But that had its own challenges. Her uncle was never so much invited into a case as unleashed on it. He would surely uncover dangerous secrets—just as she feared in the event Lestrade brought him in. Uncle Sherlock’s involvement could well negate any hopes Evelina had of protecting Imogen and her family. Even worse, he might decide a household visited by murder was unsafe, and insist she return to the country to stay with Grandmamma Holmes. That was … categorically unthinkable.
She had to find a way to ask advice in a very limited fashion—only about the cipher. Puzzles and abstract problems were topics they corresponded about anyhow, and as such it would not arouse his curiosity, especially since he would make her figure it out herself. What she wanted was a clue as to the type of cipher she was looking at. She sat down at her desk, taking several pieces of writing paper from the drawer. Then she copied out the cipher text, careful to keep the nonsensical letters exact.
JEYRB AGZTL JLPWG WPPEF LEOZV ZI
Once that was done, she began a letter.
My dear uncle Sherlock,
I hope this finds you well. I am enjoying good health and a pleasant visit at Hilliard House.
To come directly to the point (as I know this is your preference), I am writing to express my gratitude. I understand that through some act of yours, Mr. Jasper Keating has engineered my presentation. As you can imagine, this has caused a great deal of happiness and excitement for Grandmamma and me, your humble niece.
In addition, I have encountered the enclosed cipher, which you might find of some slight interest. While I have done my best to absorb such methods as you have cared to share with me, I am afraid this is beyond my skill. As I do not have the key, any advice you might offer toward its solution would be much appreciated …
Chapter Twelve
London, April 6, 1888
HILLIARD HOUSE
11 a.m. Friday
My dear girl,
You are most welcome to your presentation. Quite simply, Mr. Keating has asked that I consult on a case for him. I agreed, and he made the arrangements. And that is all that there is to say on the matter.
As for your cipher, please consult my monograph. Everything I have to say on the matter of ciphers will be there, and it is best to make an attempt on your own at first. Write and let me know how you get on with it. The world would be a better place if more young ladies were so fond of exercising their minds instead of indulging in shoddy thinking.
I suppose it falls upon me, as your elder, to offer some gem of wisdom to guide you through your first London Season. What little I have, I am afraid, is based strictly on observation. First, no one looks intelligent dancing the polka. Second, fifty percent of masquerade balls are held in order to facilitate espionage. Third, and above all, do not attempt to engage dangerous men in flirtatious conversation. Whatever second-rate novelists might say, such individuals are called dangerous for a reason. There, that is the sum of my advice to young ladies.
I have been called away unexpectedly on a matter of some importance and shall be on the Continent for the next few days. Watson will be joining me in a day or two and can bring any letters you send. I shall see you in person as soon as I can.
Her uncle signed the letter with a simple S. Evelina refolded it, sliding it back into her pocket. A feeling of reassurance emanated from the heavy paper, easing the tension that knotted the back of her neck. Her uncle was a complicated man—just witness the terse explanation about her presentation—but he was as good an uncle as she could wish for. Except that she wished he’d solved the cipher for her instead of referring her to a book. She was no further ahead.
Her fingers brushed the other piece of paper in her pocket—a clipping from the Prattler that announced Ploughman’s was performing at the Hibernia Amphitheatre. She had told herself not to pay it any mind, but her fingers picked up the scissors and cut it out anyhow. For some reason, the prospect of being ushered into Society had made the urge to revisit the past almost painfully acute—and, if possible, even more unwise. If her past was found out, there would be no presentation, no Season, no future. If her magic was found out, that would be even worse. And yet … she couldn’t bring herself to throw the clipping away.
Light streamed into the morning room, bringing the soft greens and yellows to shimmering life. The place smelled of the freesias sitting in a blue and white jug Evelina had set on the windowsill. Outside of her own room, this bright haven was the place she spent the most time. As was often the case, today she had the room to herself.
