“So did I.” Not that crime stopped at even the steam barons’ borders. If a crook could make a shilling, he’d do it anywhere he could get away with it. Evelina put her lips to Imogen’s ear. “But I don’t think we’d be out of line to speculate that whatever they’re importing has a connection to the contents of Grace’s bag.”
“But we don’t know that for sure, do we?” Imogen replied.
“You sound like my uncle.” She could almost hear Uncle Sherlock intoning, “Speculation is not fact.”
Imogen cast a nervous glance at Applegate, but he was shouting at a clutch of street urchins to get out of the way of the carriage. “So what can we be certain is true?” she whispered to Evelina.
“Whatever was in that warehouse was well-guarded. There was no chance the locals were going to bother it, and even if a determined thief figured out the automaton was no better than scrap metal, there was a guardian inside. The merchandise has to be valuable, or why go to all that trouble?”
But what did any of it have to do with Grace Child, the Roths, or anything else? She felt the hard surface of the cube against her foot, where she’d set it on the floorboards of the victoria for safekeeping. Tobias had said that Grace mentioned something about a Chinaman. Was it significant that there were Chinese workers near the warehouse? Probably, since her bag had come from the area—no doubt one of the ones made up from Mr. Markham’s scraps. And Evelina had figured out what she’d sensed on Grace’s gold was a combination of two magics, and found them both: the dragon and the cube. She’d conquered one and absconded with the other. Evelina had learned a lot in one visit to the shops.
But now that the rush of triumph was fading, the implications of what she’d done slithered over and under her courage like cold, slimy eels. How vulnerable was she?
The people using the warehouse knew enough magic to control the guardian, yet they had buried the cube in a pile of scrap. What did that say about them? Didn’t they know it also had magic? If only the deva in the cube could talk! But as much as she could feel its presence, it knew no words that she could understand. It couldn’t tell her who had put it on that shelf, only that it had to get away.
By all rights, Evelina should have been able to count the adventure a success, but she’d raised too many new questions and might well have poked the wrong hornet’s nest.
“What next?” Imogen asked.
Evelina didn’t hesitate. At least now she had an idea where to start looking. Applegate had stopped shouting, so she leaned over to whisper in Imogen’s ear. “We need to discover who owns the warehouse and what on earth was in those crates. I’ll bet you your lace mantelet that Grace’s gold was in those shipments. I want to know who sent them and where they were going.”
Chapter Twenty-two
HQ, SOCIETY FOR THE PROLIFERATION OF IMPERTINENT EVENTS
“A man has needs beyond a stuffed sheep,” Tobias said with the certainty of the extremely drunk.
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Bucky replied, refilling his glass and proffering the bottle. He’d been in a fine mood since he’d arrived at the clubhouse an hour ago, rather like someone who’d won large at the gaming table. Tobias wasn’t sure what sort of a state he was in—except drunk.
Tobias waved the bottle away. The clubhouse—with its ratty furniture, litter of tools, and half-finished machines—was already rotating in that irritating way things had when one was snockered. The condition had crept up on him. He’d thought he was safe, since they weren’t actually drinking anything that had come from the in- house Steam-Accelerated Special Compression Distillery. That had exploded with spectacular gusto last week.
The accident had produced tragic results. The sheep, never of reputable appearance, was now minus one ear and several handfuls of fleece. Hence, Bucky had raided his father’s cellar for a supply of Bordeaux.
“What I’m saying is …” Tobias trailed off, forgetting what he had in fact been saying.
Bucky resumed his habitual sprawl. “The squid adventure is done, and now you’re bored.”
“That’s it,” Tobias pointed his wineglass more or less in Bucky’s (or one of the Bucky’s) direction(s). “That’s it exactly. We did the
Tobias looked proudly around the clubhouse. The Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events met in a converted outbuilding that looked over a walled patch of scrub a block and a half behind his tailor’s. It was everything his home was not. Except for the tools, there was nothing they had not built or scavenged. It was a house of imagination, not money. It was freedom from their birth and an opportunity to discover their merit.
Which, of course, was not the way most would view their pursuits. It was one thing to dabble with engines when one was a schoolboy, but real gentlemen didn’t actually get their hands dirty. Not with grease and rust and the guts and bones of machines. That went beyond even the politely eccentric.
Never mind that Tobias was happiest when he was deep in the bowels of a machine, the sharp smell of steel and oil grating on his lungs. He was actually affecting something, not talking or planning or critiquing, but actually
It seemed a rare state of bliss. Not even the poor people got to do much tinkering anymore, since they weren’t able to buy parts to fix anything, thanks to the steam barons and the sneaky way supplies seemed to disappear on their way to store shelves. Even the fact that SPIE could get its hands on whatever parts it liked was proof they were a bunch of lunatic toffs and not real makers at all. Which made no sense, but then nothing did anymore. When did it all get so complicated?
“We need a new project,” he said. “We did the squid. We did the still—sort of, until it blew up.”
“Nearly did us in, that one did.”
“There was the special vegetable launcher.”
“The horse trapeze.”
“The autocravat self-garroting device.” That one had been meant to produce perfectly formed bow ties. Tobias snorted, then coughed when wine went up his nose.
“I make my toys.”
“Yes.” Bucky had three sisters, and Tobias envied his friend’s small army of nieces and nephews. They appreciated all the mechanical marvels SPIE could invent. Making a child laugh wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon. “I need to build something.”
He wished that Magnus would surface—wished it with an almost childish ache. The foreigner had promised to give them all something exciting to do, but the man had vanished partway through the garden party and hadn’t been seen since. It had been like getting a bite of a divine iced dessert, and then having the bowl snatched away.
“An idea will come up,” Bucky said contentedly. “It always does.”
“I’m bored.”
“For the love of Babbage, don’t make a complicated bet like the last one! Do something easy. Get a new mistress.”
“Spare me. My father wants me to seduce Miss Cooper.”
The words were out before Tobias knew he was going to say them. Damn. He grabbed the bottle and filled his glass, knowing he should be more sober, not less—but if he got drunk enough, then he wouldn’t remember his transgression.
Bucky set down his drink. The afternoon light fell across his face, giving him the look of one of Rembrandt’s younger cavaliers. “I thought the pater wasn’t in favor of the girl.”
“Forget I said it.” Tobias rubbed his eyes with the hand not clutching his wineglass.
Bucky looked suddenly sober. “No, I won’t. What’s going on?”
Now that his mouth was engaged, it wouldn’t stop. “It’s this bloody affair with the maid. The Cooper girl’s uncle is that detective, Holmes. My father’s afraid she’ll somehow dig up something embarrassing. You know how
