For a moment there was nothing but stunned surprise.
Bloody hell. Evelina clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear Lord, that was you?” she mumbled from behind her hand. “I should have known!”
“You can’t tell anyone or we’ll all be arrested!” he hissed.
She clamped her other hand over her mouth, forcing herself to stay silent. Her shoulders were starting to shake. She’d read about it all in the papers. Tears of laughter started to leak from her eyes.
He was turning red. “It’s not that funny!”
“Yes, it is.” She hiccuped. “Was your father there?”
He nodded, starting to grin himself. “Like Jove remembering he left his thunderbolts back in the chariot.”
Then they both started to giggle, the cramped, hushed noise of two conspirators afraid of discovery. Evelina couldn’t stand it, and got up to look out of the window. She needed to laugh out loud, but they might be overheard. And there was no way to settle down as long as Tobias was right in front of her, looking as guilty as the boy who’d stolen the pie.
Of course that was him. Who else would ever do such a thing? She shook with an aftershock of mirth, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Is that why you had bruises on your face that night?” she asked.
“There was quite a fight,” he nodded, looking sheepish.
A huge knot of worry came loose from under her heart. If he was wreaking havoc at the opera, full of high spirits and mischief—well, it just didn’t fit with a cold-blooded, gruesome murder. Tobias has to be innocent.
How could the man who had defended Dora before the Gold King be anything less? Tobias Roth was handsome, clever, and original. There was no room in her universe for him to be anything but good and kind.
Bird had flown off and was flashing through the branches of the trees, bouyant as her spirits. Behind her, she heard Tobias moving and was about to turn around when she felt his hands come to rest lightly on her shoulders. She tensed, afraid to move, afraid that he would move, afraid that he would leave. As if he sensed her uncertainty, he stood perfectly still.
“At least now I’ve seen you laugh.” His voice, deep and soft, came from right behind her. His breath tickled her ear, tart with the scent of wine. His fingers were warm, gentle—though there was strength just beneath that softness.
“You are a wonderful idiot,” she whispered, wanting him to touch her even if it made every instinct alert and wary.
He chuckled. “You’re probably the only woman in the Empire who knows who I am and still thinks so. The wonderful part at least. The idiot part is a generally accepted truth.”
Evelina bit her lip, afraid to disturb the moment. Would you think I’m wonderful if you knew everything about me?
Tobias went on, his voice low and urgent. “I want you to know I’m dealing honestly with you.”
Instantly, caution assailed her. “Your father—”
“Never mind him.” Tobias squeezed her shoulders lightly.
“He is your father. Don’t hurt yourself for my sake.”
“He is important to me, but I have my own heart to follow. I know who I am now.”
She thought of her own situation, of the roads she had traveled and how many she had yet to go down. Her chest ached for Tobias. “That’s not always as simple as it sounds. There are a lot of false paths.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve been on quite a few of them.”
Evelina swallowed, wondering what any of this meant. Don’t read more into it than is there. He just came to tell you about the opera house. The rest is as reliable as quicksand. “Right now everything is more confusing than ever.”
He made a wry noise. “I have a feeling a lot is going to happen before the Season is over, and I don’t mean just a lot of balls and tea parties.”
Champagne, proposals, and—oh yes, a triple homicide with a garnish of sorcery. What larks. “I think you’re right.”
“You’ll keep me honest.” He pressed his lips to the tip of her ear, then backed away.
She turned to face him, catching her breath at the soft look in his clear gray eyes. “I can’t be your conscience.”
He gave a lopsided smile, his face pale as if the drink were finally catching up to him. “Some of us are better if we’re held accountable.”
She smiled, shaking her head. “You have to do that for yourself.”
That’s the thing with real professionals. They can work without a net. But he had trusted her enough to tell her his secret. Never mind he was quite clearly drunk, it was still something. Perhaps it made her trust him a little. “Good night, Tobias.”
The lopsided grin widened with a version his habitual mischief. “Good night, fair Evelina. Talking with you always makes me a better man.”
“It doesn’t take much,” she muttered, pushing him away.
He barked a laugh as he disappeared out the door.
Chapter Twenty-three
London, April 10, 1888
KEATING RESIDENCE
9 a.m. Tuesday
The Gold King waved away Alice’s offer of another cup of tea. She set the Wedgewood pot back on its trivet and subsided into the chair opposite him at the tiny breakfast table.
She had eaten earlier and returned, it seemed, for the sole purpose of cosseting him. A lovely gesture, but he was enough of a businessman to know it didn’t come free. If she had nothing to ask, she would have left him to his morning papers.
The sunlight made her hair burn like copper fire. She was dressed to go out, neat and tidy in a fawn walking ensemble Keating had ordered from Worth in Paris. Alice wore his money well.
“A busy day ahead, Papa?” she asked sweetly.
“Exceedingly. And you?”
She folded her napkin with an air of delicate ennui that made him tense. His darling daughter used that languid air the way a leopard used its spots—camouflage to hide her stealth. All right, then. She wanted something she knew he would not easily surrender.