The table where she worked was littered with small pieces of metal. Evelina had out her tiniest set of pliers and was trying to shape a scrap of gold wire to match the loops in a beaded necklace that had broken apart. It was an old piece and not particularly valuable, but she needed every bit of finery she had for the Season. Besides, working with her hands helped her to think.
She picked up a coral bead no bigger than a lentil and slid it over a piece of wire. With the pliers, she looped the wire through the bottom chain of the necklace, leaving enough play so the bead could dangle freely. We all love our pretty things, even poor Grace and her petticoat.
An image of the girl’s dead body floated through her mind—bloody, still, and pale. It’s been a whole day and I haven’t figured anything out yet. A sense of urgency gnawed at Evelina, but she pushed it down, concentrating on the mechanical movements of her fingers. Panic wasn’t going to make her think any faster. Think about the case. Blood. Corpses. Stolen treasure. And she was going to have to figure it out on her own.
She tried to tell herself it was just as well she couldn’t talk to her uncle about the case, because then she would be tempted to explain about the magic she’d sensed on Grace’s package. She’d kept her abilities secret from the Holmes family, and not just because magic was banned. If Uncle Sherlock detested shoddy thinking, she cringed to imagine what he’d make of her fumbling descriptions of a nasty feeling in her tummy when she touched the envelope. No doubt that would end in a hysterical bout of opiates and bad violin.
“Hello.” Tobias wandered into the room, managing to look impeccably turned out and rumpled at the same time. Evelina was not sure quite how he managed it.
“Good morning.”
“You look like a goddess in that sunbeam, bent to your work.” He sprawled into the chair on the other side of the table, blocking her view of the garden. He was dressed in a dark brown jacket and forest green waistcoat, a golden watch chain dangling against the silk. “Perhaps a goddess of industry, or the sylph of gears. If only I could sketch. The sight of you there, so feminine and yet so ready to ply your tools, is enough to give a man improper fantasies.”
“Spare me.” Evelina felt a rush of heat claw up her cheeks, and she forced her gaze to the necklace. If she looked at him, her wits would turn to oatmeal. “Young men are most imaginative creatures.”
“You disapprove?”
She gave the wire a deft twist. “A pity so much good brainpower is squandered on idle yearnings.”
“It is entirely up to you whether or not my yearnings are idle.”
That made her look up, one eyebrow raised. Tobias flirted, but this was more obvious than usual. “I would never spoil your fun with disappointment.”
“Disappointment?” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “I doubt that, Evelina. It is not in you to disappoint.”
She froze, her pliers suspended in midair. It shocked her every time he used her name—and not just because first names were an intimacy between an unmarried man and woman, but because he made every syllable delicious, as if it were something made of cream. Evelina.
One corner of his mouth curled upward, giving a lopsided smile that was all charming self-mockery. He knew he was behaving like an ass and didn’t give a fig.
Confusion deepened until it was next door to anger. “Don’t waste my time.”
He leaned an inch closer, so she could feel the warmth of his skin just a touch away. “No need to bring out yo
ur prickles. I hear you’re going to the presentation. Congratulations.”
She lowered the tools, giving up trying to work. “Thank you.”
He pulled a box out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “I got you a present to celebrate. Anyone else I’d give flowers or a book of genteel poems, but you are a different kind of creature.”
Evelina knew very well that a gift from her friend’s handsome brother, no matter what, was in a very gray area of propriety. They shouldn’t be alone, and should never spar the way they did. And yet, there had always been an alliance between them, slight but steadily growing. Confidences, secrets. Such things led to breaking rules. The notion enticed and terrified her.
The box was plain paper, dull and gray. Cautiously, Evelina flipped up the lid with one finger. What she saw made her give a tiny start, as if the contents had emitted a spark. Tobias chuckled.
She lifted the lid, and scooped the box toward her with an eager hand. She couldn’t help herself. Inside was a perfect, tiny piece of clockwork made of gleaming brass. “What is this?”
