“Of course.” Evelina hadn’t felt guilty before, but now she did. “What can I do?”
Imogen closed her eyes, her soft fingers still cradling the sleek form of Mouse. “Someday I’m going to ask you for an enormous favor, and you’ll have to say yes.”
“Of course. But what sort of favor are you thinking of?”
Imogen gave a crooked smile. “Just as he was leaving tonight, Stanford Whitlock proposed. When Papa learns that I turned down an eligible young man, I shall have to pay the piper. I’ll need a clever friend on my side.”
“But it’s Stanford Whitlock,” Evelina said derisively. “Surely Lord Bancroft can’t want him for a son-in- law.”
“His father is in banking and has an indecent amount of money. Any father would drool like a starving dog at the prospect of that amount of wealth in the family.”
“But you could hope for money and a functional intelligence in the same man. Surely your father is not driven onto the ropes that badly.”
Imogen buried her face in her hands, letting Mouse run down into the silky nest of her skirts. “I don’t know, Evelina. With Papa, I never know how much is threat or truth or simply his ambition at work. The only certainty is that if this whole business of being Disconnected goes on, I’ll be lucky to marry the butcher’s boy.”
“Well then, you can rely on a steady supply of bacon.” Outrage prickled under Evelina’s skin. She had been hoping to spare Imogen distress, and so far her investigations had only revealed more questions.
Imogen looked up, her brow puckered. “Bacon?” Then she started to both laugh and cry, all the tension of the last dozen hours bubbling up at once.
Evelina folded her in her arms, biting her lip to keep from sobbing herself. With so much at stake, she couldn’t let herself falter. Not for an instant.
Chapter Eighteen
WEST END, LONDON
The next night after his fight with Striker, Nick scanned the throng near the Savoy Theatre, finding his mark. The playbill on the door proclaimed Gilbert and Sullivan’s
Ah, there he was. Nick had been following him for hours, having picked up his trail quite by accident on Oxford Street in the late afternoon. Dr. Magnus, of course, wore nothing but black from top hat to the shining toes of his dress shoes, a raven among the peacocks. He blended with the shadows, at times visible only because of the glint of his silver-headed cane. Unlike most of the evening revelers, he walked alone, his stride quick and purposeful where the others ambled and chatted.
Another look around, this time for Yellowbacks. There were plenty of street rats lurking about, but none that Nick recognized from his rooftop chase. Best of all, there was no sign of Striker—Nick’s ankle was still sore and swollen and nowhere ready for a rematch. Of course, it could be the streetkeepers kept away from this no-man’s- land southeast of the Strand. The area represented an uneasy truce between the Yellowbacks and the Blue Boys.
Nick detached himself from where he leaned against the brick wall and sauntered after Magnus, careful to keep at least two clumps of people between himself and his quarry. And careful not to limp. Showing weakness was the surest way to make himself a target.
Nick watched the tall man as he strode from gaslight to gaslight, swinging his cane in rhythm with his steps. There was something jaunty in his movements, as if he were reliving the closing song of a comedy—and yet Nick could never imagine Dr. Magnus enjoying such simple pleasures. Coupling the man with any innocent impulse was simply impossible.
Nick had met with Magnus the night after the incident with Striker, or rather Magnus had found him at the place where Ploughman’s was performing. The doctor had been very interested to hear about Tobias Roth’s workshop, and even more that the young man was going there in secret. Obviously, the information played nicely into whatever plan Magnus was brewing.
With his report delivered, Nick considered his obligation paid. He had agreed to provide information on Tobias Roth in return for Magnus’s protection from the police, and that was done. Now he could satisfy his own curiosity. Who was Dr. Magnus and what was he up to?
As Magnus’s long strides took him from one pool of gaslight to the next, the capes of his coat merged with the shadows as if he walked in his own aura of darkness. It was a trick of the eye, but there was something unnerving in the sight, as if any moment he might dissolve into a cloud of fluttering bats.
Magnus turned left down a street that was far less crowded. Nick started to trot to catch up, and then thought better of it when pain lanced up his injured leg. He caught his breath, hopping on one foot to catch his balance. To his surprise, Magnus stopped and turned.
“Are you coming, Mr. Niccolo?” the doctor said, making himself heard without seeming to raise his voice.
Heat surged to Nick’s face. He was an expert sneak. How had the man known he was there? From a distance, he couldn’t feel Magnus’s aura of magic, but perhaps the doctor’s senses were sharper? Nevertheless, he swaggered forward—not quite hiding a wince as he stepped on his throbbing ankle—as if this was exactly what he’d meant to happen.
“Good evening, sir.” He swept an extravagant bow.
“I take it you wish to make another report?”
Nick cocked a smile to cover the panicked scramble in his mind. How could he explain himself? “I was wondering if you had any further need of me.”
Of course, that was the opposite of the truth. He wanted to pin the man to a card and study him like a bug. He couldn’t exactly say it, though.
“I’m sure you were.” With a sardonic look, Magnus beckoned. “Then come. My lodgings are this way.”
Nick hesitated, momentarily startled. He was going to get a look inside the doctor’s home? If he wanted to know who the man was, this was an excellent beginning. But if he crossed that threshold, would he ever leave?
The question skittered down his spine, leaving his stomach cold. Did he dare to match wits with Magnus? Who knew what strengths the foreigner possessed, besides a lick of dark magic?
That was no good.
A distant clocked bonged the hour, and Magnus shifted impatiently.
They went for some blocks, finally stopping in a small, elegant street of tall Georgian homes with wrought- iron fences and tiny front gardens. The red brick facades were broken by narrow windows framed in white. The effect was at once understated and in impeccable taste. There was no sign to give the street name, but Magnus approached the townhouse marked 113.
“We’ll keep this brief,” Magnus said, unlocking the door. “I have had a long and complicated day.”
“I am devastated to hear that, sir.” Nick stepped into the house behind him. The place was silent, no manservant rushing to take his master’s coat.
Magnus tossed his hat and cloak onto a velvet-covered bench by the door and placed his cane in a large
