A Study in Silks

the privileges of rank. It would be simpler if I were a plain tradesman, or a lawyer, or a doctor, but I’m not.”

“And your plan?”

He sighed. “I shall manufacture an immense amount of character in record time?”

“And what if your father’s plan is to marry you to an heiress?”

“I knew I could count on you for the practical question.”

“I’m a bore that way.” Still, she waited for the answer. The sun was streaming in, painting the room with a wash of honeyed gold.

He smiled wanly. “There is only one thing I can do: build. Surely that is of value to someone.”

“I could applaud a man who builds.”

Tobias’s smile vanished. “Could you love him?”

It was a cautious question, a foot set gingerly on a newly frozen pond. The power of it weighed on her; he had laid himself bare. Her mouth went dry as she searched his face. Her emotions were a bonfire, but her mind was alert, weighing everything. I could love him. In time, I think I could build a future with him.

He was handsome, as he had always been, but she saw the harder lines beneath the prettiness now. There were the beginnings of maturity in his expression, and she liked what she was hearing. He wanted something different. She was different. If she could let go of the past, it might, just might, work.

“I could,” she answered, barely above a whisper. “Building means something.”

She had come so far, making it into her first Season. She had done the presentation and her first ball. But this was the first moment that felt like it belonged to the real Evelina, not just Evelina the debutante, the woman her Grandmamma Holmes had done her best to invent. Tobias wanted her, not just the ideal of a well-trained Society girl.

“I’m glad,” he said, taking her hands. “Making is good. Making a life with you will be even better.”

With that, Tobias leaned down that last inch, pressing his warm mouth over hers. Evelina’s mind went hazy, all her critical faculties melting like snow on a hot stove. He smelled of soap and the linen of his shirt. Her fingers instinctively sought out his face, tracing the clean line of his jaw and lean, freshly shaved cheeks.

And then he deepened the kiss, and a shiver ran through her, sending an electric pulse that melted her core. She arched into it, letting him run his hand over the side of her ribs, down the curve of her waist. Her breasts crushed against him, deliciously sensitive. It was as if her whole body were suddenly awake.

When they broke the kiss, she was panting like she’d run a mile. There were no devas or silver lights, but his kiss was definitely magic.

His grin was pure wickedness, as if the shadow on his spirits had been lifted. “Testing out your investigative skills?”

For a moment, she couldn’t form words. She thought she might need to lie down. “Are you a mystery that needs solving?”

“Perhaps I’m simply a crime about to be perpetrated.”

That seemed all too likely. He’d scrambled her wits to custard. “Then perhaps I shall call Inspector Lestrade for an arrest.”

Tobias squeezed her hands, his grin turning a little rueful. “A spell in the lockup might do me good. I have some plans to make.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner.

—Sherlock Holmes, as recorded by John H. Watson, M.D., The Sign of the Four

Evelina had locked herself in her room, disgusted with herself. She had spent the last hour elated, and then agonizing over what seemed to be the next best thing to a formal proposal. And then elated again. How she managed to be shocked and riven and desperately buoyant all at once was boggling. No wonder so much paper was covered with love poetry. People were just trying to make sense of the turmoil of emotion.

Young men were extremely complicated creatures. The Duchess of Westlake had compared them to ships. She didn’t know much about the sea, but Tobias would have been something beautifully crafted and elegant with lots of white sails—the meeting place of tradition and innovation. Evelina turned the image around in her head, wondering where she fit into that metaphor without it sounding rude.

Nick, on the other hand, would have been a sleek pirate ship. He already had the gold rings in his ears.

Speaking of unfathomable young men, now there was this Striker, who—according to Mouse and Bird— began as Nick’s foe and ended up his comrade in arms.

Nick and Striker had killed Magnus together—one saving the other’s life and then vice versa—drunk an enormous amount of Blue Ruin, ogled over some airship plans Nick had accidentally stolen from Magnus in an attempt to pack his bleeding wounds, and then ended up visiting a surgeon when it became absolutely clear Nick required proper medical attention, which the Gold King’s streetkeeper could command for his Yellowbacks at will. Keating at least did something for his people.

In the end, everyone was fine—except Magnus.

And how do I feel about any of that? Happy that Mouse and Bird were back. Ecstatic that Nick would be all right. Relieved that Magnus was gone. Gratitude—enormous gratitude—to Nick for seeing it done.

And yet? Loss yawned inside her and unexpected tears dimmed her sight. Magnus had known what she was. He could have told her much, although probably for a price she would never willingly pay. He had threatened her, stolen from her, and tried to seduce her. Still, knowledge and life were never lightly lost.

She gave a shuddering sigh. In contrast, the logic of gear and spring was soothing.

The gimcrack bird stood on the edge of her train case, pecking at the screws and wheels as if they were seeds.

She’d had to rework some of Striker’s repairs, but most were as good as she could have managed without a complete recasting of the brass. The patches gave Bird a rakish air a bit like Striker himself. Mouse had been nowhere as badly damaged, but had experienced a rough ride during Dr. Magnus’s last stand.

Evelina polished a scratch out of Mouse’s belly.

I don’t know why you’re bothering with that—thing, Bird complained.

“Don’t you want a friend?” she asked.

What do I have in common with a rodent?

As part of the repair, she’d tipped the little paws in velvet so that its scampering would be utterly silent. Now they waggled in the air as she rubbed.

“You can complain about brass cats.”

Mouse piped up. And after that extensive conversation, perhaps we can move on to the cricket scores? How am I supposed to work with something that but for the grace of the gods might have been an omelet?

“You’re both just jealous. You want to be the only living mechanical device.”

Nonsense, Bird replied stiffly.

I am unique, huffed Mouse.

“That you are,” she replied dryly, still rubbing at the scratch.

I protest this illogical servitude, Mouse complained.

“Yet you do seem to like sneaking about.” She set down the cloth. “I might go so far as to say you relish it.”

It has a certain sensationalist interest.

Evelina pulled off her magnifying lenses. “If you really want to go, I won’t make you stay, but then you won’t