A Study in Silks tba-1 Page 14

  Imogen rolled her eyes skyward. “Deciphering a letter, then.”

  “It’s not just that. There will be other things. There might be magic involved.”

  “Piffle. Don’t try and keep me out of this. You need my expertise.”

  Evelina blinked.

  “Don’t look so shocked! I’m not useless.” Imogen held up the bag. “I know my silks, and there is only one place this could possibly come from. A little shop in the West End. Whoever made this bag had to have purchased it there, and recently. It’s this year’s pattern. Check the fashion gazette if you doubt me.”

  A bolt of pleasure scattered her misgivings. Evelina threw her arms around her friend. “You are a genius! Only you would notice that.”

  “Probably, and only because I’ve looked at a thousand samples while picking out my wardrobe for the Season.” Imogen murmured into her ear. “We can investigate and go shopping all at the same time. Isn’t Papa always promoting efficiency?”

  Evelina winced, wondering once more about Lord B’s possible secrets. The magic on the bag was nothing like that on the automatons, but why was she encountering it at all? Where had the poor maid been, and on whose business?

  They were interrupted by Dora, who came bustling across the lawn at a trot. “Miss Cooper, you must come at once!” The maid stopped a few feet away, puffing.

  “What’s happened now?” Alarmed, Evelina quickly put the silk bag, note, and envelope back with her needlework. The last thing I need is yet one more ball in the air. Juggling was never my talent.

  The maid lowered her voice to a sepulchral whisper. “Your grandmother is here.”

  Imogen cast Evelina a sorrowful glance. “Oh, dear.”

  Bugger! I don’t have time to appease her on top of everything else. Evelina rose, smoothing the skirt of her pale blue dress. She would have felt better if her embroidery bag contained a revolver. She was grateful to the woman who had taken her from poverty to a life of gentility. Nevertheless, Grandmamma was the probably the reason her uncles had never married. She’d no doubt frightened the poor dears into permanent celibacy.

  Evelina trailed Dora from the garden, feeling vaguely like a convict en route to execution. All the beauty of the morning, from the sunlit leaves to the bright spring flowers, faded to grays as her mind focused on the prospect of speaking with her grandmamma. Where’s a good tumbril when you need it?

  Not surprisingly, Evelina’s family difficulties were a legacy of her parents. Evelina’s father had run away from Ploughman’s circus as a child. He’d risen through the ranks by unequaled bravery and good luck, won an officer’s title, convinced her mother to elope, and then got himself shot in Ethiopia less than a year later. He’d left Marianne Cooper, née Holmes, penniless and pregnant with their daughter.

  Marianne’s parents, with a sense of wounded privilege, cast her off without ever telling Sherlock and his elder brother, Mycroft, of her return. Thus Marianne was forced to find refuge with her husband’s people, who proved much kinder than her own. But that had all happened long before Grandmamma Holmes had fetched Evelina and tried to turn her into a lady.

  Not that the older woman was confident of success. The expectation that Evelina would also fall from grace—an event no doubt attended with all the aplomb and inevitability of cold gravy plopping from a spoon—was sufficiently acute that there were days when Evelina wanted to oblige and get it over with.

  She took a deep breath on entering the house, reminding herself how grateful she was for everything her grandmamma had done for her. Really.

  Evelina took an extra minute to go up to her room and make sure her hair and dress were beyond reproach. She paused in front of the mirror a moment, finding the proper expression for a meek and obedient granddaughter. Then she descended the stairs again, pausing to look at the longcase clock. The dial that showed the weather showed a smiling sun. It was more optimistic than she was.

  As if aware it was being watched, the clock bonged and spit a card out of a slot. Evelina grabbed it before it fell to the floor. She turned it and tried to read the message embossed on the card. The letters were familiar, but the words they made were gibberish. It was a great pity—for all the clock’s clever beauty, there was definitely something wrong with the workings. She set the card on the window ledge and continued down the stairs.

  All the curtains of the morning room were drawn, casting the usually sunny space into an early twilight. Yes, Grandmother Holmes was a traveling storm cloud, plunging all into darkness and consternation. Light faded furniture, after all, so no one with any sense opened the curtains on a bright day. And, of course, poor Lady Bancroft had knuckled under.