“German made. You said you wanted to try your hand at making moving toys.”
“Ah,” she said happy and embarrassed. Tobias didn’t know about the bird, or any of the others that were close to complete. The half-living creatures weren’t something she could share.
“You’ve already mastered a lot, but I thought you might like another example to take apart anyhow.”
His voice had lost its teasing tone. They were on different ground now, a place for plans and projects they both shared and that few understood. Ladies didn’t work with mechanics, of course, but neither did a gentleman—at least not past the stage where it could be considered a passing whim. Blue bloods never dirtied their hands, lest they be considered vulgar.
Lord B’s aversion to his son’s tinkering was so severe that Tobias had hidden his workshop somewhere else in the city. And although the steam barons grew increasingly touchy about anyone but their own people making machines, Evelina still didn’t understand Lord B’s objections. Surely building engines was a better pastime than gambling and whoring, although Tobias did plenty of that, too. He was a versatile lad.
Well, clockwork was the one passion that they could safely share. Evelina dug into the box, closing her fingers around the cluster of cogs and springs. It was a generous gift. Even though the steam barons didn’t directly interfere with the buying habits of the gentry, good mechanical parts were becoming expensive and hard to get.
In some ways Tobias knew her better than anyone else. “Thank you so much.”
He fixed her with his gaze, disconcertingly direct. He was still leaning toward her, his head tilted at a considering angle. She could see the striations of his iris, the grays of ice and storm and mist. The huge purpling bruise around his eye was pretty spectacular, too. “I’m glad you’re here this Season. Very glad.”
And suddenly the uncomfortable tension between them was back, the scant few inches between them humming like an unresolved chord. Very glad. What did that mean? More flirtation? An honest desire for conversation? Or nothing at all?
Her discomfort must have shown, because he pulled away with a ghost of a laugh. She couldn’t tell if it was aimed at him or her. “Oh, Evelina, you make this so hard.”
Stung, she felt a moment of numbness before shame flared under her skin. She drew herself up, her hand instinctively closing around the handle of the pliers. Something to defend herself—not that anything could protect her from this kind of danger. “What do you want from me?”
His expression was unreadable. She searched his face, finding a jumble of emotions as confused as her own. “I don’t want anything from you,” he replied. “That would be too finite a request.”
Tobias rose, a languid, lazy movement that didn’t go with the troubled set of his mouth. He paused a moment, his hands braced on the table, and leaned over. The sun slanted across his face, gilding his hair and turning his features to a mask of highlights and shadow.
Then, suddenly, he moved. He did it so fast, she didn’t have the wits to duck. Or maybe she guessed what was coming and didn’t want to.
He kissed her at the corner of her mouth. Not full on the lips. Not hard, or long, but gently, almost chastely. But all at once, it was not quite chaste. His mouth was warm and softer than she had expected.
Shock gave way to desire. Evelina’s breath caught almost painfully, her own lips parting in surprise. She looked up at him, feeling her eyes grow wide. Her body turned toward him, as if a magnet were pulling her into another kiss, but he was already out of reach.
Her reaction must have been what he wanted. He backed away from the table, a knowing look in his eye. “Have a pleasant afternoon.”
With that, he spun, his jacket swinging with him, and sauntered out the door, the sound of his footfalls lazy against the carpet. They dared her to say something, to stop him from leaving the room.
Furious, confused, wanting, all Evelina could manage was a strangled noise deep in her throat. Part of her wanted to rage that she was not to be trifled with like some chit fresh from school. Except she was. She wasn’t as ignorant as most of the Society misses, but she was hardly a sophisticate, either. Tobias, with his mistresses and his clubs, was far beyond her.
What did he want? If he was simply scratching an itch, he could do that anywhere and with a far more accomplished woman. There was at least one other layer to his game.
