A Study in Silks

“You found me a job?” Tobias asked incredulously. “With a steam baron?”

The pater’s eyes narrowed with the full force of Jovian thunder. “The family needs Keating’s favor. The fact that his daughter has taken a shine to you doesn’t go amiss, either.”

“Ugh.”

“She’s a pretty girl. You just need to be civil.”

It was never that simple, but Tobias was tired of arguing right then. It seems my value as a pawn is not yet over. Magnus. Keating. His father. There was not much to choose between them. He had come to hate them all because, despite what he said to Evelina, he could see no realistic way to escape them. Not without throwing his mother and sisters to the wolves.

He’d been surprised to find he possessed a sense of duty. And rather less pride than he expected, too. He had the makings of a good man, but not a great one. Not the rebel with the burning torch of truth.

In his mind’s eye, Serafina’s chest rose, and it fell. Was that a smirk on those red, red lips?

“In the meantime,” Lord Bancroft said, topping up his glass, “there is Holmes to consider.”

Tobias had nearly forgotten the detective. “Feed him dinner and send him on his way. There’s nothing here to find. Magnus is gone. Let our bad luck die with him.”

Bancroft’s face set. “If only it were that simple.”

The words were an eerie echo of his thoughts.

Tobias left his father’s office a few minutes later, his head pounding and his stomach queasy. Nothing for Holmes to find? Of course there was. Only the great Lord Bancroft wasn’t telling his son what that was, so how the blazes was he going to forestall disaster?

Tobias stopped outside the parlor, listening to the murmur of voices. The last of the daylight was fading, painting the corridor in washes of gray. Inside the room, drinks were being poured, relaxing the guests the way the color was relaxing out of the sky, leaving behind a blurred, twilight mood.

Evelina had said it was someone in the house who had killed Grace Child. It had been a violent, frantic act. Wasn’t that usually done by someone driven to the brink, frantically lashing out like a drowning swimmer? Someone with secrets? Someone under the thumb of powerful enemies and in danger of ruin?

Tobias turned and looked at the study door, wondering.

Chapter Thirty-eight

You know my method. It is founded upon the observance of trifles.

—Sherlock Holmes, as recorded by John H. Watson, M.D., “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”

“Quite simply, Mr. Roth, I can see at a glance that you are an aficionado of things mechanical by the condition of your fingernails.” Holmes set down his soup spoon, enjoying his display far too much to bother with mere consomme. “And your last mistress was an Italian opera singer. I can tell that by your shirtmaker, who uses a distinctive pattern of buttonhole on your front placket. The only seamstresses who know that trick come from warmer climes and generally work where their skills are most appreciated, which would be near the costume shops of the Italian opera. No doubt you purchased that garment on your way home some morning when your own was the worse for wear. However, you had a falling-out with the lady, and then a contretemps with your valet.”

Holmes was just warming up, but Tobias was nearly at the boil. “How do you know that?”

“Your shoes.”

“My shoes.”

“Indubitably.” Holmes folded his hands over his waistcoat, not even bothering to hide his gloat.

“Is he always like this?” Imogen whispered under her breath.

“Wait for it,” Evelina muttered. “I feel a coup de grace coming on.”

“Let’s have it.” Tobias waggled his fingers with a come-hither gesture, turning a furious red about the ears. “How do my shoes betray my amorous missteps?”

“There is a scrape of gold paint along one heel. Your valet would have caught it if he paid closer attention to his duties. The mark is a particular gaudy shade used only in one establishment in town that has been—until recent events—devoted to German opera. I would think only a young man banished from the exquisite delights of bel canto would resort to the Royal Charlotte.”

Tobias cringed at the name, which meant Holmes had scored.

“Isn’t that the one attacked by a giant crab?” Holmes put in, mischief at the corners of his mouth.

“Squid,” Tobias said.

Everyone looked at him. His gaze darted around the table. “Or so I read.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow in the curious silence.

“What a delightful roast of lamb, Mother,” Imogen said brightly to Lady Bancroft, who fielded the comment with the expertise of a world-class cricketer.

While his wife prattled about mint sauce at the other end of the table, Evelina noticed Lord Bancroft staring moodily at his plate. Flushed with too much wine, he had the air of someone looking for a fight. She picked at her food nervously, never entirely letting her attention wander from him.

However, he opened with an innocuous gambit. “I had no idea a consulting detective would also be acquainted with the musical arts.”

She relaxed a degree. Her uncle liked musical discussions.

“I have my favorites,” he said. “I am particularly fond of Tartini.”

“Violin?”

Holmes took a sip of wine. “The Devil’s Trill is a quite magnificent piece.”

“A rather sensationalist title.”

“That does not lessen its beauty.”

“I understand that someone in Copenhagen has invented a type of closet that will play Don Giovanni on a mechanical mandolin while it rotates,” said Lady Bancroft enthusiastically. “One can be serenaded while selecting the day’s wardrobe.”

Holmes looked like he’d accidentally bit into a lemon.

Bancroft’s silverware clattered on the china plate as he attacked the lamb. “I am not a devotee of the Italian aesthetic.”

The detective forked up a bite of potato. “That’s right. You were ambassador to Austria. Mozart and marzipan.”

“The Viennese tradition has much to recommend it.”

Holmes smiled, but it was disarming. “I’ll grant you Beethoven, but you must keep Strauss out of my path.”

Bancroft grumbled something, but it was muffled by his wineglass. He was drinking a great deal, but had obviously had practice. His speech was barely slurred. Evelina bent her head over her plate, paying careful attention to her peas. Her uncle was a little too fond of his own opinions to make a comfortable dinner guest—at least not when there were other equally dominant men in the room.

She carefully picked up the silver container of mint sauce, aimed it at her plate, and pushed the button on the nozzle. A puff of steam gently curled from the lid, and a dollop of sauce plopped onto her lamb, warmed to exactly the correct temperature. A chased-silver boiler sat in the center of the table, connecting a half dozen such condiment dispensers, including butter, gravy, and red currant sauce. As a consequence of this latest invention for dining en famille, there were no servants hovering in the room. A little steam whistle sat atop the boiler, with a dainty pull-chain one could use to summon the next course.

“What did you think of your dance with Captain Smythe last night?” Imogen murmured.

“He’s used to cavalry charges.”

“You didn’t dance after the intermission. You sat with Tobias instead. Mother noticed.” Imogen poked her under the table. “I noticed. Is there something I should know?”

“I wasn’t feeling quite the thing. That was after Dr. Magnus made a nuisance of himself. Tobias was being