A Study in Darkness (64 page)

“Oh, for pity’s sake I already surmised that much, since you recruited me for it,” Holmes snapped.

Annoyance flickered across his brother’s face. “You’ve only seen the tip of the cat’s tail.”

Holmes folded his arms. “Then bring it on, whiskers and all. But speak slowly so that I might understand.”

“For God’s sake, pack your pride away for a moment. I haven’t involved you because the level of danger is far too high.” Mycroft turned away, pacing across the sooty floor.

“I’ve already had a bomb in my study.”

“I know.”

“Tell me.”

Mycroft sighed. “I have worked for months gaining the confidence of the Steam Council, whispering advice, planting the seeds of doubt. I have been like a gardener sowing weeds, first with the Blue King, then with the Gold. I have played them off against one another as neatly as you please. I convinced Keating to turn a handful of King Coal’s men.”

“So you’re the one pulling the strings of the Blue King’s traitor. And somehow I got bombed in the process? Wasn’t that a bit careless of you? Or were you the one who gave the order for it in the first place? King Coal is convinced someone is tampering with his minions.”

Mycroft shrugged, still pacing from one wall to the other, reminding Holmes of a caged bear. “I managed to turn it around so that you weren’t actually blown to bits.”

It wasn’t precisely an answer. Anger swept through Holmes like a hot, dry wind. “Thank you for your attention to detail.”

His brother spun to face him. “It was a bit of paint and plaster. A fair price for putting the cat among the pigeons.
I
was the one dragged out of my club at gunpoint.” The venom in Mycroft’s voice said he hadn’t expected that move.

“What happened?” Holmes softened his tone.

“Keating suspects me. Something went wrong.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” he snarled.

The very rarity of the statement took Holmes aback. “What about Jones? And the other one, Bingham? Do they know anything of value?” He was clutching at straws, and Mycroft’s expression said so.

“They’re both dead. Poison. They suffered severe hallucinations, and then their hearts stopped. There is someone in our own fold who didn’t want them to speak.”

Holmes felt his gut growing cold. Things were unraveling. “This is grave news. And yet you escaped the Gold King’s clutches. How did you do that?”

“There is no time for the whole tale.” His brother gave a wan smile. “Suffice to say there was a man of our own in Keating’s employ.”

“At least that is symmetry if he has one in ours.”

Mycroft ignored the sally. “I have to make it back to Scotland. I need your help, and it’s not for something simple like money or transportation. The Schoolmaster has seen to that much.”

A cold, dry dread settled in Holmes’s stomach. Although he thought he knew the answer, he asked anyhow. “What do you need?”

“Timing is everything. Right now, with these murders, we have an opportunity. It would be best if you didn’t solve them quite yet.”

“My conclusion is that you wrote the letters signed by the Ripper.”

“Of course I did. Who knew a handful of dead whores could do so much good.”

Holmes wasn’t easily appalled, but that did it. “Are you mad?”

“No. Public sentiment is high.”

“For rebellion?”

“For destabilization. The rebels don’t have a prayer against the Steam Council if they go to war. We’re not ready, and they have weapons the likes of which the world has never seen. The only hope is to break the council and turn them against one another. Keating and Scarlet target the Blue King as the greatest threat. He has allies in the Black Kingdom.”

“What do you expect me to do? Keep them at each other’s throats?”

“You must play a role in that.”

“I have other responsibilities. Have you paused to consider that our niece is missing?”

“No,” Mycroft said simply. “You’re the sympathetic one in the family. I paint a larger canvas.”

God help us
. Anger flashed through Holmes, but it was pointless to show it. They had argued before, and he knew nothing would change no matter how he raged. He wouldn’t lower himself to that again.

“I will get you word when there is something you must do,” Mycroft said, as if the topic of Evelina had never come up. “But one thing above all—protect the Schoolmaster, even if it means your life. If there is a traitor among the rebels, it could come to that.”

“I know,” Holmes replied, the rivalry between them falling away for the moment. “I know what Baskerville means to the queen.”

His brother gave him one of his rare true smiles. “If all the dominoes fall as I expect, he will save the Empire.”

BANCROFT SAT IN HIS STUDY, WATCHING THE MINUTE HAND
click forward along the enameled dial of the mantel clock. He had started at half past nine and now it was nine thirty-five. Too early for most of the family to be stirring. If someone were to ask what he was waiting for, he would have been hard-pressed to give specifics. Disaster? A thunderclap? A bullet to the head? He’d set enough potential explosions in motion, he was spoiled for choice.

He hadn’t killed Jasper Keating, a direct and potent threat, but he had saved Evelina Cooper, who was another kind of threat altogether. He had even paid a physician to sew her back together. Pure folly, of course. If anyone had recognized his face, what ill fortune might have followed? And it wasn’t as if he could mention finding the girl, as that would give rise to speculation as to what he’d been doing wandering the streets the night of a double murder. Better to be cautious than obliged to answer awkward questions.

And according to the doctor, against all odds, she had lived. If Bancroft had simply walked away, she would have died and ceased to be a thorn in his side forever.

But nothing was ever simple. Keating wanted to punish her. By the perverse laws that seemed to rule Bancroft’s nature, that was reason enough to save the girl. And maybe it felt good to be the white knight just this once.

A light tap sounded on the door. Bancroft sighed. He knew that tap, and knew that it was hopeless to avoid that particular intruder for long. “Come in, Poppy.”

The door opened, and his youngest child entered. She was the awkward one—the one who hadn’t thrived at school, who had never taken an interest in being liked, and who couldn’t care less if she looked or acted like a lady. As a father, he had no idea what to do with a child whose way of measuring the world was so different from his own.

