A Study in Silks (56 page)

Imogen hummed a little as he strutted away. The exertion had left her feeling a little unwell—she would never have Evelina’s stamina, and would have to pace herself carefully through the Season. Nevertheless, she was having a lovely time, with all the bright lights and pretty music.

It was a relief from worrying about her father and what he might be up to. She’d been on edge ever since she’d overheard his conversation with Mr. Harriman—afraid to speak of it to Evelina, and afraid of what trouble she might cause by holding back the information. There didn’t seem to be a good answer.

And with so much going on—murder, the Disconnection, the affair at the warehouse—a night of entertainment was a blessing. There were a lot of people she was worried about—all of her family, for starters, and Evelina, who was more or less family anyway—but those worries would still be there on the morrow. All the villains and dragons could cool their
heels tonight. She would experience her first ball only once in this life, and she meant to savor every moment—silly young men and all.

She popped open her dance card, so fascinated by the smooth snap of the fan that she closed it so she could do it all again. When she finally settled down to reading the name of her next partner, she saw the next space was for a
schottische
—and she loved those—but no one had put his name down. Her heart drooped.

“May I have this dance?” a voice asked softly.

She looked up, her stomach doing a pleasant little flip. “Mr. Penner. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

He gave a self-deprecating nod. He was tall and well made, but didn’t loom like Whitlock or strut like Captain Smythe. Instead, he had the air of someone biding his time—a little amused, and a lot forgiving. And he did look very nice in his best clothes. “Now that you’ve cast your lambent gaze upon me, will you deign to take my hand?”

She gave her first real smile of the evening. “Are you going to be horribly annoying and tease me mercilessly? Or step on my toes? Or talk about nothing but the weather?”

He returned her smile with a warm grin of his own. “Are you going to be an imperious brat?”

“Shall we simply dance instead?”

“Excellent.”

He led her out onto the floor, his brown eyes full of mischief. She let her hand rest lightly on his arm as they took their places, making sure her every move was exactly correct. Shoulders back, neck long and swanlike, arms graceful—just like the dancing master at Wollaston had decreed.

Then the moment came when she was supposed to say something infinitely clever. But this was Bucky, and she’d known him forever. Words should have come naturally, but unexpectedly, every brilliant quip she knew dribbled out her ears.
He’s making me nervous? Impossible!

So she said the first thing she could think of. “I heard that the duke and duchess put up over three thousand of those tiny gaslights for the night.”

“No wonder it is so very warm in here.” He raised an eyebrow. “But I suppose I shouldn’t have seen you nearly so well with a mere fifteen hundred.”

“Dazzling lights are the fashion.”

“It’s still silly.”

She felt a tiny stab of annoyance. It was an extravagant, expensive fashion, but she rather liked it. “Bow ties are silly, and yet you’re wearing one.”

“Most of my existence is unforgivably comical. That is the lot of a young man of purposeless wealth.” With an easy grace, he turned her about the floor. He was more muscular than her brother, almost as strongly built as The Stare. He made her feel slight enough to snap in the wind, and yet incredibly safe.

That feeling of security was most welcome after the last few trying days. It made her bold. “Are you one of those who mock everything and yet do nothing to improve it?”

“Heavens, no. I’m sure there must be something I have not yet mocked. I am strongly in favor of sausages. And buttered toast. And Mrs. Braithwaite has a highly appealing Yorkshire terrier.”

Imogen bit back a laugh, struggling to remain poised. “I appreciate a man with standards.”

She was a little short of breath, but it seemed to have more to do with Bucky than with any exertion on her part. Everywhere he touched her felt extraordinarily sensitive, as if her skin had been magnetized. It made her shiver with the sensation, a delicious flutter that made her warm and cold at once.

He smiled in a way that made his eyes crinkle nicely. “And where do you stand on sausages, Miss Roth?”

