A Study in Silks (55 page)

A low whistle sounded from beyond the gate—a long note, then three short ones.
Nick!

Or not. With Magnus lurking about, she wasn’t taking anything for granted. Cautiously, she crept a few steps down the walkway to the metal gate that opened onto the street—or would have opened, had it been daytime. Since the murder, Bigelow had taken to locking it at sundown. She didn’t cover more distance than she could make in a quick dash back to the door.

“Nick?” she said in a low whisper.

He suddenly appeared on the other side of the iron bars. “Evie.”

The rough sound of his voice was like a familiar touch. With a stifled cry, she ran the rest of the way to the gate, but she didn’t have the key to open it. She studied Nick’s face, the oblique glow of the yellow gaslights limning the clean lines of his face.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

A frown put a vertical crease between his brows. “Watching for Magnus. What are you doing standing on your own outside?”

“I’m waiting for a carriage.”

His hands waved in exasperated arcs. “You might as well have a sign over your head saying:
Damsel in distress, get ’em while they’re hot
. You should get yourself back inside.”

Nick had suffered the last time he’d met Magnus. The memory of it raised the hair on her nape and sharpened her tongue. “Oh, fine, and what are you going to do if he shows up?”

“I’ll think of something.”

She made an impatient noise in her throat. Tears started to her eyes, and she was grateful the darkness covered them. “Nick, be careful. Use your head. He left a rose in my carriage this afternoon. One just like yours.”

The conversation froze in place, not only from the implication of the doctor’s gesture, but also because of the memory of that moment in the ring: Nick the triumphant knight, Evelina the queen of love and beauty. He reached through the bars of the gate to catch her hand.

His grasp was hot enough to feel through the silk of her glove, and he pulled her forward a step. Her cloak fell open, revealing the form-fitting shape of her low-cut ball gown. His gaze ran down to her toes and back up again, lingering appreciatively.

Heat seared her cheeks. She wondered if he was there for Magnus at all.

“Aren’t you a picture?” he said, his voice dipping to a deeper timbre.

Her mouth went dry. “You have your costumes, I have mine.”

He stepped closer to the bars, leaning into them like a prisoner trying to see out of his cell. He lifted her fingers to his lips, brushing them lightly.

“Nick, stop,” she breathed.

His gaze kept devouring her, but now it mocked as well, reminding her of that other, powerful Nick she’d seen in the ring. The one that made her insides melt.

He didn’t let go of her hand. “Is there something wrong with worshipping a fine lady?”

“Don’t tease me.” She wanted to be angry, but it came out more as a plea.

Nick’s eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. “Where are you going tonight?”

“The Westlake ball.” She could hear voices, and glanced over her shoulder. If they weren’t careful, they’d be caught carrying on a conversation through a locked gate like lovers from some witless romance.

The pressure of Nick’s hand brought her attention back to him. “Going dancing, are we?”

There was a tone in his voice she didn’t like. Jealousy? “What else does one do at a ball?”

He shook his head, something akin to pain in his eyes. “Look at you, little Evie Cooper.”

“Nick! Let me go,” she begged. She could hear the carriage coming. She pulled her hand away.

And then he was gone, quick as one of his own flashing blades. She turned and ran back to the house, cursing him.

CONFUSED AND FEELING
somehow guilty, she was nearly silent all the way to the Duke of Westlake’s elegant mansion. When Applegate handed her out of the carriage, she was confronted with the sheer scale of the event. Vehicles of all kinds—steam and horse-drawn—jammed the street for half a mile either way. Every titled head in London was crowding into the pool of golden gaslight flooding from the mansion’s front door. Evelina barely resisted the urge to cling to Lady Bancroft’s elaborately ruffled bustle like a toddler afraid to lose her mother. The crush lasted until they were safely inside.

“There are twenty-four dances,” Imogen said brightly, examining the dance card once they shed their wraps and put on their dancing slippers. “Twenty-four chances to sort the toads from the automatons.”

About four inches tall, the tiny booklet had a richly colored cover ornamented with gold leaf, as well as a miniature pencil dangling from a cord. The whole works hung from a ribbon loop. What made this Season’s cards unique was the novel way they opened. If one pushed the button to the left, only pages with unclaimed dances fanned out for viewing. The right-hand button showed them all.

