A flock of his mother’s friends were descending, so Tobias led the man out of earshot. They came to a halt underneath the oak tree.
Magnus leaned idly on his walking stick. “I have reliable information that you were the creator of the machine that destroyed the Flying Dutchman. An associate of mine observed you in possession of the remains.”
Tobias tensed, folding his arms. “You are drawing a great many conclusions.”
“Perhaps, but that pin your mother wears confirms all.”
“What associate?”
Magnus gave an enigmatic smile. “You have an almost magical facility for creation in your blood. I was there at the Royal Charlotte. It was a juvenile act, but such imagination promises enormous potential. Even more, I think, than your father, and I knew him at the height of his powers as a maker.”
Instinctively, Tobias reached out for the tree trunk, needing support. He’d never had more of anything than the illustrious Lord Bancroft, much less a quality he valued. But who knew about the workshop? Had one of his friends had spilled the tale?
He finally pushed past the surprise enough to speak. “Your praise is very generous, given that it was, as you say, a juvenile prank.”
“You are defensive.” Dr. Magnus tilted his head, studying Tobias with dark, fathomless eyes. “I suppose I cannot blame you. Few understand real talent.”
The man’s undiluted attention made him want to squirm, as if he were no more than a boy in knee pants. “Let me be blunt. What might I do for you?”
“What do I want?” Dr. Magnus flicked at the grass with the tip of his cane. “Always a dangerous question, fraught with unexpected perils.”
“And yet you clearly want something from me.” Hadn’t he had this conversation with Evelina just yesterday? He’d given her an answer that seemed clever at the time, but surely gave her no more satisfaction than Magnus was giving him now.
The man studied the ground, his voice slow and measured. “I have a great deal of money, and a great deal of knowledge. What I lack is your artistic and mechanical talent. I’m wondering, if we pool our resources, just how far we might go.”
“Go?” The word promised everything, but specified nothing. Tobias was afraid to let himself become too interested.
“I have a number of projects in mind. When I first came to England, I meant to approach your father, but he seems, um, preoccupied.”
“My father?” Tobias asked in surprise. “He’s no maker. Not anymore.”
“So I’ve heard, sadly. He used to be, but I’m sure you know that.”
“I do.”
“Of course, we all used to be young. What I have in mind are young men’s projects, full of ambition and adventure. They are somewhat esoteric.” Magnus smiled, and the smile was filled with mischief and a little wistful sadness.
Tobias was intrigued. People had wanted him for his name, or his looks, or what he might do for them, but never for what he loved about himself. “And in return for all this money and knowledge, all you want is my talent? And I assume that of my associates? I cannot claim to have built the squid on my own.”
He couldn’t leave his friends out this stroke of good fortune.
Magnus raised a brow. “Yes, if they are willing, they are included. I want all your skill and imagination. I want your very best efforts.”
Suddenly, Tobias felt drunk, the ground seeming to shift under his feet. He clutched at the tree again, then tried to turn the move into a casual lean. Someone wants me. For me. This is what a proposal must feel like to a young girl. Maybe one from a prince.
Tobias laughed, and he could hear the note of giddiness in it. “Our best efforts? That’s all?”
“And absolute secrecy, of course. Some of my ideas are quite revolutionary. Nevertheless, I’ll be pleased to share them with bright young minds.” Magnus smiled warmly. “As I have been a friend of your family for so long a time, I hope you will agree to look on me as an honorary uncle.”
“I shall.” And he would do more than that, because he felt like the prodigal son finding a home where he least expected it. A home, and—Tobias tried to stifle the thought because it seemed so young and weak—just maybe the father he’d always yearned for.
Chapter Sixteen
The pitch of general conversation wound higher, like an orchestra changing keys. Evelina turned to see what was the matter.
An impeccably dressed man breezed directly onto the back lawn, not even waiting for acknowledgment before he made himself at home in Lord Bancroft’s garden. She recognized Jasper Keating, the Gold King. From his white hair to his almost military bearing, he fit the aristocratic idea of a powerful man—no doubt one reason he was able to do business in the wealthier quarters of London.
