A Study in Silks tba-1

by Emma Jane Holloway

  But by then the ladies had to make a star in the center of their quartet, circling around with a swirl of skirts. It gave her just enough time to find her sense of equilibrium, and when the figure deposited her back in Bucky’s arms, she was decidedly glad to feel his touch again. He was relaxed and confident, which was the essence of a good dancer. They moved forward, changing partners, then changing back, her feet barely touching the gleaming marquetry of the floor. His gaze never left her for a moment, watching her with that special intensity that made it nearly impossible not to preen. No one, not even The Stare, had watched her quite that way. It made her feel like Venus swanning about on her sea-foam cushion.

  When the last bars ended and she gave a final curtsy, they were near the doorway to the refreshment area. Imogen realized that she had abandoned her lemonade several partners ago, and she was parched. “I would very much like something to drink,” she said plaintively. “But it looks like half the world has had the same idea.”

  “Fear not, fair lady. The first duty of a resourceful knight is to find alternate routes to the punch bowl.” He tucked her arm through his, his gloved fingers warm and strong, and led her away from the throng. “I’ve been here many a time, and know a back way.”

  “You’re removing me from the ballroom? Is this an evil scheme to lead me astray?” she asked suspiciously—but at the same time couldn’t deny the prospect had appeal.

  “To claim that I scheme would be to give me too much credit. The best I can manage is a desultory plot from time to time.”

  “How sad.”

  “I shall have to try harder. Never let it be said that I lacked ambition, even if it is intriguingly misguided from time to time.”

  His grin stayed a whisker away from impropriety. Imogen answered it with one of her own, feeling impossibly daring.

  He led her into another hallway. There were fewer people, and suddenly walking was much easier. A servant hurried toward them, guiding a steam trolley with a tray of something that smelled delicious. Since the passage was narrow, Bucky pulled her into another doorway to let the man pass. Imogen noticed the considerate gesture—many wouldn’t yield to a servant, no matter how impractical it would have been to force the trolley out of the way.

  As Bucky had made way, he’d pushed the door open so they had more room to stand. The room where they’d taken refuge was one of those catch-all spaces necessary for large gatherings—this one was filled with stacks of extra linens, instrument cases that no doubt belonged to the small orchestra, and a rolled-up carpet. There was another door on the far wall that must have opened into yet another room, because Imogen was suddenly aware of voices on the other side.

  “No, no, and no!” It was a woman’s voice, and tinged with panic.

  Bucky and Imogen exchanged a glance. He pulled her all the way into the room and shut the door to the hallway quietly, leaving it open just enough to admit a sliver of light. Then he raised a gloved finger to his lips. “I think someone is in trouble,” he said in low tones. “I’m not sure, but I may need to interfere.”

  Whatever could be going on? Imogen wondered, her heart pattering with alarm.

  Jasper Keating sat in the small, fussy sitting room where the Duchess of Westlake had bid him go. He was to wait there until she could slip away from the ball unnoticed. The separate-exit-and-rendezvous maneuver was standard protocol for romantic intrigue—as ridiculous as it seemed, the old harridan was still too careful of her reputation to be seen entering a private chamber with a man who was not her husband.

  That was not—not in a million years—why Keating was meeting her, but he still had to cool his heels in the fussy pink-striped room that reminded him of something built out of marzipan for a little girl’s birthday cake.

  It was an odd contrast to what he had been doing at this time yesterday—marching through the dockyards to check the locker where Striker had stored his weapons. His man had inspected it already, but Keating wouldn’t rest until he’d looked himself. The lost key still felt like betrayal, a spurning of the favor he’d showed the piece of street trash. If Striker hadn’t been so good at his job he would have been today’s refuse, left in the gutter for the rats and dogs.

  Keating clenched his fist, watching the seams of his gloves strain with the fierceness of his grip. A careless, ungrateful fool. He got up to pace the room, a panther trapped in a nightmare of pink and cupids.

