. “Good night, Grace. I’ll find you tomorrow and we’ll talk again.”

  “Good night.” She gazed into his face a long moment. Now he could see her eyes were a luminous pale blue, the color of a hazy sky. Grace truly was a beautiful girl.

  She turned and walked toward the servants’ quarters, her hips swinging slightly under her skirts. I saved her life. Tobias felt oddly shaken, as if he had surprised himself. But what have I saved her from?

  Chapter Five

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  Nick tolerated the cage of filmy bed curtains for all of a minute. Those sixty seconds on Evelina’s bed were enough to conjure a lifetime of fantasies—what with the fine, embroidered linen and distinctly feminine scents—but with no female to complete the picture, it was pure frustration.

  Besides, there had been no more screams or pounding on doors. Either everyone was dead or the crisis was over, and he was doing no good hiding among the mountain of pillows that crowded Evelina’s bed. How did anyone find room to sleep in all this fluff?

  He slid out from the lacy bower, feeling his boot heels sink into the plush carpet. A Siberian tiger could not have felt more out of place. The dainty, fussy, and obviously expensive room was nothing like the caravans or railway cars he usually slept in. The silver hairbrush on the dressing table was worth more than Nick’s entire stash of coin, and he was a good saver.

  He ghosted about the room, careful not to make a noise. Evelina was right—he had taken a risk coming here. A stupid one. No one would believe he was there just to ensure his childhood sweetheart was safe and happy—or maybe, just maybe, hoping that she had missed him. Anyone sensible would take one look at his rough clothes and dark skin and assume the worst.

  And maybe they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. There was no mistaking the fact that little Evie was a woman now, and he wanted to feel her curves under his hands. He wanted to hear her murmur his name, to cry it out in the dark of the night.

  He trailed a hand along the top of a chest of drawers. Everything in the room breathed her presence. Atop a lace-edged runner sat an array of tiny crystal bottles of scent with names like Guerlain and Houbigant on the labels. A bouquet of flowers sat on the dressing table: late tulips, tiny yellow roses that must have come from a hothouse, and other exotic things he couldn’t name. The tulips were wilting, blood-red petals startling against the dark wood.

  The bookshelf, however, was puzzling. Nick had learned to read from Evelina’s mother, learning everything he could from the thin, sickly woman, but he had never seen books like these before. Here were texts on botany. Books on astronomy. Lots of books on chemistry and anatomy.

  He ran his finger over the spines, wondering what kind of person Evelina had grown into. University? What sort of female did that? Weren’t girls supposed to like horrid stories about highwaymen and ruined castles?

  Ah. There they were, on the bottom shelf. A collection of cheap novels and penny-dreadful serial magazines, kept almost out of sight like guilty pleasures. So there was something left of the Evie he knew after all. It lived in her love of fabulous tales, in her quick wit and sharp tongue, in those blue eyes that told him far more than her words ever would. In the magic pulling them together.

  But there was more—much more—about this new Evelina that he didn’t know. At their age, five years apart was an eternity. Nick gave himself a wry smile in the looking glass. He understood that his idealized Evie—the one who waved aside her life of privilege and joined him on the road—was just a fantasy. One that had little to do with the real girl, and much more to do with his own desires.

  His chest felt suddenly hollow. Dreams, even foolish ones, didn’t die painlessly. What do you expect? You have no fortune, no name, no relations of importance. You may be the great Niccolo, but you are not a gentleman.

  That was bad enough. Worse, she had plainly wanted him to leave. Anger flashed through him, fueled by shame. He might have had no right to come here, but she had no right to shoo him away like a sparrow begging crumbs. He deserved more than that.

  Nick’s face heated. There was no point in waiting. No point in ever coming back.

  The thought rammed into him, leaving a degree of shock, but no pain. Nick wiped a hand over his face. The hurt would come later, the way feeling returned to a finger just slammed in a door.

  He’d stopped in front of the writing desk and was gazing at the train case she’d been about to open when he’d surprised her. It was the type women filled with toiletries, and he had no desire to investigate yet more feminine clutter. He was done with women for the night.

  Instead, he picked up the paper knife she’d nearly stuck in his eye. It was slender, the handle made of ebony decorated with a silver crest. Probably the arms of the lord who owned the house. They liked to put their mark on things, like dogs claiming their territory.

  The knife was too fancy for his taste, but Evie had used it like a fighter’s weapon. He picked it up, flung it into the air, and caught it as it spun downward in a perfect arc. The blade was as balanc
ed as one of his own. Whatever Evelina might say, her instincts hadn’t changed. And that was how he preferred to remember her: canny as a street sparrow and ready for action. He thrust the knife into his belt. If the world thought him a thief, why not oblige? He deserved a souvenir of the one great love of his young life.

  He would escape this cursed bedroom, make sure the house was safe for Evie, and then go on with his night. And every night thereafter.

  Nick slipped out the window, easily climbing down the same stonework and ivy he had used to reach Evelina’s bedroom. It was child’s play for an acrobat like him.

  Unfortunately, in his pique, he had left the safety of the house without checking the grounds. When his boots silently touched the grass, he recoiled. At the corner of the building stood the outline of a helmeted constable, dark against the patch of light seeping from one of the downstairs windows. He froze, gluing himself to the wall. His heart lurched into a gallop, forcing him to gulp in the cold air. Damn, damn, and damn. His fingers gripped the rough stone of the wall, clutching it as if that would flatten his telltale form just a little bit more. In Nick’s experience, where there was one Peeler, there were always more.

  It was then he realized the scream—whatever it had been about—had summoned half the world. Evelina’s room looked out the back of the house, but he could still hear noise from the street. Carriages were pulling into the square, some driven by horses, more by steam, and bringing the loud, masculine voices of more police.

  Good news for Evelina. Whatever else, she was protected from the threat that had disturbed the house. He released a breath of relief.

  However, it was not good news for vagabonds hanging about in the garden. Nick made a quick assessment.

  Hilliard House sat on a respectably sized swath of garden bordered by brick walls. Flanked on either side by arches of terraced homes, it made up one side of Beaulieu Square. He had to either climb the back wall of the garden, which would land him in Ketherow Lane; get over a wall to one of the neighboring properties; or make it to the front of the house and saunter out of the square like he belonged there. Given that lights were coming on in the windows next door, the lane was his most realistic option. At least it was dark enough to hide there. The gangs that ran through the London Streets—the Yellowbacks, Blue Boys, Scarlets, and the rest—could be trouble, but he’d take his chances with them before a magistrate.