A Study in Darkness (47 page)

Tobias gave her a quizzical look. “When you did, or when Father did? You were away at school the last few times you were sick.”

Imogen blinked. He was right. “Maybe it’s just the thought of change for the family that did it. All our things being packed and carried away. You know how I hate that sort of thing.”

“We didn’t move last April. You started dreaming then.”

“But we had a murder in the house! It was a horrible time and more than enough to give anyone nightmares.”

He gave her a significant look. “But that time’s done and they’re only getting worse.”

She lifted her hands and then let them fall in a gesture of defeat. “I don’t think another doctor is going to fix me.”

With a look of defeat, Tobias rose. “Mr. Reading has come to call on you, but I’ll send him away. He’s speaking with Father at the moment. I’ll tell them you’re still ill.”

Imogen gasped. “The Scarlet King?” So that was what he hadn’t wanted to tell her. She’d seen something on his face, but she would never have guessed this.

Something like a smile crossed his features. “You shouldn’t be surprised that he’s fallen at your feet.”

“I thought that was just his attempt to polka.”

“He sent flowers twice.”

He had, dozens at a time. They’d been scarlet roses, a bloody red that reminded her unpleasantly of her dreams. “I’d hoped he’d given up when he heard that I was ill.”

“You underestimate your charms.”

And yet she couldn’t help thinking about what Evelina had told her about the Scarlet King’s interest in poisons. She hadn’t heard that detail from anyone else, which meant her friend might have learned it from her detective uncle—he would likely be privy to things no one else would know. And assuming the information was true, her first instinct was to protest. How could she be expected to entertain the attentions of a criminal? And yet—would that make a difference to her father, if he thought the Scarlet King could help his career? Lord Bancroft might not force her to the altar, but he’d play his advantage for all it was worth.

Imogen’s mouth went sour as she realized that she wasn’t sure how far her father would go. And she was even less sure that there was any point in mentioning an unsubstantiated rumor to Tobias, who had already sacrificed himself to the Gold King. Accepting a few flowers would be nothing compared to what he had already done for the family.

She began organizing her things, scooping up Mouse along
with her embroidery and packing everything into her work-basket. “I believe I should lie down for a while. It will make you seem less the liar.”

They rose and Tobias led her inside, happy to do something concrete to help her. And all would have been well if they hadn’t passed the door of the small drawing room just as Lord Bancroft had stepped out of it. “Imogen, there you are. Mr. Reading is here. It’s time you thanked him for those bouquets.”

“Imogen isn’t well, Father,” Tobias said. “I was just taking her back to her room.”

“Nonsense, she looks well enough to me.”

And she was swept inside the room along with Tobias, who shot her an apologetic look. Her mother was seated on the divan, looking slightly awed by the wondrous fact that a second steam baron had entered the family orbit. Resplendent in yet another red waistcoat, Reading rose to make a polite bow.

“Miss Roth,” he began, giving her a confidential smirk. “I greatly missed your radiance once the shooting party dispersed. I had no idea until that moment that my heart had fared the same fate as so many grouse, shot down whilst on the wing.”

Imogen curtsied. “Mr. Reading, you are quite the poet.”

And how sad that you were not also plucked and baked into a game pie
.

“I know what ladies like,” he said, the smirk turning into a full-grown leer.

He took her hand and bent over it. As she had been doing embroidery, she wasn’t wearing gloves, and she had to endure the wet heat of his lips against her fingers. Inwardly, she writhed, and the bloody shadow of her dreams fell across her mind—not the images, but the dark, fevered atmosphere of the chase: running, hiding, cowering before the knife.

Reading straightened, keeping her hand longer than politeness dictated, but no doubt knowing that no one would correct him. Imogen felt his unwelcome interest like a wave
of heat, but a smile curved her lips nonetheless. She was well trained, a good girl taught never to be rude to guests.

And yet she recognized the look in his eyes, and she stepped back with a rush of blood to her cheeks. That predatory look reminded her too much of the confused, angry hunger of the presence. It wasn’t exactly the same—William Reading wasn’t an overt lunatic—but it was a member of the same tribe. And it was similar enough that Imogen wanted to bolt for the door.

Tobias was at her side. “Are you all right?”

“Don’t be concerned for your sister, Mr. Roth,” Reading said with a chuckle. “Young maids are always skittish. They have the strangest fancies.”

Imogen’s breath caught at the edge of a hysterical laugh.
He has no idea
.

“Please, sit down,” said Lady Bancroft from the divan. “I’ll ring for more refreshments. This is a lovely opportunity to get to know each other better. We have so much to talk about.”

They were treating him like they had her other suitors—the tea, the chat, the enthusiastic family intimacy. She could almost hear the unspoken lines of the parental script:
If only they could get their sickly daughter off their hands at a good price before the bloom was off the rose
.

Half in a daze, Imogen settled as far away from their guest as she could. Her mind clenched around a single idea, holding it with as much trepidation as if it had been a loaded revolver:
How do I escape this man? What do I do if I can’t?

A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR LATER, BIRD CHIRPED TWICE FROM
the tree outside Imogen’s window. They’d worked it out as an “all clear” signal, and Imogen pushed up the sash of her window as the clock on the landing struck half past two.

One positive thing about social protocol was that callers didn’t linger long, even ones as persistent as the Scarlet King. By quarter past, the family had been able to scatter, Imogen supposedly retiring to her sickbed. The afternoon was sunny, so there would be no skulking in shadows. Either Imogen escaped quickly, or she didn’t go at all.

