A Study in Silks

Penner with intense interest, because he never seemed to be more than a few steps away. However—the very same thing appeared to be happening between Evelina and Tobias, and that concerned her.

There was no doubt that Imogen loved her dashing brother, but she had no illusions about what he got up to at his clubs. Bucky did the same things, true, but some young men seemed to treat such shenanigans as a rite of passage—a moment in time that was folded away and revisited years hence for nostalgia’s sake. She could hardly blame someone for that. But Tobias never seemed to have that sense of a future, and that frightened her both for him and for Evelina. She drifted in their direction, knowing what they discussed was none of her business, but somehow unable to stop herself.

She never got far enough to overhear their conversation. Instead, her father’s low tones came from somewhere behind her.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” he growled.

Imogen froze, her hand poised over the tray of sherry glasses one of the footmen offered. Then, she realized it wasn’t her to whom Lord Bancroft spoke. She took a glass and angled her body as she sipped, realizing that was standing with her back to him and that he was addressing a man she recognized as Jasper Keating’s cousin. What was his name again? Harrison? Hartman?

Whomever he was answered in a strained voice. “I did exactly as you instructed, no more and no less. I returned the crates to my warehouse and informed my cousin of their arrival.”

She felt, rather than saw, her father’s flinch. His next words came out as a furious rasp. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“You must believe me. Whoever intimated that there is a missing article is quite mistaken.”

“Mad, perhaps,” her father conceded. “But he has never been careless about his facts. In any event, this is not a conversation for tonight.”

And her father walked away, leaving Imogen with an intriguing—and disturbing—scrap of information. She casually glanced in the direction of the other speaker, appearing to look for someone else. Harriman! That was his name. Despite his connection to the Gold King, he was a nobody. What would Father be doing with a man like that?

Whatever it was had to do with a warehouse and crates—Harriman’s warehouse, apparently—and one of her father’s schemes. Cold terror prickled up her arms. She had long been aware—probably far more than Tobias—that Lord Bancroft always had his fingers in a dozen problematic pies. That was the fate of a girl with some intelligence who was forced to be quiet and polite and part of the furniture. One learned far more than was appetizing.

Now a thousand details came flooding back. Harriman had come to the house about four days ago, slipping in to see her father and slipping out again without the usual stay-for-tea sociability a home visit implied. Were Harriman and her father involved with the boxes she’d seen in the warehouse? The blood on the floor? Grace Child’s death? Imogen suddenly felt weak, the taste of the sherry sickly and cloying on her tongue. Dear God, what if he’s guilty of something?

Evelina had said the next step in the investigation was to find out who the warehouse and those crates belonged to. Those crates were for Harriman’s cousin, the Gold King. And her father seemed to think Harriman was responsible for an object going missing. Lord Bancroft had instructed Harriman to return some crates. Return them from where? And why? And do I tell Evelina?

The question hit her like a physical pain. Her first instinct was to share everything she had just heard, but caution brought her up short. It was one thing to hunt down a killer, believing it would clear Tobias from suspicion. It was another when the murderer might be your father.

Ridiculous! She pushed the idea away vehemently. That can’t be true. I won’t have it. Her father was a schemer, but that was all. The best thing she could do was forget she ever overheard him talking. That was the problem with eavesdropping—it was too easy to get the wrong end of the stick. Imogen trembled, caught between what her mind knew and what her heart was willing to accept.

“Miss Roth?”

She jumped so violently that her sherry nearly spilled down the front of her dress. “Mr. Penner!”

“I interrupted your thoughts.” He regarded her with steady brown eyes.

“They weren’t very good ones.” She guessed that he’d watched her all evening, weighing every nuance in her attitude toward him. It had made her jumpy until now—but after the incident with her father, she didn’t have the energy to edit every twitch of her eyelash. “I would welcome some distraction.”

His mouth quirked. “I’m pleased to have some useful function.”

“I seem to have lost mine.” She cleared her throat. “There is no teapot nearby for me to guard.”

They stared at one another for a moment. Imogen grew increasingly uncomfortable, unsure what to say. Her mind groped for subject matter—the weather, the liveliness of the guests, the handsome brocade of his waistcoat. It all seemed boring enough to make anyone scream and run away, and she wanted him close right then.

“How fare your sisters?” He had three—one older, two younger. She’d visited with them last summer.

“They flourish,” he said with a polite nod. “Noisily and with gusto. How is Poppy?”

“She is well and remains with her grandparents at Horne Hill.”

“In Devonshire?”

“Yes.” Miraculously, Imogen’s shoulders were starting to unknot, although part of her mind was still occupied with her father’s discussion with Harriman. “I trust in another year or two Poppy will recover from the catapult trauma.”

“Ah,” Bucky looked away. “Well, it was the season for plums, and my father had just given me a book of da Vinci’s designs.”

“A parent should know better,” Imogen said with mock severity. The Plum Affair was the outrage of several harvests ago, but she never tired of teasing him about it.

He smiled at the memory, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “On the contrary, Miss Roth. My father makes guns for a living. The idea of his son and heir shooting at things is hardly a source of parental concern.”

The Penners might have been—as her father put it—common as turnips, but their large weapons manufactories in Yorkshire had turned a tidy profit for the last three generations. “I suppose the future magnate has to learn his marksmanship somewhere, although Poppy is still a trifle disturbed by your efforts. She regards fresh fruit with the utmost suspicion.”

He made a dismissive sound. “I was determined to hit every pane of glass in her bedroom window. There were fourteen, as I recall. Excellent target practice, but it was only for one afternoon. She will recover.”

“Are you as rotten to your own sisters?”

“Rotten?” he grinned. “Such attentions are the highest mark of my regard.”

Imogen cocked an eyebrow. “It must be extremely sincere regard, to sacrifice so many wormy plums.”

Then he bowed, all courtly courtesy. “Where it concerns ladies I regard as diamonds of the highest water, I would far rather shower them with more appealing attentions.”

Imogen felt herself flushing and turned away to set her sherry glass on the tray of a passing servant. “Ah, of course. Your father also has some breweries, I think?”

He laughed at that, a hearty sound that made her grin in response. She simply couldn’t help it. “That is very true, Miss Roth, and I do prefer my father’s beer to my father’s weapons. But before that statement causes your concern, I promise to spare you a bath of good Yorkshire ale.”

“That is a relief.”

He then gave her a look that still held mischief, but of a much more adult kind. “I trust that you will not object to attentions of a dryer nature.”

“They may be dry,” she returned, “but is that the extent of their wholesome qualities? A lady in this day and age must be careful that there is no rotten fruit involved.” In other words, Bucky Penner, what are you up to?

Bucky took her hand, bowing over it with all the grace of Sir Walter Raleigh making obeisance to the queen. “My lady, you may rely that my every intention is earnest and honorable, and entirely fruit-free.”

Imogen sucked in a breath as his lips touched her gloved fingers. This was as serious as she’d ever seen him, and his manner said far more than his words. So he does want to court me!