A Study in Silks (10 page)

She grabbed his arm again. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about the baby!”

He stopped. “I’ll have to tell something to the people in
Yorkshire. Not much, but enough to make them understand.”

Tears filled her eyes. “But no more than that. I’ve my parents to think of. If I have to go, let them keep a clean memory of me. I never meant to bring them shame.”

That was simple enough. “Of course.”

He opened the side door and ushered Grace inside. The door was just down the hall from the cloakroom. The stairway to the servants’ quarters was next to the kitchen, far to his left, the stairway that led to his own bed to his right.

They stopped in the hall, suddenly awkward. “Thank you so much, Mr. Roth,” she said. “You’ve saved my life.”

He felt suddenly confused, as if he’d glimpsed the edge of something far darker than he fully understood. Maybe she was taking advantage of him, playing on his sympathies, but every instinct said her distress was genuine. Suddenly, the entire escapade at the opera house seemed like a surreal nightmare, insubstantial and ludicrous.
This
was real—whatever it was.

He cleared his throat. “Good night, Grace. I’ll find you tomorrow and we’ll talk again.”

“Good night.” She gazed into his face a long moment. Now he could see her eyes were a luminous pale blue, the color of a hazy sky. Grace truly was a beautiful girl.

She turned and walked toward the servants’ quarters, her hips swinging slightly under her skirts.
I saved her life
. Tobias felt oddly shaken, as if he had surprised himself.
But what have I saved her from?

NICK TOLERATED THE CAGE OF FILMY BED CURTAINS FOR
all of a minute. Those sixty seconds on Evelina’s bed were enough to conjure a lifetime of fantasies—what with the fine, embroidered linen and distinctly feminine scents—but with no female to complete the picture, it was pure frustration.

Besides, there had been no more screams or pounding on doors. Either everyone was dead or the crisis was over, and he was doing no good hiding among the mountain of pillows that crowded Evelina’s bed. How did anyone find room to sleep in all this fluff?

He slid out from the lacy bower, feeling his boot heels sink into the plush carpet. A Siberian tiger could not have felt more out of place. The dainty, fussy, and obviously expensive room was nothing like the caravans or railway cars he usually slept in. The silver hairbrush on the dressing
table was worth more than Nick’s entire stash of coin, and he was a good saver.

He ghosted about the room, careful not to make a noise. Evelina was right—he had taken a risk coming here. A stupid one. No one would believe he was there just to ensure his childhood sweetheart was safe and happy—or maybe, just maybe, hoping that she had missed him. Anyone sensible would take one look at his rough clothes and dark skin and assume the worst.

And maybe they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. There was no mistaking the fact that little Evie was a woman now, and he wanted to feel her curves under his hands. He wanted to hear her murmur his name, to cry it out in the dark of the night.

He trailed a hand along the top of a chest of drawers. Everything in the room breathed her presence. Atop a lace-edged runner sat an array of tiny crystal bottles of scent with names like Guerlain and Houbigant on the labels. A bouquet of flowers sat on the dressing table: late tulips, tiny yellow roses that must have come from a hothouse, and other exotic things he couldn’t name. The tulips were wilting, blood-red petals startling against the dark wood.

The bookshelf, however, was puzzling. Nick had learned to read from Evelina’s mother, learning everything he could from the thin, sickly woman, but he had never seen books like these before. Here were texts on botany. Books on astronomy. Lots of books on chemistry and anatomy.

He ran his finger over the spines, wondering what kind of person Evelina had grown into. University? What sort of female did that? Weren’t girls supposed to like horrid stories about highwaymen and ruined castles?

Ah
. There they were, on the bottom shelf. A collection of cheap novels and penny-dreadful serial magazines, kept almost out of sight like guilty pleasures. So there was something left of the Evie he knew after all. It lived in her love of fabulous tales, in her quick wit and sharp tongue, in those blue eyes that told him far more than her words ever would. In the magic pulling them together.

But there was more—much more—about this new Evelina
that he didn’t know. At their age, five years apart was an eternity. Nick gave himself a wry smile in the looking glass. He understood that his idealized Evie—the one who waved aside her life of privilege and joined him on the road—was just a fantasy. One that had little to do with the real girl, and much more to do with his own desires.

His chest felt suddenly hollow. Dreams, even foolish ones, didn’t die painlessly.
What do you expect? You have no fortune, no name, no relations of importance. You may be the great Niccolo, but you are not a gentleman
.

That was bad enough. Worse, she had plainly wanted him to leave. Anger flashed through him, fueled by shame. He might have had no right to come here, but she had no right to shoo him away like a sparrow begging crumbs. He deserved more than that.

Nick’s face heated. There was no point in waiting. No point in ever coming back.

The thought rammed into him, leaving a degree of shock, but no pain. Nick wiped a hand over his face. The hurt would come later, the way feeling returned to a finger just slammed in a door.

He’d stopped in front of the writing desk and was gazing at the train case she’d been about to open when he’d surprised her. It was the type women filled with toiletries, and he had no desire to investigate yet more feminine clutter. He was done with women for the night.

Instead, he picked up the paper knife she’d nearly stuck in his eye. It was slender, the handle made of ebony decorated with a silver crest. Probably the arms of the lord who owned the house. They liked to put their mark on things, like dogs claiming their territory.