“My day consists of a dress fitting, a musicale, perhaps a ride in Rotten Row, and if I feel energetic enough, the heir to the Westlake fortune has encouraged his mama to invite me to the theater tonight. Some Italian opera at the Royal Charlotte.”
“I thought they were doing Wagner. Someone was talking it up to me the other day.”
“The production was eaten by a giant squid.”
Keating paused, his egg spoon poised in midair. Only in London. “Italian it is, then. Have a lovely time.”
“I would rather be with you.” She gave him a coy glance.
He raised an eyebrow. She was definitely angling for a favor. “Not where I am going today.”
“Another brutal, bloody battle in the name of commerce?”
Sometimes he wondered if she knew how literal that was. “Several, in fact.”
“How thrilling. Then I shall leave you to muster your troops.” She bent, kissed his cheek, and made for the door.
Too easy. He looked up at her slim, stylish figure outlined against the heavy wine damask of the wallpaper. “Are you fond of the Duke of Westlake’s boy?”
She paused, turning slowly. Her skirts followed with a silky swish. “Not particularly. He has a title, though. And his mother’s annual ball is one of the choice events of the Season.”
Her chin tilted at a dismissive angle, and he understood the game, at least in part. She had set her sights on someone and wanted him to approve—but his Alice was too subtle to blurt out her heart’s desire. Not, at least, during a negotiation. He’d taught her to be a better businesswoman than that. Maybe I should let her take a modest role in the firm.
A glow of pride—and a bit of fatherly worry—warmed his chest. “Would you rather marry money or breeding?”
A ghost of a smile played across her bowed lips. They understood each other. “Both are pleasant attributes, but I’d rather have a man with a mind of his own.”
He experienced a pang just under his watch chain, as if a knife had slid
neatly into his gut. Was it the sudden sense that she was looking toward a future that didn’t always include him? He slammed the feeling down, but could not help thinking she might be a bit too much like him, and too little like her poor obedient, dead mother.
Keating snorted, turning back to his egg. “Best of luck finding such a man at your musicales.”
Her blue eyes held just a spark of triumph. “Exactly so.”
He set down the spoon, growing irritated. “And pray tell, miss, what does that mean?”
“I would want someone with wits enough to help you. Someone who won’t merely lick your shoes.”
She was right, of course, but the statement shocked him. “Since when do I need help?”
A lift of her delicate chin signaled defiance. “You are a great enough man to build a legacy. I refuse to take a husband who will simply squander it.”
Keating felt the net of her logic closing in. He could tell her straight off that she would marry where he told her to, since that was the way of things, but he let her keep her pride. “Of course.”
She ducked her head, a little shyly. She thought she had won and was trying to hide her pleasure. “That’s why I have you to look out for my interests, Papa. You are a most admirable guard dog.”
“You flatter me.” He watched his daughter go, already hating the man who would take her away.
And then, eyes suddenly vulnerable, she said the last thing in the world he expected.
“I fancy Tobias Roth.”
And Alice all but ran from the room.
Pure dismay curdled Keating’s breakfast to a hard, greasy lump. He sat motionless, his mouth slowly drifting open.
Roth! That was the fair-haired idiot who made a fool of Aragon Jackson. Of me.
Surely she jests. And yet, he understood the attraction. The boy had all the usual qualifications: education, looks, good pedigree, the trappings of a successful family. Plus, he was just enough of a rebel to catch the female eye.
And he clearly understood machines.
But Keating planned to eventually ruin the father for that Harter’s debacle. Bancroft was obedient now, but that was only because he knew he was under scrutiny. He’d try something the moment Keating’s attention wandered.
And yet—ruin wasn’t the only means of revenge. Perhaps he could be inventive and steal the heir to Bancroft’s imagined legacy right out from under his aristocratic nose. He savored the idea, cataloguing the nuances of its flavor as if it were a fine wine.
He did so like to please his daughter.
Keating was still mulling over the idea as he settled into his study on the main floor of his Mayfair address. The London house was not as large as his townhouse in Bath or even the estate he had purchased near Truro, but it had the smell of old aristocracy about it. It was the perfume of age and money, as if the pedigree of its former owners had seeped into the brick and timbers.
The rooms had high ceilings and gilt, with delicately painted panels in the bedchambers and marquetry on the floors. The fireplaces were framed in porphyry and the enormous paned windows were draped with velvet so heavy that it took two strong men to remove each panel for spring cleaning. The house had once belonged to a duke’s mistress, but she’d been old and ill and Keating had seen his opportunity to drive a hard bargain.
He’d added modern conveniences, of course—like the pneumatic tracks that ran like a narrow shelf all along the wainscoting. Tiny silver cars ran along it, much like a toy railway. They allowed food, drink, or any small item to be delivered at the touch of a button without the annoyance of intruding servants. If one really wished privacy, one had merely to place one’s order to the butler’s pantry through a speaking tube, then wait for the requested item to appear via the Lilliputian railway. It was the finishing touch on a house that was no more than the founder of Keating Utility deserved, and one that we would be proud to settle on Alice someday.
