A Study in Silks

“Give me another day or two and I’ll be back on my feet.”

“Get others and do it now. Use some of those interesting guns you’ve made. I know you have plenty stored at the dockyard.”

He’d only just arranged for Striker’s excess arsenal to be moved to a locked and guarded shed at a yard owned by Keating Utility. The streetkeeper had been stockpiling his lethal inventions in a seaman’s chest at the foot of his bed. Given the neighborhood’s reputation as a den of thieves and cutthroats, it was only a matter of time before the guns found their way into the worst possible hands. Peace of mind was worth the price of cutting a new key.

But at the mention of the dockyard, Striker flinched. He covered it quickly, but Keating caught it all the same. “What is it?”

“The Gypsy bastard took my key.”

Keating’s vision went white, the room disappearing for a beat. Then it was back, red-tinged with rage. “What?” He spat the word with such fury, the two grooms who had come with him backed away. They knew his temper.

Keating could barely breathe. The Harter Engine supplies were also in that locker, and much more. But that wasn’t the point. It was the disappointment. “That was careless, Striker.” This time it was a whisper. “I trusted you to guard my back. Do you understand me? I trusted you, and you let me down.”

Striker’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “I’ll get it back. I’ve got a thirst for payback. A terrible thirst, sir.”

Keating leaned in closer, smelling the stink of the man, but he didn’t recoil even when his lips nearly touched Striker’s ear. “Why am I just hearing about this now? Why didn’t you come and tell me right away?”

Striker’s gaze flicked his way, but didn’t hold his regard. “I couldn’t walk, sir.”

Keating swore softly. The street value of the supplies from Harter’s was incalculable. If the thief knew what he was about, the locker was already empty. Rogue power vendors sought to rob the steam barons at every turn—and every barber, baker, and candlestick maker wanted to pay the filth to do it. The only way to exert control was to ensure that nothing—no machine, no generator, no wind-driven device—would ever be built in the sheds and alleys of the city’s underbelly.

“That’s a poor showing for a man who is supposed to run my streets. You could have sent a note.”

“I never learned my letters. And I couldn’t send a runner, ’cause then they’d know my business.”

“Excuses.” And the delay meant that changing the padlock would be an afterthought at best. Still, he turned to one of his men. “Grimsby, get someone down there to check the shed. Get a new lock on it.”

With an air that verged on insolence, Striker pushed the bottle onto the table. It was empty. “My apologies, again, sir.”

The statement was as sincere as he was likely to get, but Keating felt as chill as January ditch water. Apologies meant nothing. They were an epilogue to carelessness.

“You’re lucky I let you live to say you’re sorry. Do you know what my father did to me when I failed as a boy?”

“No, sir.”

Keating ground his teeth a moment before he replied. “He would not permit me to eat until the fault was corrected. Oh, I was allowed at the table, and the food was set before me, but I was not to touch it. If I did, I would be beaten until my back was raw. So I learned to sit and smell my supper, and my mouth would water and my belly would cramp, but there would be no eating. Not until whatever sin I had committed was sponged away. And just to be sure I felt the full force of my shortcomings, my mother would not be allowed to eat, nor my brothers or sisters. We would endure together, if any one of us erred. Father was evenhanded that way.”

Keating looked into Striker’s eyes and saw nothing but a kind of dull curiosity. Whatever Keating’s lot had been, it was fair to say a brown-skinned bastard from the dockside had seen worse. That just made Keating angrier, his resentment gnawing from his groin to his throat.

“My father was a holy man,” he spat. “He dressed up his punishments in scripture. It was hard for a child to argue with chapter and verse.”

As he was speaking, Keating took a step away from his streetkeeper. It gave him the chance to find firm footing. When he struck, he put his weight behind a perfect left hook. Keating’s knuckles cracked against the side of Striker’s head with a meaty thud. And he was fast; too fast for the man to block the unexpected blow.

Striker sailed from the chair, sprawling facedown on the floor, sliding like a sack of meal through the grit.

Didn’t expect that from me, did you? Keating’s blood fizzed, the violence of the moment like a tonic. He flexed his throbbing hand, grimacing with pain and the beginnings of a smile. Sometimes blood is a better release than a whore. “You’ll get no sermons from me. I prefer to keep things simple.”

Striker rolled to his side, cradling his face in one hand. Keating’s groom moved forward, just in case he planned to fight back. Striker’s eyes had gone dark with murderous anger, but he stayed down.

Keating moved closer so that he stood with the man at his feet. He nudged him with a toe. “Sometimes dogs need a good beating. Now get up and start hunting.”

Chapter Twenty-five

“How do I look?” Imogen asked, executing a sharp turn so her train curled around her feet like an affectionate kitten.

“Lovely as always,” Evelina replied. “Every man in the place will faint dead away, overwhelmed by your astonishing beauty.”

Imogen made a face. “I’m not too pale for this color?”

“No. It suits you.”

Imogen wore a shell pink, a shade just off cream, the bodice embroidered with pale green and pink roses twining around a shimmering latticework of tiny brass gears. The style was called a l’automate, the latest mode since a la girafe and a l’egyptienne. There was no possibility anyone would mistake Imogen for an automaton, but the glittering effect was lovely.

“And why are you so particular about your toilette?” Evelina asked airily. “Have you set your cap at some fine young peer of the realm?”

Evelina had chosen a simpler dress in a shade of rose that set off her darker coloring. Imogen’s face flushed until she almost matched it. “No special reason.”

They linked arms, starting down the stairs. “Is Mr. Penner going to be in attendance?” Evelina asked, thinking of what she had seen as she had come out of the tea shop. Bucky had been kissing Imogen’s hand, and the look on her friend’s face had been anything but displeased.

But now Imogen was the picture of innocence. “I assure you I have no idea.”

Evelina let the matter drop, making up her mind to keep an eye on matters that evening.

The two girls had spent the afternoon getting ready for the Season; the presentation was only days away. Evelina had collected three new dresses she had ordered when she first got to London and, at her grandmamma’s insistence, ordered three more. The seamstress had also finished altering her mother’s presentation gown, and now that was spread out on the bed—too pretty to put away quite yet.

To be sure, there were many, many more important things to do than buy new clothes—such as find out who owned the warehouse where she had found the cube. There seemed to be no way of finding out without drawing attention to herself, which was the very last thing she wanted. In addition, a copy of Barrett’s Guide to the Mechanics of Ancient Europe sat on the desk, waiting for her to do some research on the mysterious cube—but she was only human. No young, bright woman on the threshold of life was immune to the fascination of a months-long orgy of parties, and there was something wonderful about seeing her name inscribed on so many invitations. She’d had to order more calling cards.

And, to be honest, the encounter in the warehouse had made her cautious. She had lost none of her