  The sky above the dockyard had been pale gray blotched with inky clouds, the sun dying behind the rows of warehouses. Keating and his men had moved quickly between the brick and wood buildings. Many of the docks were under the control of Keating Utility, but not all—and every edifice was carefully guarded. Automatons loomed outside each doorway, a reddish light smoldering in the pits of their eyes and the slash of their mouths. Some rolled on tracks, others lumbered on two or four feet. No one in Keating’s party was foolish enough to set foot beyond a competitor’s property line. Men died for less.

  By the time they’d stopped at the building in question, the sun had fully set and the lamps around Keating’s structures were lit. The yellow glow washed the cobbles and brickwork in a sepia haze—a color that matched the river’s cold and choking stink. Keating still felt the raw wind from the Thames on his face, a bite that seemed to go clear to the bone. He had cursed Striker all over again for making the trip a necessity.

  And he’d cursed again when it turned out to be a fool’s errand. The warehouse lock had been undisturbed, just has his man had said. They had opened it, pulling the heavy oak doors wide and lighting up the enormous gaslights within. The enormous building was a maker’s daydream—a whale’s maw crisscrossed with twelve-foot shelves heaped with machinery parts, engines, gauges, equipment, and all the materials seized from the Harter Engine Company, including the working models of their combustion engines. Deep in the whale’s belly, filling three shelves end to end, was Striker’s armory of fantastical weapons—enough firepower to set London alight. The warehouse as a whole could have supplied a revolution.

  But every nut, bolt. and cog was untouched. Keating—not one for tears—had nearly wept with relief. Not that he let his men see the slightest hint of either his distress or his relief. He’d simply ordered the locks changed and marched out again. Striker would be getting no more keys.

  Keating continued his circuit of the Duchess of Westlake’s room, vaguely conscious of the distant orchestra and the murmur of conversation. It was hot and stuffy, made hotter by his recollection of the cold dockyard wind. And yet, as unpleasant as the warehouse task had been, he’d enjoyed the action more than this elaborate minuet of secret meetings and whispered plans. Out on the docks, things were simple, clear, and brutally quick.

  He paused in front of a painting—some pastoral scene involving sheep and a pair of lovers. The sheep looked bored. He looked up almost hopefully when the sitting room door swept open.

  The Duchess of Westlake sailed in, closing the door behind her. “Mr. Keating, thank you for meeting me on such short notice, but as you know my needs are most urgent.”

  Keating bowed, waiting until she took a seat before settling himself back in his chair. Not for the first time, he wondered why the rest of the Steam Council was so worried about the so-called Baskerville conspiracy. They should take note of the way he handled the duchess, if they were worried about the aristocrats. People with titles were just as vulnerable to bribery and threats as everyone else. And once they were caught, flies—no matter how many fancy titles they had—couldn’t rebel against the spider. “It is my pleasure as always to serve you as best as I am able. However, I’m not sure how much more I can do.”

  She lifted her head, the gesture more imperious than pleading. “No, no, and no! You must help me. Surely there is some arrangement we can make.”

  “That will be difficult.”

  “You are a man of business, are you not? Isn’t making deals what you do?”

  “My lady,” said Jasper Keating, utterly irritated. “You are i
n no position to bargain.”

  The Duchess of Westlake glared back at him, her square form reminding him of a crudely carved figurehead that had somehow escaped its ship. “I’ve paid everything I can.” Her voice was harsh. “My personal fortune is not limitless.”

  Keating didn’t care, but tried to keep the annoyance from his manner. The woman was bent on saving her cousin’s life, but it was a lost cause. Nellie Reynolds was an actress, of value only when she was the apple of the public’s eye. Once that adoration was finished, she was little better than a drab walking the lowest streets of London. Keating had no use for trash, and wasn’t sure why the duchess bothered.

  But he put a look of concern on his face, and carried on. “Barristers are expensive, and Sir Philip Amory is the top man in London. I engaged him as you asked, but I don’t think more money is the answer even if you had it to give. The public has turned against her.”

  “Nellie is my cousin. I can’t give up.” The duchess rose, sweeping around the private drawing room in agitation. The fine white and red shot silk of her ball gown glimmered as she moved, the fabric rustling like the surf on a beach. “She might not be my uncle’s legitimate child, but we grew up in the same nursery. I taught her to read and write her name on the same slate I used. She was the prettiest child you could imagine.”