Evelina slipped the loop of her card over her wrist. “Do you have a preference for dance partners?”

“I’m partial to the toads. At least they have personality.”

“And prince potential?”

“Unlikely.” Imogen made a philosophical moue, despite the flush in her cheeks. “Sometimes a toad is just a toad, but
he might be a very nice toad. I think we’d get farther if we just accepted that and got on with things.”

Evelina wondered if that particular amphibian was heir to the Penner factory fortune, but diplomatically held her tongue.

Their party gathered at the top of the grand staircase that swept down to the brilliantly lit ballroom. Evelina felt the heat shimmering up from the dance floor below like a palpable cloud. A footman took their invitations.

“Lord and Lady Bancroft,” he announced in a stentorian voice. “The Honorable Imogen Roth and Miss Cooper.”

Tobias, of course, would arrive with his friends, hopefully before everyone else went home. The interesting young men always arrived late.

The Bancrofts started down the stairs at a sedate pace, Lady Bancroft’s gloved hand resting on the ambassador’s arm like a hovering bird. Imogen descended next, all gold beauty, then Evelina. The coolness of the marble stairs seeped through the soft soles of her dancing shoes. Faces turned up to look at them, at her floating down the staircase in her fine dress of whipping-cream white. She lifted her head a fraction higher.

The descent gave her a good view of the company. Many of the same men who had been at Lord Bancroft’s table were there, including Jasper Keating. In the opposite corner of the room, almost hidden by the crowd, was an attentive Dr. Magnus. It struck her as odd, because she doubted the duchess would have invited him—but then, it seemed, he had a way of going where he pleased. Despite the heat in the room, she shivered, remembering the bruising crush of his hand on her arm. It took everything she had to keep the fear from her face, but she would be damned if she’d let him see her panic.

When they reached the ballroom, Evelina reached into her reticule, feeling the cool steel fur of the mechanical mouse.
Watch Dr. Magnus. Find out who he is talking to and everything he does, but be sure to come back to me well before the dancing is over
.

She bent as if to adjust the lace of her dancing slipper, and
quickly released Mouse next to the heavily carved baseboards of the wall. It disappeared in a streak of gray, a dozen times as fast as any regular rodent. She straightened to answer a question of Lady Bancroft’s, careful to preserve a neutral expression.

At least I’m in a crowd, and Magnus would not dare to threaten me here
. And with luck, she might learn something useful.

She needn’t have worried about her dance card. The diplomatic service could have taken notes from Lady Bancroft and her cronies. They knew how to steer likely young men toward the young ladies without seeming to do so, winnowing away the chaff with a precisely placed word or tap of the fan. Within minutes, Imogen was the most sought-after belle of the ball, and Evelina not far behind.

As Imogen had predicted, there were some interesting toads and quite a few automatons. The first name on her card that she actually knew was one of Tobias’s friends, Michael Edgerton, who asked her to partner him in the quadrille. It was one of the dances where conversation was practical and expected.

“You dance so gracefully, Miss Cooper,” he said. He must have known how banal it sounded, because he looked faintly embarrassed.

On her side, Evelina fumbled for a response, because returning the compliment was out of the question. The tall, lanky Edgerton moved like a giraffe on ice skates. She tried to think of something she knew about him. Men were supposed to like talking about themselves, after all. “Are you still interested in the domestic application of an alternating current power supply?”

Edgerton fumbled his step, narrowly avoiding a collision. “In theory,” he said shortly. “It hasn’t been licensed for use.”

Which in translation meant that the steam barons hadn’t figured out how to monopolize it yet. She remembered some fellow named Ferranti had tried and been run out of London. Evelina executed a turn as she searched for an innocuous reply.

Edgerton broke in instead. “How on earth did you even remember my interest in that?”

“Because it interests me.”

He gave an awkward smile. “How unusual, Miss Cooper. A fellow doesn’t think to meet with that sort of thing on a dance floor. It’s typically all posies and ribbons.”