  Swathed in heavy black silk, Grandmamma sat in the largest and most comfortable chair. Though well into her seventies, her tall, spare frame was still ramrod straight. Her only ornaments were a mourning brooch woven of human hair pinned to the high collar of her bodice, and a jet comb skewering her smoke-colored coiffure.

  Evelina stood in the bull’s-eye of the patterned carpet, clasping her hands in front of her. With some anxiety, she noted that they were alone. Her grandmother wanted her all to herself.

  A light fluttering occupied her stomach, as if she had swallowed a moth. “How pleasant to see you, madam. An unexpected pleasure, to be sure.”

  Mrs. Holmes set down her cup and saucer with a clatter. “Don’t be pert. Lord Bancroft summoned me. I understand he found you prodding a dead body last night.”

  He must have telegraphed at once, to have summoned the old lady so quickly. “I was merely attempting to see who it was,” Evelina protested, keeping her voice mild.

  “Disgusting. Utterly unfeminine curiosity.”

  “My intent was to be helpful.”

  “I despair on a daily basis that you will end up like Marianne.”

  How anyone could equate eloping with examining the deceased escaped Evelina, but then again she’d never been married. “I’m sorry if I caused anyone concern. I assure you, it won’t happen again.”

  “No. Fortunately, murdered servants are in short supply.”

  Her grandmother looked her up and down with eyes as dark and hard as the jet beads on her comb. Despite her ferocity, she looked tired from the journey. She was getting frail, Evelina realized with a pang.

  The old lady plowed on. “But I do believe it is time to think of your future, as this visit is clearly not being spent with finding a husband in mind.”

  Evelina made a noise of protest. “There was only the one corpse.”

  Her grandmother slashed the air with one bony hand. “Tut.”

  “I shall work hard to please you better, Grandmamma. I always do.”

  “Pretty words are better with pretty deeds. I’d rather not think of my granddaughter putting herself in harm’s way. You never know what might come of interfering with such vulgar affairs.”

  That sounded close enough to concern that Evelina experienced a moment of surprise. “Indeed, madam.”

  “But enough about the dead bodies. I have other things to speak of.” Her grandmother pointed to a chair, as if accusing it of something. “Sit down and have tea.”

  Evelina poured from the Wedgewood pot, first remembering to refill her grandmother’s cup and offer the plate of biscuits. If nothing else, no one could fault her manners.

  Her grandmother pulled out her lorgnette, the eyepiece springing open so that she could examine the sweets through powerful lenses. She tutted at the macaroons, then pushed a tiny gold button to select a bird’s nest cake with strawberry jam in the center. The automatic plate lifted it in silver tongs and deposited it neatly on Grandmamma’s saucer.

  Evelina lowered herself to the embroidered fauteuil, maneuvering her bustle with great care. A slice of light fell impudently across the carpet, as if thumbing its nose at the dictum against sun and air. Evelina thought quickly, wondering how to proceed. Perhaps it would be best to put the whole notion of marriage into the grave as soon as possible. She respected her gran
dmother enough to be honest.

  She wet her lips, then finally gave voice to the idea she’d been formulating for months. “With reference to the future, madam, I would like to seek admittance to Ladies’ College of London. I am, of course, desirous of your support.”

  Her grandmother jerked as if struck. “College? Whatever for?”

  She’d braced for disappointment, but a sliver of panic slid under her guard. It was impossible to gain admittance without the support of her family. How hard was this going to be?

  Evelina kept her face frozen in a polite mask. “To further my education.”

  “Utterly out of the question.”

  “Pray tell, what could be the harm in it?”

  “Women in a college? A ridiculous modernity. Your grandfather would never have permitted it.”

  Evelina opened her mouth to speak, angry words aching to fly free. Don’t quote the old wretch at me, madam.

  If Grandfather Holmes had still held sway, she would be at Ploughman’s giving three performances a day on the high wire. It was only after the unlamented bugger had died that Grandmamma had dared to rescue her—too late for Marianne, who by then was long dead of a putrid fever.