The fact that he had been the author of her invitation to be presented at the Court Drawing Room only increased her suspicions about the man. She had written her thank-yous to express her gratitude, but it had felt as if she were a pawn thanking the king during a game of chess.
“Every time that one shows up someplace, he reminds me of Death coming to visit,” Imogen observed under her breath. “A scythe in one hand, and in the other one of those awful tuppeny books of jokes. His audience wants to groan as he reads them, but they’re too terrified not to laugh.”
Evelina eyeballed the newcomer. “Death at least has a sense of irony. This bloke looks like he believes his balance sheet.”
However, what set Keating apart the most was the crowd of dark-suited men that trailed after him. Although it was none of her affair, the sight of all those servile hangers-on irritated her.
The best antidote was tea. Evelina placed an empty cup under the automatic samovar. It spit out orange pekoe in a gurgling whoosh, then hurled in a lemon slice after. Hot liquid slopped into the saucer. “I didn’t ask for lemon.”
“Those things never do what you actually want, but they do what you don’t want with amazing efficiency. That’s called progress.” Imogen popped a tiny square of cake into her mouth, then sucked frosting from her finger with a guilty glance to see if anyone watched.
“This reminds me,” Evelina said with all the casualness she could muster. “You recall what we were discussing earlier?”
“Yes.” Imogen filled her own teacup. “I’m not likely to forget.”
They’d been poring over the latest reports in the newspaper about the death of the grooms. Somehow, the papers had found out about Grace, too, and that had kept the story alive for another day, although it was still buried in the back pages. Nevertheless, she had seen Lord B’s face at the breakfast table when he found the column. He was not a happy man.
Evelina leaned close. “Why do you think your father still had those automatons?” Though she’d told her friend what she’d seen inside the trunks, she hadn’t mentioned the magic. The fewer people who knew about it, the easier it would be to keep that aspect of the affair quiet.
Imogen shrugged, unperturbed by the question. “Until this horrid affair with the grooms, I had no idea they were still around. I would have thought they’d have been left behind in Vienna along with the majority of my father’s other old projects.”
“Your father made them?” Evelina asked in astonishment. It was a big leap from tinkering with machines to making a working device like that.
“Certainly. He made them to amuse my sister and me when we were tiny girls. He was very accomplished, but he gave up tinkering around the time Anna died and I fell ill. I think that’s why he hates such things now. It reminds him of a time he’d rather forget. I don’t think my parents ever got over her death, and the dolls bring it all back.”
It made sense of a sort. Anna had been Imogen’s twin. From the ornately framed daguerreotype Evelina had seen in Lady Bancroft’s sitting room, the two had been identical.
Evelina fished the lemon out of her cup with a spoon. “Maybe that’s what Lord Bancroft means when he complains that the Steam Council lacks finesse. He knows as much about machines as the barons d
o.”
“But there’s more to it than finesse. It’s one thing to be able to build a beautiful butterfly brooch like Tobias, but quite another to put up a power plant that gives you the means to light up half of London—or plunge it into darkness if the mood takes you. Everyone wants power. The barons have it. Therefore, they win.” Imogen leaned close as one of the guests paused to pick up a watercress sandwich. “All the political hacks follow them around like sad little spaniels waiting for a crumb to drop. The Prattler said so.”
“For shame. You’ve been reading the newspaper again.”
“Don’t tell my father. He thinks absorbing too much information will ruin my marriage prospects.”
But she was right about the spaniels. Evelina looked over at Keating again. “What’s His Steamship doing here? I thought he and your father were at odds.”
“My father has taken a sudden interest in making new friends. He’s up to something, as usual.” Imogen shrugged. “As for why Keating came, I suppose even if you own half of London, a free meal still tastes best.”
“So cynical.”
