A Study in Silks

tried to turn the move into a casual lean. Someone wants me. For me. This is what a proposal must feel like to a young girl. Maybe one from a prince.

Tobias laughed, and he could hear the note of giddiness in it. “Our best efforts? That’s all?”

“And absolute secrecy, of course. Some of my ideas are quite revolutionary. Nevertheless, I’ll be pleased to share them with bright young minds.” Magnus smiled warmly. “As I have been a friend of your family for so long a time, I hope you will agree to look on me as an honorary uncle.”

“I shall.” And he would do more than that, because he felt like the prodigal son finding a home where he least expected it. A home, and—Tobias tried to stifle the thought because it seemed so young and weak—just maybe the father he’d always yearned for.

Chapter Sixteen

The pitch of general conversation wound higher, like an orchestra changing keys. Evelina turned to see what was the matter.

An impeccably dressed man breezed directly onto the back lawn, not even waiting for acknowledgment before he made himself at home in Lord Bancroft’s garden. She recognized Jasper Keating, the Gold King. From his white hair to his almost military bearing, he fit the aristocratic idea of a powerful man—no doubt one reason he was able to do business in the wealthier quarters of London.

The fact that he had been the author of her invitation to be presented at the Court Drawing Room only increased her suspicions about the man. She had written her thank-yous to express her gratitude, but it had felt as if she were a pawn thanking the king during a game of chess.

“Every time that one shows up someplace, he reminds me of Death coming to visit,” Imogen observed under her breath. “A scythe in one hand, and in the other one of those awful tuppeny books of jokes. His audience wants to groan as he reads them, but they’re too terrified not to laugh.”

Evelina eyeballed the newcomer. “Death at least has a sense of irony. This bloke looks like he believes his balance sheet.”

However, what set Keating apart the most was the crowd of dark-suited men that trailed after him. Although it was none of her affair, the sight of all those servile hangers-on irritated her.

The best antidote was tea. Evelina placed an empty cup under the automatic samovar. It spit out orange pekoe in a gurgling whoosh, then hurled in a lemon slice after. Hot liquid slopped into the saucer. “I didn’t ask for lemon.”

“Those things never do what you actually want, but they do what you don’t want with amazing efficiency. That’s called progress.” Imogen popped a tiny square of cake into her mouth, then sucked frosting from her finger with a guilty glance to see if anyone watched.

“This reminds me,” Evelina said with all the casualness she could muster. “You recall what we were discussing earlier?”

“Yes.” Imogen filled her own teacup. “I’m not likely to forget.”

They’d been poring over the latest reports in the newspaper about the death of the grooms. Somehow, the papers had found out about Grace, too, and that had kept the story alive for another day, although it was still buried in the back pages. Nevertheless, she had seen Lord B’s face at the breakfast table when he found the column. He was not a happy man.

Evelina leaned close. “Why do you think your father still had those automatons?” Though she’d told her friend what she’d seen inside the trunks, she hadn’t mentioned the magic. The fewer people who knew about it, the easier it would be to keep that aspect of the affair quiet.

Imogen shrugged, unperturbed by the question. “Until this horrid affair with the grooms, I had no idea they were still around. I would have thought they’d have been left behind in Vienna along with the majority of my father’s other old projects.”

“Your father made them?” Evelina asked in astonishment. It was a big leap from tinkering with machines to making a working device like that.

“Certainly. He made them to amuse my sister and me when we were tiny girls. He was very accomplished, but he gave up tinkering around the time Anna died and I fell ill. I think that’s why he hates such things now. It reminds him of a time he’d rather forget. I don’t think my parents ever got over her death, and the dolls bring it all back.”

It made sense of a sort. Anna had been Imogen’s twin. From the ornately framed daguerreotype Evelina had seen in Lady Bancroft’s sitting room, the two had been identical.

Evelina fished the lemon out of her cup with a spoon. “Maybe that’s what Lord Bancroft means when he complains that the Steam Council lacks finesse. He knows as much about machines as the barons do.”

“But there’s more to it than finesse. It’s one thing to be able to build a beautiful butterfly brooch like Tobias, but quite another to put up a power plant that gives you the means to light up half of London—or plunge it into darkness if the mood takes you. Everyone wants power. The barons have it. Therefore, they win.” Imogen leaned close as one of the guests paused to pick up a watercress sandwich. “All the political hacks follow them around like sad little spaniels waiting for a crumb to drop. The Prattler said so.”

“For shame. You’ve been reading the newspaper again.”

“Don’t tell my father. He thinks absorbing too much information will ruin my marriage prospects.”

But she was right about the spaniels. Evelina looked over at Keating again. “What’s His Steamship doing here? I thought he and your father were at odds.”

“My father has taken a sudden interest in making new friends. He’s up to something, as usual.” Imogen shrugged. “As for why Keating came, I suppose even if you own half of London, a free meal still tastes best.”

“So cynical.”

“Pessimism is the basis of all sound expectations. If you foresee nothing good, no outrage can shock you.”

Evelina choked back a laugh. “I pity your future husband.”

“Only if he can’t keep up—which is a depressing likelihood. I suspect there’s a factory in Yorkshire turning out insipid young men by the box load, and they’re all clamoring to be on my dance card.”

“Poor Imogen.”

“Bah.” She ate another piece of cake. “Oh, look. Here comes Alice Keating in yet another Paris frock.”

Evelina turned to see the copper-haired girl was indeed drifting their way, chatting airily with a brace of young bucks. She wondered what it would be like to have the Gold King for a father.

“What is this vision I see before me?” cried the buck to Alice’s left when he caught sight of Imogen. He raised one hand to shade his eyes and extended the other with the air of a sailor spotting a tropical paradise. To Alice’s credit—or the young man’s demerit—she didn’t seem to mind the competition.

Imogen blushed and Evelina sipped tea to keep from giggling. The tall, gangly young man’s name was Percy Hamilton. As the younger son of Lord Bushwell, he’d been destined for the navy, but never quite made it there. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere near a gaming hells and lost his commission before he’d even reported for duty.

The other was Stanford Whitlock—tall, dark, muscular, and a renowned pugilist. A good one, if one judged by the pristine condition of his handsome face. His father was a well-to-do banker, so the Whitlocks were on everyone’s guest list. He remained by Alice’s side, but stared at Imogen like a starving man suddenly spotting a perfectly cooked roast.

If one was nonverbal, the other would not stop talking. “Oh, Disconnect me, you are so lovely, Miss Roth!”

Evelina turned to Alice Keating and searched for something to say. “How pleasant to see you here.”

Alice released Whitlock’s arm and opened her parasol. It had a fringe of tiny yellow pompoms that matched her dress. The breeze caught them and they bobbled merrily. “Indeed, I am delighted to attend. Shall we take a turn about the garden, Miss Cooper, and leave these swains to worship at the feet of their goddess?”

Evelina shot a look to Imogen, who widened her eyes in feigned panic. Imogen claimed to hate her gaggle of suitors, but Evelina thought she secretly enjoyed the attention.