  Keating hated sentimentality only one degree less than tales of childhood bliss. Such things were too far removed from his own experience to sound credible. He sat back against the stiff upholstery of the armchair and wished etiquette permitted him to light a cigar.

  “Why has the world gone mad?” the woman complained. “Anyone with sense can see Nellie is as unmagical as a lamppost. She wouldn’t even let me drag her to a Gypsy at the fair to have her fortune read. She is as pragmatic as mud.”

  And common as mud, too. Keating said nothing. The duchess was probably right about her bastard cousin’s lack of magic, but that was far from the point. Actors, poets, and the like were far too prone to making mock of the steam barons. One of their number had to pay the price for that mockery, and Nellie Reynolds was the easiest target. Even better, he owed Amory a favor, and handing him a client like the actress, with the duchess so ready to pay the barrister’s egregious fees, evened that score nicely.

  And the benefits of the entire business kept on multiplying. Securing Amory put the duchess in his debt, which had come in handy when it came to presenting the detective’s niece—although that piece of business had yet to bear fruit. He would have to follow up on that first thing tomorrow.

  The woman was still talking. “Besides, we grew up together. We’ve never lived more than a few miles apart. If she were a witch, I would know of it!”

  It was time she heard the truth. It was a kindness, really. “My lady, forgive me for speaking my mind, but the Reynolds woman is an illegitimate relation, an actress, and a magic user. You need to let her go.”

  Outrage widened the duchess’s eyes. “She is innocent, sir! Where is the evidence of this magic? A few props from her acting trunk? It’s all poppycock. They say she has a crystal ball for summoning demons. It’s a garden ornament I gave her out of my own yard last March. I know these accusations are baseless.”

  Even Keating had to wince at that.

  “I can’t just let her burn.” The woman’s voice hitched. She fell back onto the divan, which creaked alarmingly. The duchess was well beyond the day when swooning was a delicate business.

  Keating steepled his fingers. “Madam, she is all but convicted. The association will taint this house. You will end up as one of the Disconnected.”

  “I am the Duchess of Westlake,” proclaimed the woman. “You cannot turn off my steam.”

  This was the moment he had been waiting for. Keating moved in for the kill without emotion. “My lady, I make the steam. I have helped you as a friend and a gentleman. I have kept your confidences, and acted as intermediary on your behalf. I completely understand that some things you could not do yourself as a titled woman. It was not fitting that you personally meet with jailors and police.”

  So he had taken on all those distasteful tasks, winning her trust one bit at a time. Waiting with the patience of a cat at the fishbowl and scooping up pieces of business whenever they came his way. Now the Westlakes’ affairs were firmly anchored with Keating Utility—all because the duchess loved her cousin. He supposed he owed Nellie Reynolds something after all. Pity he had no intention of paying that debt.

  The duchess pursed her lips, looking a bit like that proverbial fish. “And I appreciate your efforts, Mr. Keating. You have been a friend.”

  Keating’s reply was cool. “But first I am a man of business. I will not hesitate to do what is necessary to maintain harmony among my clients. I won’t have the whole upset by the actions of one, however illustrious that one might be.”

  Disbelief filled her eyes, then pain, then a resignation thickly veined with hate. Keating felt a pang almost like regret. This is the moment when she realizes her cousin is lost. When she realizes that I hold all the cards.

  Her voice rose in pitch, growing almost shrill. “Are you saying that if Society cuts me for trying to save my cousin from the stake, you will turn off my heat and light?”

  “You come quickly to the point, my lady. But rest assured that I would only do so as a last resort. I know your son has a tendre for my daughter, Alice. She is a good girl, and will wed where I ask.” She might fancy the Roth boy now, but that could change—with the right encouragement.

  And there was the foundation of his scheming. The duchess would be pliable where her son’s hand was concerned, if the entire Westlake fortune was in peril—and he would see to that. For Alice, the match would be brilliant, linking fortune to title.

