A Study in Silks

Nick following him once. Something told Nick it would be a bad idea to let that happen again and he shrank back another degree, his eye pressed right to the crack of the door.

Then the two figures stopped, facing each other. Nick froze, recognizing the other man as Lord Bancroft. He’d been watching Evie’s comings and goings long enough that he knew almost everyone at Hilliard House.

This is interesting. What were they doing in the downstairs part of the house? The toffs weren’t supposed to hang about here. Not even the servants were in these quarters, with the dinner party in progress—they were with the food and drink and horses. Nick had made sure of that before he’d slipped inside—at least as much as he could tell from a lot of listening and creeping about.

But of course that was the answer, wasn’t it? No one was supposed to know the men were here. Nick realized he’d been holding his breath for too long and wanted to cough. He sucked in air as quietly as he could.

“I understand you are the Gold King’s latest acquisition,” said Magnus, his voice carrying a snide edge. “His new friend, or at least his newest lackey destined to help him with his political connections. How odd, because the gossip I heard just days ago said that you were bent on challenging the man. Some ill-advised dabbling with a new kind of engine.”

“He has chosen to invite me to work with him rather than against.” Bancroft’s tone was impatient, hot to the other man’s cold.

“In other words, he’s put you under his thumb. How merciful, but a lord does qualify as big game, even for a steam baron. Crushing one altogether might cause him to break a sweat.”

Bancroft snorted. “Good to hear.”

What’s this about? Nick could almost taste the tension between the men, the roots of it clearly deeper than this single conversation. And what does the Gold King have to do with all this?

“Keating’s prudent. You could be useful. Plus, he wants a title for himself, after all, and that will be hard to weasel out of Victoria if he’s mounted the head of a viscount on his study wall. In broad terms, aristocrats find the public ruin of their peers off-putting.” Magnus smoothed his goatee, looking thoughtful. “Count your blessings this happened now. In a few years, Keating might have enough power that he won’t need to show restraint.”

“Thank you for pointing out my precarious position.” Bancroft folded his arms, leaning back an inch to look into the taller man’s face. “But I assure you, I was entirely aware of the abyss yawning at my feet.”

The ambassador was a tired man, Nick thought, adjusting his position to see the man’s face better. For all the crisp quality of Lord Bancroft’s garments, his skin looked as rumpled as clothes that had been slept in for a week. He also looked like he’d been in a fight. There was a bruise on the side of his face and he was moving like a man who ached.

Bancroft curled his lip. “But something tells me you aren’t here to offer me advice.”

Magnus nodded. “True. I require your assistance with Keating.”

“Are you mad? I have no influence with the man!”

“You always find a way, Ambassador. You are not a diplomat for nothing.” Magnus made a gesture that whisked away all objections. “Keating has something I want. You must convince him to relinquish it to me.”

“I will not!”

“No?” The doctor’s voice was suddenly low and dangerous, like velvet soaked in contact poison. “I knew you would say this, and I am far, far ahead of you. I have something you want back. Not just for your sake, but the sake of your family.”

“You!” Bancroft’s exclamation was a snarl. “You murdered my men.”

Nick started. Murder?

“I did not.” Magnus shrugged. “Not that you are required to believe me, but I swear to you it was not my hand that held the blade. But I do have your trunks and their cargo.”

What the bloody hell are they talking about? Nick’s legs were starting to cramp, but he didn’t dare move.

Bancroft lunged at Magnus, as if he were going to strangle him where he stood. Magnus sidestepped the attack, grabbing the ambassador’s lapel and using it to push him against the plain white paint of the servants’ corridor. “Get a grip on yourself, man!”

Nick could hear Bancroft’s breathing, the heavy, gasping whistle of someone whose strength is all but spent. Nevertheless, Magnus held Bancroft pinned until the older man went limp with submission.

The doctor spoke between clenched teeth. “Keating has Athena’s Casket. I need it.”

Bancroft’s face twisted. “What are you talking about?”

“Keating is building a gallery. He intends to put the casket in his show of archaeological treasures, but I want it for my research. It is too important a piece to waste on him.”

“Why don’t you simply ask him for it?”

“I did. He prevaricated, spinning some nonsense about how the shipment was delayed. It’s clear that he wants to keep it for himself.”

Nick was growing boggled. Too much information was flying too fast, and he wanted to—had to—straighten up. The urge to flee was growing by the second. Getting caught spying was bad enough, but there was no question he’d heard something of value, even if he didn’t grasp it all now. He started to stand, moving inch by inch, praying his knees didn’t crack.

“It was from Greece?” Bancroft asked, a cautious note in his voice.

“From Rhodes.”

Bancroft said nothing, his breath hissing in his throat. Nick wondered what that silence meant.

“Come now,” said Dr. Magnus, releasing Bancroft and smoothing out the lapel, “you’ll get it for me, won’t you? All I want is the casket. I’m not an unreasonable man.”

Bancroft made a panicked noise, as if that was not his experience of Magnus.

The sorcerer chuckled.

A flicker of defiance crossed Bancroft’s face. “What do you want it for?”

“My work. Benevolence. Order.”

“Benevolence?” Bancroft spat. “Call it tyranny. No, vanity. You and Keating want the same thing. You both want to see your reflection everywhere you look. Maybe if the world is remade in your image, you’ll believe you exist.”

Magnus muttered something that sounded like a curse. “And you are disintegrating into a shadow of the man you were. Get the casket for me, and I’m gone. Beyond that, I don’t care what games you and Keating play.”

“And if I can’t?” Something new resonated in Bancroft’s voice. To Nick, it sounded like a mix of anger and dawning realization. He would have laid good coin that a penny had dropped for the man, though he couldn’t say what had prompted it.

“I have your trunks. Jasper Keating is not the only man who can hurt you. I trust that you do not need a demonstration.”

“I remember what you did in Austria.”

Nick’s muscles screamed with tension, frozen with fascinated horror. It was like watching a terrible accident, where one could not stand to bear witness, and yet could not look away.

Suddenly, Bancroft pushed away from the wall, making Magnus fall back. The ambassador spun on the heel of his glossy shoe, striding stiffly away. Not another word. Not a single nod of acknowledgment. Just his back, straight and square and impeccably garbed in black.

It didn’t matter. Even Nick could tell that he had lost. Magnus laughed, low and long. After a minute or two, he followed at a slow saunter.

Nick gripped the wall, finally rising to his full height. He was sweating, a sick, greasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. Part of it was the aftermath of tension. That had been a close call. By the Dark Furies, in what sort of a place was Evelina living?

Imogen noticed the way her brother looked at Evelina, and a tiny thread of worry disturbed her contentment. The evening was perfect in so many ways—she and Evelina were safe from dragons, the power was back on, her dress was perfect, and the company couldn’t have been more congenial. And she was watching Bucky