But by then the ladies had to make a star in the center of their quartet, circling around with a swirl of skirts. It gave her just enough time to find her sense of equilibrium, and when the figure deposited her back in Bucky’s arms, she was decidedly glad to feel his touch again. He was relaxed and confident, which was the essence of a good dancer. They moved forward, changing partners, then changing back, her feet barely touching the gleaming marquetry of the floor. His gaze never left her for a moment, watching her
with that special intensity that made it nearly impossible not to preen. No one, not even The Stare, had watched her quite that way. It made her feel like Venus swanning about on her sea-foam cushion.

When the last bars ended and she gave a final curtsy, they were near the doorway to the refreshment area. Imogen realized that she had abandoned her lemonade several partners ago, and she was parched. “I would very much like something to drink,” she said plaintively. “But it looks like half the world has had the same idea.”

“Fear not, fair lady. The first duty of a resourceful knight is to find alternate routes to the punch bowl.” He tucked her arm through his, his gloved fingers warm and strong, and led her away from the throng. “I’ve been here many a time, and know a back way.”

“You’re removing me from the ballroom? Is this an evil scheme to lead me astray?” she asked suspiciously—but at the same time couldn’t deny the prospect had appeal.

“To claim that I scheme would be to give me too much credit. The best I can manage is a desultory plot from time to time.”

“How sad.”

“I shall have to try harder. Never let it be said that I lacked ambition, even if it is intriguingly misguided from time to time.”

His grin stayed a whisker away from impropriety. Imogen answered it with one of her own, feeling impossibly daring.

He led her into another hallway. There were fewer people, and suddenly walking was much easier. A servant hurried toward them, guiding a steam trolley with a tray of something that smelled delicious. Since the passage was narrow, Bucky pulled her into another doorway to let the man pass. Imogen noticed the considerate gesture—many wouldn’t yield to a servant, no matter how impractical it would have been to force the trolley out of the way.

As Bucky had made way, he’d pushed the door open so they had more room to stand. The room where they’d taken refuge was one of those catch-all spaces necessary for large gatherings—this one was filled with stacks of extra linens,
instrument cases that no doubt belonged to the small orchestra, and a rolled-up carpet. There was another door on the far wall that must have opened into yet another room, because Imogen was suddenly aware of voices on the other side.

“No, no, and no!” It was a woman’s voice, and tinged with panic.

Bucky and Imogen exchanged a glance. He pulled her all the way into the room and shut the door to the hallway quietly, leaving it open just enough to admit a sliver of light. Then he raised a gloved finger to his lips. “I think someone is in trouble,” he said in low tones. “I’m not sure, but I may need to interfere.”

Whatever could be going on?
Imogen wondered, her heart pattering with alarm.

JASPER KEATING SAT
in the small, fussy sitting room where the Duchess of Westlake had bid him go. He was to wait there until she could slip away from the ball unnoticed. The separate-exit-and-rendezvous maneuver was standard protocol for romantic intrigue—as ridiculous as it seemed, the old harridan was still too careful of her reputation to be seen entering a private chamber with a man who was not her husband.

That was not
—not in a million years
—why Keating was meeting her, but he still had to cool his heels in the fussy pink-striped room that reminded him of something built out of marzipan for a little girl’s birthday cake.

It was an odd contrast to what he had been doing at this time yesterday—marching through the dockyards to check the locker where Striker had stored his weapons. His man had inspected it already, but Keating wouldn’t rest until he’d looked himself. The lost key still felt like a betrayal, a spurning of the favor he’d showed the piece of street trash. If Striker hadn’t been so good at his job he would have been today’s refuse, left in the gutter for the rats and dogs.

Keating clenched his fist, watching the seams of his gloves strain with the fierceness of his grip.
A careless, ungrateful
fool
. He got up to pace the room, a panther trapped in a nightmare of pink and cupids.

The sky above the dockyard had been pale gray blotched with inky clouds, the sun dying behind the rows of warehouses. Keating and his men had moved quickly between the brick and wood buildings. Many of the docks were under the control of Keating Utility, but not all—and every edifice was carefully guarded. Automatons loomed outside each doorway, a reddish light smoldering in the pits of their eyes and the slash of their mouths. Some rolled on tracks, others lumbered on two or four feet. No one in Keating’s party was foolish enough to set foot beyond a competitor’s property line. Men died for less.

