A Study in Silks

once, the routine and the earthy smell of horse failed to soothe him. His jaw clenched as he struggled with resentment. Tobias. Nick knew the type. Pretty boys who came to the theater one night with their sweetheart, the next night with their whore. She deserved better than that.

His hand slowed, breaking the rhythm of the brush. The mare turned her head in inquiry.

“That damned white dress,” he grumbled. “She looked like the virgin from a bloody melodrama.”

The gentle swell of her breasts above the low-cut neck of her gown—it crushed reason beneath the heel of masculine possessiveness. He should let her go. He should move on. But he bloody well couldn’t make himself do it.

The mare flicked her tail.

“It’s not safe. Not with Dr. Bleeding Magnus around.” And not with Tobias Roth looking at her as if she were a pastry in the shop window.

The weary look the mare gave him was every bit as pointed as one of Gran Cooper’s lectures.

The opulent Westlake home was a long way from the Hibernia Amphitheatre, but Nick was on the street outside in under an hour, dodging the crush of carriages. He could hear the faint gabble of merriment from inside the house, and the occasional scrap of music. It should have been reassuring, but his skin itched with apprehension. Or maybe it was just unquenched desire.

Or maybe it was the odd sense of being followed. He had first felt it around Portman Square, and it hadn’t left him since. It left him fingering the knives he had strapped under his jacket.

The Duke of Westlake’s mansion was a fortress, and his place was outside with the errand boys and street sweepers. There was no chance of getting close, so he hung back, keeping away from the pack of footmen sharing an illicit cache of their masters’ brandy. He had no appetite for a fight.

And the distance from the front door didn’t matter. If he did find Evelina, was he going to bundle her back to Ploughman’s like a runaway? She wouldn’t stand for it, and he wouldn’t expect her to.

So what the bloody hell was he doing loitering outside the ball? Irritably, he slouched against a brougham that had been temporarily abandoned by its crew. He wasn’t used to being still, and his fingers itched for something to throw, or fix, or juggle.

Nick was about to give in to reason and go back to the Hibernia when Dr. Magnus hurried down the front steps, still straightening his tall hat as if he had left in a rush. Nick straightened out of his despondent slouch, suddenly alert. As if on cue, a pair of footmen stormed out of the Westlake’s grand entrance and stood there like Rottweilers deprived of their prey. Given Magnus’s penchant for stirring up trouble, it didn’t take much to link the two exits together.

A blur of gold swooped out of the darkness, landing on the wheel of the brougham. Startled, Nick nearly swatted it away.

Hey! The voice shrilled in his head.

Nick blinked, trying to absorb the fact the gold object was actually a brass bird that appeared to be alive. It hopped from side to side, peering up at him with one sparkling eye, and then the other.

“Hello?” he asked tentatively.

The bird fluttered its wings in annoyance. Oh, good, it talks. You’re the only one out here with a drop of the Blood. You must be the one she wanted.

Squinting at the thing, he tried to reconcile what he was seeing with the voice in his mind. “You’re a deva.”

He could communicate with most devas, although he had no talent for calling them—unless it was when he touched Evelina.

And you smell like a horse. She told me to get help if I needed it. Since you seem to have nothing to do, maybe you could pitch in.

“She?”

The one who made me, horse boy. You know, the dark-haired chippy who makes you climb through windows.

“Evelina made you?”

Who else?

It was a valid question. Nick folded his arms, staring down at the bird. He’d seen the brilliance of Grandfather Cooper’s coin-operated wonders. Gran Cooper had been one of the Blood. If Evelina had inherited both talents, why not create a fusion of the two?

That would explain Magnus’s interest in Evelina. Dark hells, what could a sorcerer do with that kind of knowledge?

The thought expanded like a malevolent bloom in his gut. Nick’s skin went cold. He scooped up the bird, stuffing it inside his jacket. He received a peck to his thumb that made him wince.

“Stop it!” he growled. “You have to stay hidden.”

Bag that and smoke it, Gypsy boy. Sorry I bothered you. I just thought since you had enough of the Blood to hear me, you might be useful.

Nick gave up trying to hold the squirming creature still as it crawled out of his pocket and up the front of his jacket. It finished by digging painfully into his shoulder, the tiny talons like needles.

Nick winced. “What do you want me to do?”

The sorcerer.

“Magnus?”

He took Mouse. Neat as a pickpocket.

“Mouse?” Nick was beginning to feel like an echo.

The creature flicked its brass wings, the sound ringing like a tiny chime. Mouse does the indoor work. I’m the outside spy. I can’t exactly fly around a ballroom, so your girl kept me in her shoe bag as backup. Good thing or he’d have both of us.

Nick’s skull clogged with questions they had no time for. He settled for the basics: Mouse. Gone. Bad. “All right. I’ll follow Magnus on foot, you take the air. I know where he lives.”

Got it. The bird was off with a musical whirr.

Nick pictured a map of the streets in his head. He was about two miles from Magnus’s home. It stood to reason the doctor would go there with his prize.

With new purpose, Nick slipped through the streets, ears attuned to every footfall. When he got to the steps of Magnus’s townhouse, he slowed. Nick had no intention of blundering into a trap; nor did he relish the thought of cornering a sorcerer without some kind of plan. He knew what Magnus could do.

The home of Dr. Magnus was still and dark. He crept up the stairs on silent feet, scanning the shadows. Either Magnus hadn’t returned home, or he was sitting inside, waiting.

A memory of pain drained his strength, leaving him panting. Forcing his feet up, step by step, Nick slid a knife into his sweat-slicked palm.

When he reached the top, he paused, listening. Nothing. His senses weren’t as keen as Evelina’s, but he probed inside as best he could and found nothing living. He’d just about convinced himself the place was empty when he heard metal scrape on metal. He glanced up, expecting to see the bird. Instead, he felt the kiss of a gun barrel beneath his ear.

“You took my key, thief.”

Frustration blanked his mind as he recognized the voice. Striker. Bloody black hells!

“Didn’t I kill you already?” Nick snapped. Now he knew who had been following him.

“Just left me gammy as an old cart horse, but what’s one more score to settle?” The metal ground against his jaw. “Now where is it?”

Nick pushed away a skitter of fear. “My inside jacket pocket.”

The pressure of the gun went away and a strong hand spun Nick around. Perfect. He pushed away, using the momentum to slam his foot into the wound right where he’d previously thrown Evelina’s paper knife. Once Striker was off balance, Nick moved in and struck again. Striker didn’t scream, but made a choking gurgle as he doubled over in agony.

Nick grabbed the gun. It was a blessedly ordinary revolver, not the bulbous monstrosity Striker had the last