“Pessimism is the basis of all sound expectations. If you foresee nothing good, no outrage can shock you.”
Evelina choked back a laugh. “I pity your future husband.”
“Only if he can’t keep up—which is a depressing likelihood. I suspect there’s a factory in Yorkshire turning out insipid young men by the box load, and they’re all clamoring to be on my dance card.”
“Poor Imogen.”
“Bah.” She ate another piece of cake. “Oh, look. Here comes Alice Keating in yet another Paris frock.”
Evelina turned to see the copper-haired girl was indeed drifting their way, chatting airily with a brace of young bucks. She wondered what it would be like to have the Gold King for a father.
“What is this vision I see before me?” cried the buck to Alice’s left when he caught sight of Imogen. He raised one hand to shade his eyes and extended the other with the air of a sailor spotting a tropical paradise. To Alice’s credit—or the young man’s demerit—she didn’t seem to mind the competition.
Imogen blushed and Evelina sipped tea to keep from giggling. The tall, gangly young man’s name was Percy Hamilton. As the younger son of Lord Bushwell, he’d been destined for the navy, but never quite made it there. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere near a gaming hells and lost his commission before he’d even reported for duty.
The other was Stanford Whitlock—tall, dark, muscular, and a renowned pugilist. A good one, if one judged by the pristine condition of his handsome face. His father was a well-to-do banker, so the Whitlocks were on everyone’s guest list. He remained by Alice’s side, but stared at Imogen like a starving man suddenly spotting a perfectly cooked roast.
If one was nonverbal, the other would not stop talking. “Oh, Disconnect me, you are so lovely, Miss Roth!”
Evelina turned to Alice Keating and searched for something to say. “How pleasant to see you here.”
Alice released Whitlock’s arm and opened her parasol. It had a fringe of tiny yellow pompoms that matched her dress. The breeze caught them and they bobbled merrily. “Indeed, I am delighted to attend. Shall we take a turn about the garden, Miss Cooper, and leave these swains to worship at the feet of their goddess?”
Evelina shot a look to Imogen, who widened her eyes in feigned panic. Imogen claimed to hate her gaggle of suitors, but Evelina thought she secretly enjoyed the attention.
Evelina set down her cup. “Certainly.” She didn’t know Alice well, but the invitation seemed innocent enough.
Abandoning Whitlock with the sandwiches, Alice began skirting the lawn. “I see Lord Bancroft has begun adding more lights to the house and garden. It will be quite lovely at night.”
That was true. Some of the new additions were tall lamp standards, others just tiny globes that hung over windows and doorways. At the prices the barons charged for gas, the fad for outdoor lighting displays was also a symbol of how much money one had to waste.
“It’s the fashion,” Evelina replied noncommittally and then gestured at a turning in the path. “If we go this way, you will see the tulip beds. They are quite lovely this time of year.”
Alice complied, her eyes as much on her feet as on the world around her. Evelina got the impression that she hadn’t mixed much in company until the last year, and was a little shy.
Evelina changed the subject. “I owe your father a debt of gratitude.”
“What for?”
“He arranged for my presentation.”
“Oh, that. It’s his pleasure, I’m sure.” Alice gave her a sidelong glance. “You’re quite right, the tulips are spectacular.”
Evelina agreed, gazing at the riot of pinks, reds, and yellows, and wondered why Alice had singled her out. Now that they were in private—too far away from the food to attract many party goers—she didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“We do not know each other well,” Alice began, the sun seeping through the fine silk of her parasol and turning her hair to a red flame. “But I met some of your schoolmates from Wollaston’s at a musicale the other night.”
“That can’t be good,” Evelina replied lightly, trying to sound less alarmed than she felt.
Alice chuckled. It wasn’t the silvery laugh Evelina had heard the few times they been at the same dinner tables and drawing rooms, but an earthy chuckle that sounded much more real. “On the contrary. They all said you were smart and very much your own person. Also, honest to a fault.”
“I wonder whom I offended by that.”