And today she looked more disheveled than usual. But that was not what had his attention. It was the pinched look on her face. “Whatever is the matter?”

She didn’t answer, but just held out a letter. “I went into Imogen’s room and found this on her dressing table.” The words came out in a hushed whisper, as if she were speaking of the dead.

Panic slammed into his diaphragm. He didn’t ask what Poppy had been doing in her big sister’s room. He just took the letter with a murmur of thanks.

It was addressed to
Mother and Father
. There had been a wax seal, but that had been peeled away from the paper, no doubt by Poppy. The fact that she hadn’t taken the time to repair the damage said something about the urgency of the matter.
Damn and blast, it’s always the obedient ones that cause the most trouble in the end
. He unfolded the paper and read, gradually rising to his feet as his gaze devoured the words.

Imogen had eloped.

EVELINA HAD AWAKENED
that morning to find Nick gone and the sheets beside her unforgivably cold. She lay in bed for a little while, staring at the cracks in the plaster ceiling and missing him. Memory tangled her, making it hard to move. Memories of his mouth, his body, his magic—as long as she stayed between those sheets, she was wrapped in the sensations of their idyll. Rising from their cocoon would be a painful jolt. To be truthful, she didn’t want to face the world beyond their room.

And yet sometime in those two long days between talking and resting, talking and lovemaking, and just being side by side, he’d told her that he had to leave. They were bound together in ways that had no name, but that was not the only reality. He’d stayed by her sickbed, to the consternation of his crew, but now that she was out of danger he had obligations. Urgent ones, he’d said, that he’d tell her about once she was stronger. His refusal to say anything more had sent her into fits, and Nick into smothered laughter. He’d quickly added that he would be back before the week was out, when she was just that little bit stronger, and then he would take her away forever. She trusted his word, but wished they could both stay there burrowed like rabbits down a hole.

Eventually, she’d arisen to take a long, hot bath—not the first she’d taken in the last few days, but the first she’d taken alone. Then she’d dressed in fresh clothes Hyacinth had found for her—a pale blue dress that was cut far lower in the bodice than anything she’d ever owned. She was left with the sensation of being dressed and undressed at the same time.

“You’d better be careful to stay away from the windows,” her old schoolmate said. “There’s been no end of people knocking on the door, looking for you.”

“Me?” Evelina looked up from tugging the neckline a fraction of an inch higher.

The bath had reminded her that her flesh carried the evidence of attack. Angry scars slashed across her abdomen, puckered where the surgeon had stitched them. Nick had been careful with them, and as careful with her as if she were the most precious creature to ever walk beneath the sun, but even he couldn’t buffer her from the damage. Not entirely. The sight of the wounds filled her with confusion, slowing her down until both fingers and thoughts fumbled with the simplest tasks. It was as if she’d been invaded and something vital had been stripped away.

Hyacinth was leaning against the door. Her skirts were hitched up to reveal provocatively slender calves encased in red-and-white-striped stockings and high-heeled boots. She
also had a tiny white whip curled through her belt, and the fringes on the handle swayed gently as she shifted her weight.

She watched Evelina intently, as if reading her reactions and gauging how to proceed. No doubt it was a professional skill, as useful to a procuress as it was to any politician—but right now, Hyacinth looked worried for Evelina. “Your uncle was looking for you.”

“My uncle?” Her spirits lifted a little, and then fell when she realized that she had let time slip past without fulfilling her end of Keating’s bargain. She would have to write both the Gold King and Sherlock right away.

“Some Peelers, too. And of course, they’re looking for the Whitechapel Murderer, as well. He got poor Mary Kelly yesterday.”

Evelina was speechless, not sure what to say. Hyacinth was keeping her face perfectly still, but her throat was working with the effort not to cry. Despite the décolletage and extravagantly purple hair, Hyacinth was still a nineteen-year-old girl, and this wasn’t the first friend she’d lost to the murders. There had been Annie Chapman, too.

Evelina bit her lip, remembering Mary’s throaty laugh. “I’m sorry.”

Hyacinth darted her a look that warned off any further sympathy. “We nearly lost you, too. What the fardling hell were you doing out alone at night? Some of us may need to take those risks, but you don’t.”

“I was looking for someone.” Evelina began to comb out her damp hair. It was snarled beyond belief.

“Who?”

She remembered talking to Mary. Perhaps it was the shock of the woman’s death, but it pulled something out of the dark mist that was her memory. “A woman in a cloak.” It wasn’t much, but it was more than she’d had before. “It had something to do with Magnus.”

“Huh. Good riddance to that one. He came looking for you, too.”

“You didn’t—”

Hyacinth moved from the doorway, took the comb from her hand, and began to ply it herself, working from the ends
of Evelina’s wavy locks with brusque efficiency. “I didn’t tell any of them where you were. Not even Mr. Keating’s men. Who you tell is your decision to make.”

“Thank you,” Evelina said, impressed and infinitely grateful that her friend had stood up to them all. “For everything.”

Hyacinth gave her a half smile. “There’s something about this part of town that taught me to value the few friends I have. I may be a sinner, but at least I’m not a lonely one.”

“Ow!” Evelina squawked as she hit a snarl.

“Did I mention they call me the Mistress of Pain?”

ABOUT HALF AN
hour later, Evelina sat alone in her room, dressed and ready to face the world. Or perhaps not quite ready. She felt like a wanderer who had crossed a mountain range to find a new and strange countryside. Nick had been everything she could have dreamed of—his rough, fierce sweetness, and the unimagined pleasures he’d shown her—but now she was alone. He’d been gone just hours, and already she pined for his return like a lovesick heroine in one of Lady Bancroft’s soggy romance novels. She’d always despised the women in them, with their tears and sighs, but she’d been humbled. Now she knew exactly how they felt.