A Study in Silks (39 page)

“
A MAN HAS NEEDS BEYOND A STUFFED SHEEP
,”
TOBIAS SAID
with the certainty of the extremely drunk.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Bucky replied, refilling his glass and proffering the bottle. He’d been in a fine mood since he’d arrived at the clubhouse an hour ago, rather like someone who’d won large at the gaming table. Tobias wasn’t sure what sort of a state he was in—except drunk.

Tobias waved the bottle away. The clubhouse—with its ratty furniture, litter of tools, and half-finished machines—was already rotating in that irritating way things had when one was snockered. The condition had crept up on him. He’d thought he was safe, since they weren’t actually drinking anything that had come from the in-house Steam-Accelerated Special Compression Distillery. That had exploded with spectacular gusto last week.

The accident had produced tragic results. The sheep, never of reputable appearance, was now minus one ear and several handfuls of fleece. Hence, Bucky had raided his father’s cellar for a supply of Bordeaux.

“What I’m saying is …” Tobias trailed off, forgetting what he had in fact been saying.

Bucky resumed his habitual sprawl. “The squid adventure is done, and now you’re bored.”

“That’s it,” Tobias pointed his wineglass more or less in Bucky’s (or one of the Bucky’s) direction(s). “That’s it exactly. We did the
Dutchman
. We need another sip to shink.”

Tobias looked proudly around the clubhouse. The Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events met in a converted outbuilding that looked over a walled patch of scrub a block and a half behind his tailor’s. It was everything his home was not. Except for the tools, there was nothing they had not built or scavenged. It was a house of imagination, not money. It was freedom from their birth and an opportunity to discover their merit.

Which, of course, was not the way most would view their pursuits. It was one thing to dabble with engines when one was a schoolboy, but real gentlemen didn’t actually get their hands dirty. Not with grease and rust and the guts and bones of machines. That went beyond even the politely eccentric.

Never mind that Tobias was happiest when he was deep in the bowels of a machine, the sharp smell of steel and oil grating on his lungs. He was actually affecting something, not talking or planning or critiquing, but actually
doing
.

It seemed a rare state of bliss. Not even the poor people got to do much tinkering anymore, since they weren’t able to buy parts to fix anything, thanks to the steam barons and the sneaky way supplies seemed to disappear on their way to store shelves. Even the fact that SPIE could get its hands on whatever parts it liked was proof they were a bunch of lunatic toffs and not real makers at all. Which made no sense, but then nothing did anymore. When did it all get so complicated?

“We need a new project,” he said. “We did the squid. We did the still—sort of, until it blew up.”

“Nearly did us in, that one did.”

“There was the special vegetable launcher.”

“The horse trapeze.”

“The autocravat self-garroting device.” That one had been meant to produce perfectly formed bow ties. Tobias snorted, then coughed when wine went up his nose.

“I make my toys.”

“Yes.” Bucky had three sisters, and Tobias envied his friend’s small army of nieces and nephews. They appreciated all the mechanical marvels SPIE could invent. Making a child laugh wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon. “I need to build something.”

He wished that Magnus would surface—wished it with an almost childish ache. The foreigner had promised to give them all something exciting to do, but the man had vanished partway through the garden party and hadn’t been seen since. It had been like getting a bite of a divine iced dessert, and then having the bowl snatched away.

“An idea will come up,” Bucky said contentedly. “It always does.”

“I’m bored.”

“For the love of Babbage, don’t make a complicated bet like the last one! Do something easy. Get a new mistress.”

“Spare me. My father wants me to seduce Miss Cooper.”

The words were out before Tobias knew he was going to say them. Damn. He grabbed the bottle and filled his glass, knowing he should be more sober, not less—but if he got drunk enough, then he wouldn’t remember his transgression.

Bucky set down his drink. The afternoon light fell across his face, giving him the look of one of Rembrandt’s younger cavaliers. “I thought the pater wasn’t in favor of the girl.”

“Forget I said it.” Tobias rubbed his eyes with the hand not clutching his wineglass.

Bucky looked suddenly sober. “No, I won’t. What’s going on?”

Now that his mouth was engaged, it wouldn’t stop. “It’s this bloody affair with the maid. The Cooper girl’s uncle is that detective, Holmes. My father’s afraid she’ll somehow dig up something embarrassing. You know how he is about his political career.”

“So he wants you to keep her busy? Maybe on her back?” Bucky sputtered.

“Don’t be vulgar. She’s not like that.”

“So you’ll just make her think she has a chance of landing Lord Bancroft’s heir? That’s a bit low, isn’t it?”

“Drawing-room intrigues happen all the time.”

“Which makes it all perfectly fine.”

Tobias’s temper prickled. “Since when are you a moralist?”

“Someone has to put in a word for common decency.” Bucky gave a mirthless laugh. “What if I did that to your sister?”

“Imogen?” Tobias was horrified. “Why? She doesn’t have an uncle.”

Bucky rubbed his face with one hand. “Good God, there are days I’m glad to be an upstart merchant’s son. You aristos are utterly crazy.”

Tobias checked the bottle, only to find it empty. “My father just got his title a few years ago.”