The girl’s tone was droll. “Well, I understand the school closed the year you left.”
Evelina cringed at the memory. “The headmistress retired after an unfortunate incident with the walking dead, but that’s a tiresome story.”
Alice looked up from the flowers, her eyes alight. “How very intriguing. My informant left out that detail.”
Evelina was growing uncomfortable. “Why is the Wollaston Academy of interest to you?”
“Not the academy, but you. You interest me.”
“Why?”
Alice gave a little huff of breath—less a sigh than someone working up to a confession. She twirled the parasol, making the yellow bobbles fly. “When I heard you were the niece of Sherlock Holmes, I grew curious. I’m my father’s daughter. When I wish to resolve a problem, I research it thoroughly.”
“Do I disappoint?”
“On the contrary.” Alice’s face changed, a small pucker appearing between her brows. “I wish I had the opportunity to know you better.”
“I’m flattered.”
“No, you’re not, and I say that utterly without rancor. You’re wondering why we are having this conversation.” Alice finally met her eyes. Unlike her father’s golden gaze, Alice’s were a startling blue. “I’m concerned about my father. I want to know why he is using your uncle’s services. And I want to know if you’re likely to tell me the truth about it.”
Evelina’s breath hitched. She’d heard Alice Keating was sometimes blunt, but she hadn’t expected this. “My uncle does not discuss his cases with me. He holds his clients’ confidentiality in high regard. In any event, I don’t know what they spoke about.”
Alice frowned. “Would you tell me if you knew?”
“They aren’t my secrets to share.”
For a long moment, Alice glared at the flower bed as if it had offended her. “And my father tells me nothing of substance. My welfare depends on his. I should know.”
“He has not taken you into the business?” Some of the steam barons were female.
“No.” The single word spoke volumes.
“Ah.” Evelina swallowed hard. It wasn’t her affair, but she suddenly understood far too much. Like so many women, Alice was smart, but her capabilities were undervalued by her family. “I wish I could help.”
“Thank you.” Alice lifted her head. The elaborate coils of her copper hair resembled some mysterious
invention. The sun sparkled on the diamonds in her combs. “You are frank, Evelina Cooper. I like that. Perhaps someday we shall be friends.”
Evelina smiled, suddenly deciding she could like the Gold King’s daughter. “I would be honored.”
“Good.” They started back toward the main party. Alice made a long-suffering face. “I suppose I should get on with the business of finding a husband my father will like.”
“Find one you will like,” said Evelina firmly. “You’re the one who has to live with him, after all.”
Alice gave another laugh, but this time it was high and nervous. “Very true, but he will have to live with my father. He will have to be a very strong man to dare that.”
Evelina could well believe that. “Then when he comes along, you will have to snap him up.”
“That sounds very carnivorous.”
It was Evelina’s turn to laugh. “My grandmamma told me the marriage mart is not for the fainthearted.”
“Well, then,” said Alice, “let us break out the cutlery and have at it.”
Imogen eyed Stanford Whitlock uneasily. He was nice to look at, but had the unhappy habit of licking his lips. The sight of that large pink tongue reminded her of a mastiff they’d once owned. She was tempted to toss him a hunk of beef just to see if he would catch it in his teeth.
“But you see,” piped Percy Hamilton, who kept moving forward an inch with every breath. He was very close to crowding her against the tea table. “Buttercup was the favorite in the fourth race. She had a beautiful gait, she did. I was sure she could take Rake’s Flagon by at least a head.”
“And did she?” Imogen asked politely. “How fared the gallant Buttercup?”
“Disconnect me if she didn’t throw a shoe on the curve, and I lost my last shilling that day,” Percy said cheerfully. “But I got it all back at the next meet. It’s all a matter of trusting the numbers will come your way again.”
Imogen didn’t entirely disagree. Unlike Evelina, who planned for every last contingency, she was more patient with the universe. However, Imogen had also learned that life could be fleeting, and ought not to be wasted on irritating young men.
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