A Study in Silks

Holmes was silent. Keating could see him considering the flip side of his statement: if the right word could help the girl, what damage could the wrong word do? Everyone is vulnerable somehow. This one hides his affections, but they are there, exposed nerves that quiver at a touch.

Keating allowed himself a smile. “I hear she is a fetching creature. Can you, or even your illustrious brother, offer her as much assistance?”

The man looked like he had just downed one of his own chemical experiments. “You know I cannot.”

“Then help her by helping me find the casket.”

“I shall consider it.” The tone hadn’t altered, but now Holmes did not meet his eyes.

I have you. It might take all night for the man to choke down his enormous pride, but surely the battle was won. Keating smirked inside, though he was careful to keep his face perfectly bland. “Then I shall expect results, Mr. Holmes. You have a reputation to uphold as well.”

Holmes finally gave him the full effect of his icy gray eyes. “I do not guarantee that you will like everything I find. I go where the evidence leads.”

A twist of anxiety spoiled Keating’s mood. He was taking a huge gamble, and he could only pray finding the casket was worth the trouble of managing Sherlock Holmes. “Then I rely on your professional discretion.”

“Truth has no discretion, but I shall keep what she says to myself.”

It was as much of a surrender as the detective was likely to give. Jasper Keating left, descending the stairs with a brisk tread. He gave Mrs. Hudson the barest nod as he gathered his coat, hat, and walking stick on his way out the door, almost triumphant.

Chapter Nine

Later that morning, Keating was back in the carriage, his mind swinging from the aggravating topic of Holmes, to his displeasure with one Lord Bancroft, and then back again. His chest burned with the first fires of a dyspeptic attack, as if a miniature steam engine had lodged in his esophagus.

If Holmes was annoying, the affair with the Harter Engine Company was infuriating. Oh, Keating Utility had bought the firm and it would vanish without a trace; that was not the issue. It was the fact that someone had dared to oppose the steam barons so openly by attempting to build one of those alternative combustion engines. It was next door to treason.

Most of the investors had possessed the wits to use shell companies or false names, but not that thrice- damned fool Bancroft. Against all reason—as if anyone knew what the ongoing wealth and order of the nation required more than Keating himself—Bancroft had taken a public stand against the steam monopoly.

A fool? Certainly. A martyr? Keating was too smart for that. Bancroft was too important to beat to a pulp, but he would have to endure a cleverly crafted public lesson. No one thwarted the Steam Council. Harsh rules, but this harsh world demanded a strong hand.

Keating was that fist. He regarded it as his duty.

And the whole sorry business reminded him how badly he needed to get his hands on Athena’s Casket, and that Holmes was the best detective that money apparently couldn’t buy.

“Sir?” a gentle voice asked.

He looked up, remembering that his daughter, Alice, sat across from him now. She had thick, curling hair, more copper than gold, and cornflower blue eyes, her face the heart shape of a porcelain doll’s.

Alice was much like her mother, and not only in her looks. She was obedient and soft-spoken, attuned to Keating’s every wish. The perfect daughter, just as her mother had been the ideal wife until the hour of her death. Keating was well aware how absolutely he had been blessed.

“A penny for your thoughts, sir?” Alice said in her quiet way.

Keating realized he was gripping his cane like a club. Self-conscious, he relaxed his hand, easing the strain on his finely stitched gloves of Spanish leather.

“I could use your advice, my chick,” he said, his mind still on Holmes. “There is a man whose favor I would win, though he does not wish to give it to me.”

“Why not?” she asked, as if that were the strangest notion in the world.

“He is like a growling dog. He will need a demonstration of power.”

“You mean to ruin him, sir?” Her chin tilted down so that her gaze was bent on the ivory lace of her gloves. Demure, even as she cut to the quick of his thoughts.

“Tempting, but not yet. He has agreed to work for me, but grudgingly. It will take more than one show of force to keep him in line. As that is far from an economical use of resources, I would prefer to win him over with a show of generosity. He’s not expecting that, and I won’t get anywhere unless I surprise him.”

Her bow mouth curved in a half smile. “What would a growling dog want, besides the opportunity to bite?”

Behind that pretty face and bright curls is a clever mind. There is no doubt she is my daughter. Even if that quick wit and frankness made Alice a bit too blunt sometimes, for all her feminine airs. “Something for himself would be too obvious. He has a niece about your age—from all reports an intelligent girl, but without your advantages.”

“So you will do something for her?”

“And undo it, if he crosses me. The greater the pleasure, the more immediate the pain. My little gift will have to count.”

“Poor girl.”

“No girl matters but you. If you were this young creature, what would you wish for?”

“I do not know her, so that is an impossible question.” Alice fiddled with the pale blue ribbons of her tiny and largely useless bonnet. “I, at the moment, hope my gown is ready for the presentation. The Season will get off to a bad start if it does not fit just right.”

She had dodged the question, but then she had a soft heart. He’d indulged her and kept her close, perhaps too close. “The presentation is the thing for you young lasses, isn’t it?”

Alice’s eyes widened with exasperation. “Of course it is, Papa! Without that, what use is the rest of the Season? No one will look at a girl twice unless she’s kissed the queen’s hand.”

The carriage came to a stop. Alice hitched forward on the seat. “This is the dressmaker’s. I shall leave you here, sir, unless you have further need of my sage advice.”

Keating gave her an indulgent smile. “No, my chick, you’ve quite inspired me.”

The door opened, letting the sun stream into the carriage. The fog was gone now, and the April day was in full bloom. Alice’s maid already stood outside, looking a little windblown from her ride up front with the coachman. Keating watched thoughtfully as the footman handed his daughter down to the street. The Season meant suitors, and Keating would have to watch his only child and heir with the vigilance of a raptor.

The thought filled his gut with ice. I should not worry so much. She is no fool. And yet all fathers worried, because that was the natural order of things.

The carriage took off again, the clop-clop of the horses gaining momentum, as did Keating’s thoughts. Alice had given him a very good idea about what to do for the detective’s niece. The Lord Chamberlain and Queen Victoria herself checked the list of eligible young ladies each Season, and only those who passed muster were presented at Court.

Daughters of scandal-ridden mothers were not received. Unless, of course, the Lord Chamberlain could be persuaded? It would take some finesse—the man was wound tighter than his hopelessly out-of-date cravat—but Keating had the means and a great deal of motivation.

I want Holmes very badly. No, he wanted Athena’s Casket. Maybe to destroy it. Perhaps to keep it for himself.

If he were the only member of the Steam Council with access to the secret of combining magic and machines—even his mind boggled at the possibilities. What was a sop to the Chamberlain compared to that? He’d see every chit in London curtseying at Court if that’s what it took.

The carriage stopped again, this time outside the Steam Makers’ Guild Hall. Keating got out. No sooner had his foot touched the marble steps that swept up to the hall’s monumental double doors than his aide, Mr. Aragon