But how did he feel about the Roth boy putting his feet up on the fender? Keating expected his daughter to marry high up the social ladder, and it was worth noting that Tobias would inherit his father’s title. Alice could be the next Lady Bancroft. Not bad, though the next Duchess of Westlake sounded even better.
And Keating wasn’t sure that he approved of her ideas about marrying a man with brains. Too much intellect could be problematic in a son-in-law.
He’d barely finished the thought when the dark paneled door swung open, and his first appointment strolled in with the air of a man on a scenic tour. Keating studied his visitor. Tall, wearing a black suit tailored with a Continental flair. Goatee. An emerald the size of Keating’s fingernail flashing in his stickpin. Flashy, verging on tasteless.
“Dr. Magnus, I presume,” Keating said. “,I saw your name in my appointment book, but I do not recall setting this meeting.”
“Your secretary did so at my request.,” his visitor replied, sinking into one of the oxblood leather chairs without invitation.
“I recall that Lord Bancroft introduced us at his wife’s birthday party.”
“Indeed he did. And as I do not flatter myself that you recall every detail of the conversation, let me say again that I am a man of science recently arrived in London.”
Bully for you. “What can I do for you?” Keating took the other chair, doing his best to make the seating arrangements look like his idea.
“Seeing as we are both busy men, I thought perhaps a polite conversation could save us both a great deal of skulking and snarling, however recreational that prospect might seem.”
“Snarling about what?” Keating felt a moment of confusion. It usually took a few minutes to arrive at hostility, but this man seemed to have gone on without him.
Magnus waved an airy hand. “You had Herr Schliemann dig up Athena’s Casket and ship it to London. As soon as I had word that it had been located, I was on its trail.”
“How did you know that?” A wary feeling formed in the pit of the Gold King’s stomach. He had done everything possible to keep the discovery of the item a secret.
A hollow, almost ravenous look came over the man’s dark face. “I have my methods and my watchers within the archaeological community. I’ve been searching for the casket for a great many years.”
Wariness grew to worry. Keating shifted uncomfortably on the horsehair padding of the seat. “Indeed? Your interest must be great, if you traveled from—wherever you came from—to follow up on what must be a slender lead.”
The foreigner’s brows contracted. “Please, do not play me for a fool.”
Affronted, Keating pulled himself up in his seat. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know Schliemann found the casket and had it shipped to London, right to your warehouse. The archaeologist’s work has long been of interest to me. He has investigated many sites I thought long lost to memory. I have kept a member of Schliemann’s crew in my pay, well rewarded to notify me if anything of interest comes to light. He gave me every detail of the treasure found in Rhodes, down to the name of the ship it traveled on.”
Damn him. Keating would be having words with Schliemann via the next post. “Very well. What is your interest in the casket?”
“It is unique.”
“I would say it was large and gaudy.” Just like your tiepin. “That hardly makes it worth crossing oceans.”
“Again, you are needlessly coy.” The man gave a white and somehow carnivorous smile. “So let me say why it is of such interest, to spare us the dance. Only a handful of ancients knew how to harness an ambient spirit within a mechanical device. Athena’s Casket is the only surviving example of a lost art.”
It was all Keating could do not to flinch at the words. “I am well aware of the legends around the item.” And how it could destroy my fortune or make me master of the Empire. “That does not answer why you are sitting in my study.”
“For the obvious reason. I want the box.”
That surprised a laugh of the Gold King. “Do you, now?”
The forei
gner leaned forward, his expression slightly mocking. “I do, if only to study its workings.”
Keating crossed his legs and bent a sliver of truth to fit the situation. “I do not have the casket here. The shipment was delayed.”
Keating had, of course, contacted Holmes as soon as a problem reared its head, but that hadn’t been the end of the story. A handful of the boxes had been separated from the rest, arriving late. The shipping manifest claimed those last few crates had been delivered days before Harriman was able to confirm their arrival. Keating had visited the owner of the shipping line with a most urgent request that his goods be found—but to no avail.
Keating’s frustration must have shown on his face. Magnus’s eyes narrowed. “Surely you did not let such a valuable object slip through your fingers?”
“That is not the case. There was merely a logistical difficulty.”
Harriman had looked into the matter, and eventually found the crates had gone to a different establishment down the street. Everything had been in order—except the casket. It was still missing. Keating’s men were quietly taking aside the owners of the other local warehouses for some very pointed questioning.
He’d sent an update to Holmes, but the detective wasn’t at Baker Street. No sooner had the detective accepted the case than the pompous idiot had rushed off to Bohemia on some other errand. He didn’t seem to understand that Keating needed him in London, now, finding out what happened to Schliemann’s shipment. If Keating did not see results soon, he would be obliged to yank Holmes’s leash.
“So you are admitting that it was lost,” Magnus said again in a soft voice.
Shame and anger crept up the sides of Keating’s neck. His fingers dug at the brass studs in the arm of the chair, as if to rip them out with his nails. Lost was further than Keating was willing to go. Surely Holmes would solve the case, when he troubled himself to get on with it. “No. I simply do not have the casket here.”
“Then send for it. Allow me to examine it.”“
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