Bucky uncorked another bottle. “They say there’s nothing worse than a convert. Do you even like Miss Cooper?”

“Of course I do. She’s a perfectly decent sort.” And pretty. She reminded him of a roadside briar, all the more lovely for a little wildness.
Bloody hell, I’m drunk
.

“Do you like her enough to do your father’s bidding, or too much?”

“I tried, you know. It didn’t work. All that detecting or what have you. She knew not to trust me. My heart wasn’t in it.”

“Oh.” A frown puckered Bucky’s face. “Where does that leave things?”

Tobias laughed bitterly. “The minute she walked away I wanted her.”

There was a long silence. Worry radiated from Bucky like waves of heat. “This doesn’t sound like you. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

“I know how this sounds.” Tobias set down his glass. “Don’t make too much of it. She’s just a girl.” The lie coated his tongue like something rancid.

Bucky shook his head. “Forget your father.”

“Do I have a choice? She doesn’t want me near her.”

“I doubt it’s as bad as all that. But if you keep pushing, and she keeps pushing back, you’re just going to become more invested in the game.”

“So? I need a project.”

“Before you know it, you’ll propose.”

Tobias actually thought he felt his heart stop. He buried his face in his hands, feeling the world tilt through his alcoholic haze. He imagined Evelina’s soft skin beneath his fingertips, her breath on his lips. If he proposed, would she refuse him?

The question mushroomed until it was the only thing that filled his brain.

EVELINA SAT IN
her bedroom just after dinner, hunched over the tiny writing desk. She’d received a short note from Dr. Watson that her uncle was back on the Continent after stopping in Baker Street for barely a day. The only thing he’d let slip was that her uncle was headed for Bohemia, tying up the aftermath of who-knew-what debacle. Intriguing, to be sure, but what it really meant was that she had a bit more time to find answers.

Not that she relished the thought of working alone, given her adventure in the warehouse. She still wondered what would happen when the owners noticed their dragon was missing. She might have enough magic to send it packing, but what kind of power did its masters have? What on earth had it been set to guard? How much danger had she and Imogen actually been in?
Too much
. She would have to go carefully as she followed up her questions about the warehouse.

The fact that there were other magic users in the mix worried her more than she cared to admit. She was used to having that as her secret advantage, but now she couldn’t rely on being the only one with tricks up her sleeve. Once again, she thought of the mysterious Dr. Magnus. She remained convinced that he wasn’t directly involved with the warehouse, but his fingers were in this pie somewhere.
What should I do about him?
What
could
she do about him? She had so much to sort out already, he was going to have to stand in line.

Evelina rubbed her aching eyes and tried to focus on the
papers in front of her. The window was open a crack, and Bird—wide awake now—hopped along the sill. Mouse was curled into a ball next to her inkwell, its jet nose tucked beneath its etched steel paws. The cube sat on her dresser, shrouded in the remains of Imogen’s shawl. Evelina had hidden it, along with her train case of clockworks and magical implements, at the very back of her wardrobe. But tonight she had it out, thinking it might like the fresh air and company. Beyond that, she had no idea what to do with it or what it wanted.

In the meantime, she was trying to work on the letter Grace had carried in the silk bag. She had her uncle’s pamphlet open on the desk, the letter, and a piece of notepaper in front of her. By everything she could determine, the document was written in a Vigenère cipher.

According to the pamphlet, a tabula recta was a series of alphabets staggered by one letter. There were variations, but she’d drawn the basic one.

Then she’d copied out the message letter by letter, leaving a space below each letter for the key.

Decoding was simple if one had the key, which would be a word or phrase of some kind. All she had to do was find the first letter of the key along the top of the tabula recta. Then she followed the column down until she found the first letter of the coded message, and then follow that row to the left-hand margin. Whatever letter was on that row along the left-hand margin was then the first letter of the decoded message. Then repeat with the second letter of the key to find the second letter of the message, and so on. The key would keep repeating until all the letters of the message were decoded. Dead simple, if one had the key. Which she didn’t, and it could be absolutely anything.

Bugger
. A sense of helplessness crept through her as she stared at the letters. There was no magic spell, or foul word, or temper tantrum that would make the nonsense phrase suddenly resolve into sense.
Bugger. Bugger. Bugger
. Frustration was fast eroding her boarding-school gentrification, at least inside her own head.

Evelina felt the cube reach out, touching her mind gently. The emotion in the wordless contact was as soothing as someone stroking her hair. It reminded her of Gran Cooper.

Long ago, Evelina had sat beside her fortune-telling grandmother while the old woman turned over card after card for the patrons who came to her tent wanting to know the future. The air would grow still and strangely hushed, the candlelight softer, as if the magic of the reading pulled the noise and brightness from the air. That was when little Evie would cuddle closer to her grandmother’s side, glad of the warmth of the woman’s rough woolen shawl against her cheek. The worn cards would turn,
snick, snick, snick
, and the fortuneteller’s soft voice would spin stories about what was to come.

Evelina could still remember the smell of the tent: damp earth and animals, incense and the perfume of herbs from the old woman’s medicine chest. An extra sixpence could buy the customers a love potion or a lucky charm. When Gran sold one of those, their supper might be just a little bit bigger.