clear?”
“As crystal.”
Bancroft had hoped to leave Harriman’s workshop with more gold tonight, but his luck had run out. Big Han had stowed it somewhere in the maze of underground tunnels that made up the territory of the Black Kingdom. Bancroft could search for it, but it was a poor gamble that he would come out alive.
That left Keating in control. Anything more Bancroft could do—at least until he had a new fortune to pour into his plans and projects—would be no better than a suicide. And Keating was no fool. He would watch Bancroft like the proverbial hawk and ensure he never got his hands on fresh resources.
The realization crept through his veins like venom, the agony of it so acute that his breath hissed through his teeth. He was trapped as surely as if he were locked in Harriman’s underground cages. He had fought so hard and so long for his career, and this money-grubbing boilermaker had taken everything.
But he didn’t. Not right now, at any rate.
Keating smiled affably, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I think we understand each other perfectly, Lord Bancroft. Ah, here comes my carriage at last.”
Bancroft watched the steam baron climb into the vehicle, noting the arrogant set of Keating’s shoulders. Clearly, the man thought he owned the Empire. If he could get rid of the other barons, he would be right. The driver snapped his whip and the carriage drove away.
Bancroft watched it go, waves of fury pounding through his body until he went numb. Sickness welled up, driven by pure hate. He turned and heaved his guts into the gutter.
Chapter Twenty
WEST END, LONDON
Imogen and Evelina leaned back in the Victoria, the picture of idle elegance in perfectly turned-out day dresses and brand-new hats. It was a time to be admired. The low vehicle was just large enough for the two young women to sit side-by-side, with the driver perched on his raised box in front and managing a pair of grays.
The calash top was down. They might as well enjoy the fine weather; the fashionable West End streets were jammed with shoppers. The driver had been forced to slow their vehicle to a crawl.
“How long do you think it will be before someone invents an inflatable bustle?” Imogen asked, her tone filled with ennui.
“Excuse me?” Evelina replied, her mind snapping to the here and now with an almost audible twang. She’d been inwardly cursing the fact that a young lady’s life, with dress fittings, at-homes, the garden party, and then church yesterday—not to mention the time lost to dealing with the blackout at Hilliard House—left little room for discreetly hunting down clues. It had taken the most determined effort to wrestle free an afternoon to follow up the clue of Grace’s silk bag.
It was becoming rapidly clear that proper detective work meant organizing one’s time. Uncle Sherlock hardly slept or ate while working a case, and now she knew why. Daily life took up too much time. If she was going to be an effective investigator, she was going to have to do a much better job of managing her routine—though she doubted she could give up meals.
At least Lord Bancroft—who looked and moved like he’d fallen down the stairs this morning—had made his peace with the Gold King and the utilities had been reconnected overnight, which meant the glorious luxury of a truly hot bath. Although she had lived for years without such indulgences, Evelina had to admit she had grown very fond of them.
“I was just thinking how convenient dirigible underthings would be. One could self-inflate with hydrogen and sail over this bothersome traffic.” Imogen winked. “I can think of a hundred uses for your scientific skills, you know.”
Evelina imagined flocks of well-dressed women dangling from their posteriors, then wished she hadn’t. “Steering could be a problem.”
“Propellers?”
“Wouldn’t they make one look fat?”
“You have a point there.” Imogen leaned forward, peering out at the street. “I believe the shop we want is over here on the right. Applegate, you may let us out anywhere along here.”
The driver, an older man with a comfortable girth, brought the pair of grays to a stop and then handed the ladies out of the Victoria.
“Wait for us here,” said Imogen. “We shan’t be long.”
“Certainly, miss. Take your time.” He smiled fondly. Imogen had all the manservants wrapped around her little finger.
“It’s not always easy to choose just one pair of gloves,” she replied. “Or hat. Or parasol.”
“Never mind me, I’ve brought my pipe. I can wait as long as you need.”
Imogen gave Applegate her sweetest smile, then led Evelina toward a little shop with steps painted in the Gold King’s bright yellow. Almost every shop along the street had yellow somewhere on its front, showing its allegiance to the steam baron. Of course, that also meant that a percentage of every sale went into Jasper Keating’s pocket, and in the wealthy West End, that meant thousands or maybe millions of pounds a year. Evelina couldn’t begin to guess.
She took in every detail. The district fascinated her, from the theater to gentlemen’s clubs to the so-called universal providers—one could buy everything from boots to biscuits there—to what were supposedly the most fashionable whorehouses in London. Not that she was supposed to notice those.
The streets were crammed with women from respectable and wealthy classes, including many that looked like they’d escaped the protected suburban family enclave and taken the train into London for a day of shopping. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, they ran from merchant to merchant in a positive orgy of acquisition.
That only put Evelina’s senses on alert. With so many easy targets on the loose, there were undoubtedly expert pickpockets in the crowd. She glanced warily at the shadows between buildings and in the corners behind waiting cabs and a pie-man’s stall. There were urchins aplenty, and there were older toughs. One boldly caught her eye and winked, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Evelina stuck close to Imogen’s side. Her friend, of course, hadn’t noticed the street life. The rich never did.
A bell chimed as they entered Markham’s Drapery. Behind the polished oak counter, cubbyholes were stuffed with bolts of every imaginable fabric and spools of trim. Cheval glasses stood to the right and left of the desk, allowing the customers to hold up the silks and calicos and imagine them made into a dress.
Imogen began working her magic the moment she parted her lips. “Mr. Markham, I know you have the most complete selection of fine Eastern silks. I’ve known that ever since my mama brought me here when we first returned to London.”
She gave him the full benefit of her charming smile. The stout shopkeeper flushed with pleasure right to the crown of his balding head.
“Well of course, Miss Roth, and it is a pleasure as always to serve your family. And you, too, Miss Cooper. It has always been an honor to have the Quality as my customers. In this day and age when people travel willy-nilly on the railways, it’s not a given anymore that a merchant will know his clients and his clients will know him.”
“Indeed not, sir,” Imogen replied with a slight widening of her eyes. “I’ve never seen such a crush on the