The way he said it left her unsure of his opinion. Was he pro- or antiposy? The dance ended and Evelina curtsied, then accepted his escort from the floor.

She decided to hazard a bit of honesty. “Do you truly find my question so off-putting Mr. Edgerton?”

“Heavens, no, Miss Cooper.” He paused, leaning closer to lower his voice. “I’m just careful, you know, about my interest in new technologies. You should be, too. Someone might mistake curiosity for something else. You know what they say—if you really want to try new science, it’s best to go to the Americas.”

It was an oblique reference to the steam barons. She bit her lip, cursing her thoughtlessness. “My apologies.”

Edgerton gave a surprisingly dimpled smile. “Don’t apologize for being interesting, Miss Cooper. It only increases your allure.”

ELSEWHERE IN THE
room, Imogen had been cornered by The Stare. Despite the fact that she had turned down his proposal—and most young men would know enough to withdraw their suit—Stanford Whitlock had taken it as a challenge. Sadly, unless she wanted to alert her parents to her refusal, she was forced to endure his attentions. Such was the price of liberty.

Always handsome, The Stare was even more impressive in evening clothes. Unfortunately, he had consumed enough liquid courage to loosen his tongue. Still worse, some well-meaning Cyrano must have written his lines for him.

“My dear Miss Roth, how is it possible that you are so radiant?” he asked in his curiously monotone voice. The question concluded with a smile that might have been the effects of a mild stomach cramp.

“I only used the very purest of soaps,” she replied helpfully, accepting the glass of lemonade he offered. “It is quite impressive what the cosmeticians can do with oil of almonds.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, indeed.” Imogen felt sorry for the man, who had been born without the least talent for conversation. Or dancing. They had made it around the room once before she complained that she was too exhausted to continue the polka. In truth, she had feared too much for her personal safety—and that of any breakable object within a square mile. “Although I have read in a ladies’ manual that steel wool brings an attractive pinkness to the cheeks.”

His eyes widened. “Would that not be painful?”

“But a good girl will do anything to make herself attractive. That is our first duty to Society, Mr. Whitlock.”

He appeared to search his memory for a moment. “You are certainly an ornament to our company tonight, Miss Roth. Would you like some lemonade?”

“Thank you, Mister Whitlock, but you just brought me some.”

“Of course.” He got that searching look again, as if mentally flipping through a notebook.

She looked frantically about the room for rescue. “And you, Mr. Whitlock, do you still engage in pugilistic pursuits?”

“Yes, Miss Roth, I do.” There was a flicker of life in his voice, but it died quickly. “Of course, a fine young lady like yourself would not be interested in such a brutish sport.”

“No?” Imogen bridled. “I’m not afraid of a little blood.”

“Heavens, Miss Roth,” he laughed—a strangely wooden sound that went with the rest of his manner. “The fights are too coarse. There are men who place bets there, you know.”

“How savage. You must be very brave to attend. Oh, look, there’s Captain Smythe. We were going to have the next waltz. Hellooo!” she trilled, waving her lace-gloved fingers.

Diogenes Smythe was dashing in his blue Hussar’s uniform, with silver and gold braid glittering in the gaslight. He was slighter than Whitlock, but just as tall and darkly good-looking.
Most important, he had all the verve that Whitlock lacked. He answered her summons in a trice.

“My snow queen,” he purred, bending over her hand. “White becomes you like a poem. I am positively ravished that you are released from the schoolroom and into our midst.”

He straightened, one hand at his waist, the other resting at his side where his saber usually hung. All that was lacking was a photographer, ready to capture his image. He smiled, teeth white and strong beneath his closely trimmed mustache.
From the automaton to the peacock
, Imogen thought.
There are precious few princes in this bunch
.

But he was at least a good dancer. After bidding farewell to The Stare, they set off around the floor in a seductive whirl. The captain made sure to execute a turn every time they passed a mirror, as if to check his profile from every possible angle. Imogen didn’t mind. He was amusing, though all his stories were about himself and his swashbuckling military adventures. As Smythe was clever and daring and a friend to Tobias, she was predisposed to like him, but not enough to give him a second thought once he very properly walked her back to Lady Bancroft’s side.