heir was deeply in debt to the Steam Council. “He will never make a move against us as long as we give him a golden teat.”
“And yet they say Victoria is willing to oppose him in the name of duty. Turn him over to the rebels if need be,” argued Scarlet. “They say those were the Prince Consort’s final instructions to his wife.”
That sounded like Albert, who had loved progress until he realized it rendered old institutions like the monarchy redundant. But even so, Keating doubted that the queen would do anything that risked her children or the throne. “The Prince Consort might have frustrated our fathers’ version of the Steam Council, but he is dead.”
Scarlet stared at Gray. “Let’s not forget that he had faithful friends.”
“Too true.” Keating saw at once how he could use this Baskerville hysteria to his own advantage. Keating pointed a finger at Gray. “Mr. Thane, I believe your older brother was one of them. In fact, wasn’t he one of the gentlemen who worked alongside the Prince Consort during the planning of the Great Exhibition?”
“That was over thirty years ago!” Gray sputtered.
Green broke in, her harsh voice slicing the air. “But isn’t your family motto something about remaining faithful after death? Your brother is a lord, and that makes you one of the aristocracy. You’re one of them far more than you’ve ever been part of the business community, to be sure.”
That was met with a rumbling of dissent, particularly from the Blue King’s corner of the table. It was all Keating could do to keep from rubbing his hands with glee. This was too easy.
“Maybe if we dig deep enough into Harter Engine, we’ll find a few more lords and ladies, and perhaps a duke or two.” Keating gave a predatory smile as he piled assumption on wild assumption. Truth didn’t matter once blood was in the air. “Old friends of the Thane family, every one of them. Imagine what they could do with those combustion engines. No doubt they’d be trying to light up their fancy houses without paying us our due.”
“And that would just be the start of their treason,” Scarlet muttered.
Gray flushed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no proof of any of this.”
“Of course we do, you little idiot,” Keating scoffed.
“You don’t!”
Which was true, up to a point. The Harter Engine Company had done its best to operate quietly, and Keating had next to no idea who was involved, outside of the public shareholders. Gray might be entirely unaware that the warehouse even existed. But none of that really mattered. Devious or stupid, Gray was weak and Keating’s spies had done their work. The man had been caught with the one kind of contraband that mattered to the barons.
Contraband that Keating now had under lock and key.
“We have a treaty!” Gray looked wildly around the table. “You are supposed to protect me!” His retainers were already backing away, fear twisting their bluff, hearty features.
“Treaties matter,” King Coal wheezed, “until they do not.”
Green gave a smile as sharp and unpleasant as her voice. “Gentlemen, I think we have an agreement. My bridge in exchange for this traitor’s lands.”
Gray reached out a hand to Scarlet, who shrank back. “You’re next.” Flecks of spit flew from Gray’s mouth, and he wiped his lips with his sleeve. “You or Violet. You know that.”
“Not yet, little man,” Scarlet said coldly. “I still have a pretty good hand of cards.”
There was only one way treason against the council ended.
Keating’s hand snaked across the table, catching Gray’s wrist. A pitcher of water smashed to the floor, papers scattering into the wet. The man was strong, but Keating’s fingers dug in as he tried to pull away, refusing to give even as Gray dragged him sprawling over the table. Tendons and bone slid under his grip as Gray cursed in pain.
The sound caused a twist of satisfaction in Keating’s gut.
Then Striker was at Gray’s side, wrenching the man’s free arm behind his back. “Come on, guv’nor.”
“No!” Gray squirmed, but it was pointless.
Reluctantly, Keating released his prey and let the streetkeeper march him away. Seven steam barons walked into the guildhall that day. Six would leave. Harsh rules, but it was a harsh world out there, and it demanded a strong hand.
There was another minute’s commotion—a babble of voices, scraping chairs, the thump of a body hitting the door frame. Keating sat down again, gratefully accepting the glass of water Mr. Jasper set on the table, a doily underneath to protect the shining wood. Someone was already cleaning up the shattered pitcher.
Keating took a sip of the cool liquid, making a conscious effort to calm the pulse pounding in his ears. The crisis was over and the battle won, but he felt oddly sad that it was finished. Now it was just a workaday matter —Green taking over Gray’s plants and gas lines, changing the streetlamps, hooking one pipe to another. The drama was over.
“Expertly done, sir,” Jackson whispered in his ear.
Apparently King Coal thought so, too. He gave Keating an enormous wink.
Mr. Fish leaned forward, speaking for the first time. “I’m curious,” he said in a light, almost quavering voice and fixing Keating with damp, pale eyes. “What do you do with the corpses afterward?”
Chapter Eleven
MYSTERIOUS DEMISE OF BARON GRAY
The body of Mr. Bartholomew Thane, principal shareholder of the Stamford Coke Company and the
—Front page of
MELANCHOLY PASSING OF A GREAT FRIEND
With great sadness we report the untimely passing of Mr. Bartholomew Thane, principal shareholder of the Stamford Coke Company. His noteworthy career was crowned in recent years by the seat he occupied on the Steam Council as representative of the Gray District. He was found this morning after having passed peacefully in the night. He is survived by his loving wife and two sons.
— Page five of
HILLIARD HOUSE
The day after Grace’s murder, the garden of Hilliard House glistened in shades of green and pink, which almost precisely matched Imogen’s dress. She was perched next to Evelina on a stone bench at the corner of the garden wall. The sun warmed the masonry there, giving the illusion that summer had already arrived. The girls wore only the lightest of shawls over the flounced, bustled, and fluttery confections that passed for a plain day dress for a privileged young lady.
Imogen was looking far better today, almost back to herself. Evelina hoped the nightmare was an isolated incident. If she kept her health, Imogen would definitely be the belle to watch this Season, especially with that interesting air of fragility that made men melt and mothers cosset.
It was convenient camouflage. Evelina knew that beneath that languid demeanor, Imogen had the will and temper of a wolverine when roused. One didn’t survive a dangerous illness without backbone.
Imogen reached over and clasped Evelina’s hand. Little speckles of light fell through the holes of her straw hat, scattering like stars across her nose. “I can’t believe you didn’t wake me. You shouldn’t have had to face the