The knife was too fancy for his taste, but Evie had used it like a fighter’s weapon. He picked it up, flung it into the air, and caught it as it spun downward in a perfect arc. The blade was as balanced as one of his own. Whatever Evelina might say, her instincts hadn’t changed. And that was how he preferred to remember her: canny as a street sparrow and ready for action. He thrust the knife into his belt. If the world
thought him a thief, why not oblige? He deserved a souvenir of the one great love of his young life.

He would escape this cursed bedroom, make sure the house was safe for Evie, and then go on with his night. And every night thereafter.

Nick slipped out the window, easily climbing down the same stonework and ivy he had used to reach Evelina’s bedroom. It was child’s play for an acrobat like him.

Unfortunately, in his pique, he had left the safety of the house without checking the grounds. When his boots silently touched the grass, he recoiled. At the corner of the building stood the outline of a helmeted constable, dark against the patch of light seeping from one of the downstairs windows. He froze, gluing himself to the wall. His heart lurched into a gallop, forcing him to gulp in the cold air.
Damn, damn, and damn
. His fingers gripped the rough stone of the wall, clutching it as if that would flatten his telltale form just a little bit more. In Nick’s experience, where there was one Peeler, there were always more.

It was then he realized the scream—whatever it had been about—had summoned half the world. Evelina’s room looked out the back of the house, but he could still hear noise from the street. Carriages were pulling into the square, some driven by horses, more by steam, and bringing the loud, masculine voices of more police.

Good news for Evelina. Whatever else, she was protected from the threat that had disturbed the house. He released a breath of relief.

However, it was not good news for vagabonds hanging about in the garden. Nick made a quick assessment.

Hilliard House sat on a respectably sized swath of garden bordered by brick walls. Flanked on either side by arches of terraced homes, it made up one side of Beaulieu Square. He had to either climb the back wall of the garden, which would land him in Ketherow Lane; get over a wall to one of the neighboring properties; or make it to the front of the house and saunter out of the square like he belonged there. Given that lights were coming on in the windows next door, the lane was his most realistic option. At least it was dark
enough to hide there. The gangs that ran through the London Streets—the Yellowbacks, Blue Boys, Scarlets, and the rest—could be trouble, but he’d take his chances with them before a magistrate.

There wasn’t a moment to spare for dithering. Nick sprinted across the lawn and hurled himself at the brick wall. Just as he cleared the top, he heard a startled “Hoi!” from the vicinity of the constable. They’d be on him in no time.

He heard the piercing shrill of a chemical whistle. Nick swore at himself, at the gods, at Evelina. He landed on the cobbles of Ketherow Lane and straightened to find himself nose to nose with a tall gentleman in an opera cape. Nick fell back a step, ready to dodge around him. But the gentleman raised his walking stick, blocking Nick’s escape. The light flashed on a heavy ring with a dark-colored stone, stark against the white of his glove. “Stay a moment. Please.”

The last word made Nick hesitate. Those intent on making an arrest were rarely polite. On the other hand, who was polite to shabby young men obviously sneaking out the back way? Generally not men who wore top hats and carried silver-headed canes.

“What do you want?” Nick asked, his ears perked for the sound of running feet. “I’m in something of a rush.”

“Is this the rear of Lord Bancroft’s residence?”

“Yes.”

“So I thought.”

Nick tried to get a better look at the stranger, but the darkness shadowed the man’s face. All he could make out was the curve of a high cheekbone. By the voice, he was not a young man, but not more than middle aged.

“And you were within the walls?” the stranger asked.

“Yes.” Nick twitched in impatience. “And obliged to leave quickly.”

The man laughed softly. Out of the darkness came a flash of teeth. Nick had worked with enough lions and tigers to sense the predator lurking beneath the fine clothes. As with the big cats, he knew better than to show his unease.

The stranger ceased blocking Nick with the cane. Instead,
he propped it over his shoulder as if it were a decapitated parasol. “Why, my good fellow, you’ve been walking with me this past hour.”

“What’s that?” Nick was incredulous and a bit alarmed.

“You need a character reference. One willing to say where you’ve been tonight. My word carries far more weight than that of a mere constable. Let me buy you a drink.”

As good as that sounded—the drink almost as much as safety—Nick held up a hand. “What for?”

The stranger’s voice turned sly. “As you say, if you had legitimate business inside, you would be leaving by the front door. You can’t afford to quibble. You have the Blood—that fact alone would be of interest to a judge.”

The threat caught Nick’s attention—and the mere fact that the stranger understood Blood power. Once, that wouldn’t have been remarkable. In the old days, every cave or river had its sacred spot, where the country folk left offerings to the devas—but all that was forbidden now. Few understood that despite what the mayors and the priests said, magic was just a different kind of energy. Like all power, it could be used for healing or harm if you knew how to harness it.

Of course, that wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Nick’s bloodline was different from anything Gran Cooper or the others had seen before, which meant their spells rarely worked for him. Of necessity, he’d gravitated to steel and horse leather, his magic as much an orphan as he was. But still, he’d been able to learn a few simple tricks—such as recognizing by the prickle along his skin that the stranger had power of his own. This was an unpredictable complication, to say the least. Nick’s stomach formed a hard knot of tension.