By the time they’d stopped at the building in question, the sun had fully set and the lamps around Keating’s structures were lit. The yellow glow washed the cobbles and brickwork in a sepia haze—a color that matched the river’s cold and choking stink. Keating still felt the raw wind from the Thames on his face, a bite that seemed to go clear to the bone. He had cursed Striker all over again for making the trip a necessity.

And he’d cursed again when it turned out to be a fool’s errand. The warehouse lock had been undisturbed, just as his man had said. They had opened it, pulling the heavy oak doors wide and lighting up the vast space within. The enormous building was a maker’s daydream—a whale’s maw crisscrossed with twelve-foot shelves heaped with machinery parts, engines, gauges, equipment, and all the materials seized from the Harter Engine Company, including the working models of their combustion engines. Deep in the whale’s belly, filling three shelves end to end, was Striker’s armory of fantastical weapons—enough firepower to set London alight. The warehouse as a whole could have supplied a revolution.

But every nut, bolt, and cog was untouched. Keating—not one for tears—had nearly wept with relief. Not that he let his men see the slightest hint of his distress. He’d simply ordered the locks changed and marched out again. Striker would be getting no more keys.

Keating continued his circuit of the Duchess of Westlake’s
room, vaguely conscious of the distant orchestra and the murmur of conversation. It was hot and stuffy, made hotter by his recollection of the cold dockyard wind. And yet, as unpleasant as the warehouse task had been, he’d enjoyed the action more than this elaborate minuet of secret meetings and whispered plans. Out on the docks, things were simple, clear, and brutally quick.

He paused in front of a painting—some pastoral scene involving sheep and a pair of lovers. The sheep looked bored. He looked up almost hopefully when the sitting room door swept open.

The Duchess of Westlake sailed in, closing the door behind her. “Mr. Keating, thank you for meeting me on such short notice, but as you know my needs are most urgent.”

Keating bowed, waiting until she took a seat before settling himself back in his chair. Not for the first time, he wondered why the rest of the Steam Council was so worried about the so-called Baskerville conspiracy. They should take note of the way he handled the duchess, if they were worried about the aristocrats. People with titles were just as vulnerable to bribery and threats as everyone else. And once they were caught, flies—no matter how many fancy titles they had—couldn’t rebel against the spider. “It is my pleasure as always to serve you as best as I am able. However, I’m not sure how much more I can do.”

She lifted her head, the gesture more imperious than pleading. “No, no, and no! You must help me. Surely there is some arrangement we can make.”

“That will be difficult.”

“You are a man of business, are you not? Isn’t making deals what you do?”

“Your Grace,” said Jasper Keating, utterly irritated. “You are in no position to bargain.”

The Duchess of Westlake glared back at him, her square form reminding him of a crudely carved figurehead that had somehow escaped its ship. “I’ve paid everything I can.” Her voice was harsh. “My personal fortune is not limitless.”

Keating didn’t care, but tried to keep the annoyance from his manner. The woman was bent on saving her cousin’s
life, but it was a lost cause. Nellie Reynolds was an actress, of value only when she was the apple of the public’s eye. Once that adoration was finished, she was little better than a drab walking the lowest streets of London. Keating had no use for trash, and wasn’t sure why the duchess bothered.

But he put a look of concern on his face, and carried on. “Barristers are expensive, and Sir Philip Amory is the top man in London. I engaged him as you asked, but I don’t think more money is the answer even if you had it to give. The public has turned against her.”

“Nellie is my cousin. I can’t give up.” The duchess rose, sweeping around the private drawing room in agitation. The fine white-and-red shot silk of her ball gown glimmered as she moved, the fabric rustling like the surf on a beach. “She might not be my uncle’s legitimate child, but we grew up in the same nursery. I taught her to read and write her name on the same slate I used. She was the prettiest child you could imagine.”

Keating hated sentimentality only one degree less than tales of childhood bliss. Such things were too far removed from his own experience to sound credible. He sat back against the stiff upholstery of the armchair and wished etiquette permitted him to light a cigar.