Evelina looked down at the mess of half-fixed jewelry on the table. The gleaming clockwork sat to one side, tucked neatly in its box, not quite belonging with the rest. Just like her, neither project was anywhere near complete.
She braced her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. Above all, do not attempt to engage dangerous men in flirtatious conversation.
Well, Uncle Sherlock hadn’t said anything about kissing them.
Bancroft sat slumped behind his desk. With the garden party looming, he was trying to write a birthday letter to his wife, something he’d done every year in the early decades of their marriage. It was the sort of thing women liked—soft protestations of devotion—and something he hadn’t attended to in the last dozen years. He loved Adele, he supposed, as well as most men did their wives of nearly thirty years. Habit supplied what passion could not. Perhaps, with all the upset in the house, he missed that warmth a little.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t made it past the opening lines and had more or less given up. His mind was scrambling. The trunks he had ordered removed from the attics had not been delivered to their destination. There was no sign of the footmen or their cart, either.
Who even knew about the automatons? Bancroft had been careful. He’d let all of the Austrian servants go when he returned to England, hiring new domestics with no knowledge of his past. That left the family. Poppy had been a babe in arms when he locked the hideous things away. The other two children would remember them, though Imogen had seen more of them than Tobias. The dolls had first been built to amuse Bancroft’s sickly twin girls.
He shuddered, filtering the memories like a terrified child trying to look and cover its eyes at the same time. Imogen had lived. Anna had not. But his children would not know the full history of the automatons. Not even his wife knew their real secret—only Dr. Magnus. And he’d seen Magnus at the opera last night.
Bancroft had offered the police a reward if the trunks were returned unopened. That had been a mistake, sure to arouse curiosity, but he had been drinking when he made the offer. He knew alcohol made him take chances, but somehow that didn’t make him stop craving the taste. And the specter of Dr. Magnus made him even thirstier.
Now it was a waiting game. Why was Magnus in town? Would he try to use the automatons against Bancroft? Would Magnus even come at all, or did he have schemes afoot that had nothing to do with the Roth family?
There was a knock at the study door. Bancroft started, the skim of liquid left in his glass sloshing up the side. Annoyance clenched
his shoulders. “Enter.”
Bigelow pushed open the door with an apologetic cough and extended a tray upon which rested a plain calling card of indifferent quality. “There is a Mr. Harriman to see you, sir.”
Could this day grow worse? Bigelow snatched the card from the salver and read it, misgivings building like thunderclouds.
John Harriman, Esquire
Warehouse and Shipping
Bond Street, London
Damnation. The only thing he could do was see the man and get rid of him as unobtrusively as possible. “Show him in.”
Bigelow vanished. Bancroft rose, put the whisky glass back on the tray and resumed his seat behind the desk. When the door opened a second time, the man who came in had much the same features as his older cousin, Jasper Keating, but in him they were expressed in a pale, watered-down way—his hair graying brown instead of white, his mouth a bit weaker, his nose a shade too long. Harriman had one redeeming feature. As Keating’s cousin, he expected to share in the man’s amazing wealth rather than to content himself with a modest position in the firm. Ergo, despite the family connection, he hated the Gold King and was quite prepared to rob him blind. That had made him easy clay for Bancroft to mold.
Without waiting for an invitation, Harriman dropped into the chair opposite Bancroft’s desk. “I must speak with you.”
“Apparently. Why do you need to do it here? You could have sent a note.” They had a perfectly good cipher to use.
“Word travels fast among servants. I heard about what happened.”
About Grace. Bancroft’s stomach cramped with hatred, loathing this coward who barely had the nerve to deal with his own workers. Mind you, he had hired some terrifying characters. Could it have been Harriman’s thug of a foreman who had followed Grace home and killed her for the gold? When Bancroft had approached Harriman at his club, he hadn’t bothered to instruct the man whose services to engage—after all, it was Harriman who had worked around the docks for years, not Bancroft—but maybe he should have managed him a little more closely. “Go on, then. Say what you have to say.”
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