“Are you ready?” she asked Mouse. The little creature sat up on its hind legs and she lifted it onto the brim of her hat. She felt it shift and hang on, digging its paws into the grosgrain ribbon of the band. Making a fashion statement was the best way to carry the little creatures, and fortunately no one recognized Mouse as the creature they’d seen scampering along the baseboards. In fact, Imogen had received so many compliments on her unusual ornaments that she half expected replicas to start appearing in the fashion papers.

She opened the trunk with her old schoolbooks—the one place she knew her maid, parents, and especially Poppy would not think to pry—and pulled out the ladder Bucky had made. Folded up, it looked like a fat dictionary with a heavily embossed paper cover. When she opened it, two hooks sprang out. She clamped them over the windowsill, pressed a button, and a metal staircase unfolded all the way to the ground in a cascade of wafer-thin metal. Bucky had tried to explain the details, but she’d only followed every
third word. What she had remembered was that only one small person at a time could climb the stairs without breaking them. It wasn’t perfect—the pitch was terribly steep and the whole thing felt wobbly—but she was on the ground in a minute, breathing hard but nothing like what she’d feel if she’d climbed down a regular ladder.

Another press of a button, and the whole thing folded right back up, disappearing into her bedroom and disguising itself as a book once more. Bird flew in the open window and then out again with an affirmative chirp that said everything was going according to plan. It bounced on the window to activate the button that slid the window closed, and then flew to join Mouse on her hat. Bucky had designed the staircase for purely human operation, but it worked much better with Bird’s help. The two little creatures had certainly made her life easier the past few weeks.

Imogen put up her parasol and set off, leaving the garden by the side gate and working her way toward the main street. She had dressed plainly, though not so as to startle anyone who might recognize her. Nevertheless, she was out of the house without a chaperone, so she was careful to avoid the places friends of her parents would frequent. Plus, she was very adept at using the parasol to hide her face when needed. She’d had plenty of practice avoiding unwanted suitors over the past six months. At the thought of the Scarlet King, Imogen shuddered as if a cloud had passed over the sun.

She walked a good distance before she caught a steam tram and got off near the Royal Exchange. From there, she walked down Threadneedle Street. Here the lines between Gold and Green and Blue territories blurred, each holding a building here and a square there, all wanting a foothold in the business district. It was the farthest she’d ever been without someone with her. She felt curiously adrift, as if some leash might snap and she’d go spinning into the cosmos with no way to stop. The sensation was oddly appealing.

Penner Toy and Games stood halfway down the block. Imogen stood across the street for a while, just looking at the smart red and green sign. A warmth grew under her ribs. Bucky had wanted this factory and now he’d created it entirely
on his own, with his own money, and exactly how he wanted it. She was so proud of him, it was all she could do not to point the place out to each and every passerby.
Bucky Penner, the man I love, made this place from nothing
.

She crossed the street and mounted the three steps to the door. They were painted in a checkerboard pattern of red and green. The knocker was a large brass lion holding a ring in its mouth, but when she lifted it, the thing gave a startled mew. Bird chirped in alarm.

She knocked, and the door swung open all on its own. “Hello?” she said, starting to feel just slightly nervous.

A toy train came whizzing around the top of the wainscoting. It came to a stop, a bell rang, and a tiny toy monkey popped out the top of the engine. “Card please.” It held up a paw.

Imogen felt her hat shift as Mouse leaned forward for a better look. “It’s nowhere near as wonderful as you two,” she said, wedging her calling card in the monkey’s paw. The train rattled off, leaving her alone in the tiny reception room.

She had little experience with factories, but she would have expected a place of business to have a desk and chairs for visitors to wait. Instead, there was a fleet of tiny dirigibles whirring gently near the ceiling, bright-colored propellers stirring the air. An elephant drank tea, sucking liquid up in its trunk and then blowing a cloud of bubbles that gently bounced off Imogen’s coat. There was a unicorn on springs and a caterpillar in boots and—best of all, in her opinion—a bear that danced when you touched its nose.

“Imogen,” Bucky said, emerging in a haze of sawdust and paint fumes. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see this place,” she said, reluctantly abandoning the bear. “I wanted to be able to picture it in my imagination, and you in it, doing what you love.” She heard the brittleness in her voice and cleared her throat.

“Imogen?” Bucky dusted off his clothes and put his arm around her. “Why don’t you come sit down?”

He took her into the back. It was much cooler there, and the huge space echoed with the sound of a half dozen men
sawing and pounding, machines buzzing, and the hiss of an engine letting off steam.

“This way.” They turned to the left, where a smaller room had been closed in, putting walls between them and the sound.

The room was plain, with a table and chairs and a mangy-looking sofa. Bucky looked doubtfully at the cushions, but Imogen sat on it before he could start fussing. She wasn’t that delicate.

Bucky sat next to her. “What’s wrong?”

Imogen looked down at her hands, which were clasped on her knees. “I don’t think I’d be exaggerating if I said everything. I needed to see something happy for an hour.”

Bucky gave her a lopsided smile. “I’m glad you thought I could provide it. But you know it’s not safe to be walking about the city on your own. Yes,” he bulled on when she opened her mouth to object, “there’s the whole consideration of a lady’s reputation, but we’re not half a mile from where one of those poor women was killed by the Whitechapel Murderer.”

That made her gulp. “I didn’t think of that.”

He lifted her hand and kissed her gloved fingers. “I don’t mean to frighten you, but I won’t sleep at night if I believe you might wander alone in this part of town when I’m not there to keep you safe.”

She couldn’t hold his gaze. “I’m barely sleeping at all. I keep having nightmares about … everything, including those murders. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Perhaps my family has finally driven me mad.”

Bucky touched her cheek. “You’re worried about everything.”