  “How comforting,” the duchess’s tone was dry. “No doubt you have brought your daughter up with the expectation of marrying well.”

  The comment nettled him. “Alice has nothing to be humble about.”

  The woman sniffed with all the hauteur of her title and pedigree. “Indeed, Mr. Keating. I understand she wears Paris fashions with great aplomb.”

  Keating narrowed his eyes. It was amazing how an aristocrat could insult without actually saying anything one could point at. Well, he was the one with his hand on the switch. “As you say, my lady.”

  Her face turned to stone. “I would appreciate it if you left me now, Mr. Keating.”

  Keating looked down to hide his smile. He had won. “Very well, my lady.”

  “My lady,” said a male voice. Whomever it was sounded utterly irritated. “You are in no position to bargain.”

  Imogen touched Bucky’s arm, feeling the fine cloth of his sleeve through her lace gloves. “My lady?” she whispered.

  He put a hand over hers, and leaned close to her ear. His breath was warm. “Be careful they don’t hear us before they need to.”

  Worry clutched at Imogen’s chest, and she hugged her arms across her middle. They were in the awkward position of overhearing something they shouldn’t, but Bucky was right. There was trouble. They couldn’t walk away, in case there was real danger—but no one wanted to raise the alarm until was absolutely necessary. A mistake could be mortifying for everyone involved.

  Bucky began prowling the room, picking up a broom, and then setting it down in favor of a sturdier carpet beater. He weighed it in one hand, clearly testing its weapons potential. Bucky might not have had Captain Smythe’s uniform, but he was a practical thinker who wasn’t wasting any time. But what if there is a gun?

  “I’ve paid everything I can,” the woman said, her voice harsh.

  “Barristers are expensive, and Sir Philip Amory is the top man in London. I engaged him as you asked, but I don’t think more money is the answer even if you had it to give. The public has turned against her.”

  “Nellie is my cousin. I can’t give up.”

  Bucky turned to look at Imogen, astonishment plain on his face. He mouthed the words, “Nellie Reynolds?”


  Imogen felt her own eyes widen as the conversation came to a tense silence. She barely dared to breathe. Bucky made a questioning gesture. Imogen shrugged in reply.

  “And I appreciate your efforts, Mr. Keating. You have been a friend.”

  Keating! Imogen’s breath hitched—but she suddenly understood why the duchess had sponsored Evelina. If Keating was helping the duchess save her cousin, she would do anything he asked.

  The duchess’s voice rose in pitch. “Are you saying that if Society cuts me for trying to save my cousin from the stake, you will turn off my heat and light?”

  “You come quickly to the point, my lady. But rest assured that I would only do so as a last resort. I know your son has a tendre for my daughter, Alice. She is a good girl, and will wed where I ask.”

  The threat was so bold, Imogen’s jaw grew slack.

  “How comforting,” the duchess’s tone was dry. “I would appreciate it if you left me now, Mr. Keating.”

  “Very well, my lady.”

  Imogen’s throat closed with panic. What if he left through the back way and found her and Bucky within earshot?

  Bucky silently set down the carpet beater and was at Imogen’s side in a heartbeat. “Come on!” he whispered, and took her hand. He pulled open the door to the corridor and dragged her into the passage, barely closing it again before Imogen heard the interior door open.

  It was just a piece of luck that the corridor was empty at that exact moment. No one saw Imogen emerge from a darkened room, towed by a young man who ran with a fast set. It would have been enough to destroy her reputation before the Season even began.

  But their good fortune ran out before they made it more than a few more steps. Jasper Keating swept out of the room, as casual as if the house were his. Maybe that’s what he has in mind. Imogen had already seen the duchess’s son dancing with the Gold King’s daughter, Alice.

  But she barely had time for that thought to form before Bucky roughly backed her into the wall, shielding her from view with his body as if he were moving in for a kiss. Imogen’s breath left her in a whoosh, and when she dragged it back in, all she could smell was him. It was a male smell—tobacco and whisky, soap and wool. Intoxicated, Imogen allowed desire to overcome her fright for just that moment. Keating moved by, paying no attention to them.