  Evelina chewed a biscuit to keep herself from firing off a rude retort. “If I’m not to receive an education, then what sort of future do I have? Governess? Companion? Nurse?”

  Her grandmother sniffed with disgust. “Nonsense! How can you think of such things when you have—against all my expectations, I might add—received an invitation to be presented to the queen? It seems the Duchess of Westlake herself has offered to sponsor you! No doubt she will invite you to her ball as well. That is quite a coup.”

  Silence resounded with all the majesty of an Oriental gong. Evelina felt her saucer slipping from her hand before she regained her wits enough to catch it. “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me.” Grandmamma raised her chin, clearly pleased to have asserted control over the conversation. “It is the next best thing to divine intervention. No one will dare to gainsay her choice of protégée.”

  Confusion clogged Evelina’s thoughts. She had met the duchess, of course, during social calls, but there was no reason for the woman to single her out. Why has she sponsored me? Evelina should have been dancing around the room with glee, but instead felt … perplexed.

  Her grandmamma, however, was gathering momentum like a chugging locomotive. She set her cup aside, rubbing her hands together with enthusiastic delight. It was an odd look on her. “I was certain that after your mother’s fall there would be no presentation. It seems Sherlock finally did something useful and called in a favor from one of those steam men. Jasper Keating, he signed himself. He arranged the whole thing.”

  Evelina blinked. Which means the Gold King convinced the Duchess of Westlake to sponsor me. Why? How? What hold could Jasper Keating have over a duchess? Then again, from what Evelina had heard, he was a very powerful man. It could be anything.

  A seasick sense of exposure swept her, as if she were suddenly a tiny bug on a very large display board. For all of her childhood spent in front of an audience, she didn’t like being noticed by such important people. It felt dangerous.

  “What did Uncle Sherlock do for Mr. Keating?”

  Her grandmother gave a loud snort. “Such details are of no concern to me, but I brought your mother’s presentation gown so it could be altered and brought up to date. May it bring you more presence of mind than it did her, my girl. Don’t go wasting your chances on a circus performer.”

  An unwelcome thought of Nick popped into Evelina’s mind. He’s not a waste. It’s wrong to even think it. She had loved Nick with all the fierceness of a girl’s first passion and loved him still—but that way led to danger for them both. She couldn’t risk him like that, and if she didn’t move forward the temptation to run back to him would grow too strong. A presentation at Court would take her even further from the barefoot girl she used to be, further toward the side of the gentry—and further away from Nick’s magic, and the risk of discovery.

  And—though it sounded almost ridiculously commonplace, given everything else—where would college fit in? This piece of good luck—if that’s what it was—added another layer of complexity to her future.

  Her grandmother went on, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “This opens a lot of doors, you know. You could actually marry well. A younger son, perhaps. Or, with a bit of luck, I could find you an older gentleman, some minor title with a bit of money and in need of a nurse. That might suit.”

  Evelina gaped. A life of bedpans and emetics? What larks! But what if she could have someone like Tobias? Or Tobias himself? Presentation meant that she was formally accepted into that small circle from which he would choose his wife. Imogen’s clever, handsome brother wouldn’t be so far out of her reach now. He would never be her first love—only Nick could have that place in her heart—but he held the promise of passion all the same.

  A tiny rush of excitement stole through her, breathless and tender as a green shoot. Could I? Would I dare?

  He’s still a Roth. He’ll still want a fortune, and Lord B will be looking for political connections. Don’t overstep your good luck. Indeed, she stood on a cliff’s edge, the ground crumbling under her feet, and for that moment she didn’t care. Tobias was half a rake, but that was part of the thrill. Just once, she wanted to drop her guard with him, to see where that might take her.

  “I don’t know if I can,” Evelina said quietly.

  “Of course you can,” Grandmamma snapped.

  Evelina jumped in her chair, startled out of her daydream. “Pardon?”

  Mrs. Holmes raised her eyebrows. “You don’t look pleased. In fact, you look troubled. You should be happy.”

  “It’s all rather sudden.” Evelina swallowed the last of her third biscuit and washed it down with a swig of tea. What an utter fool I am.

  “Didn’t you eat breakfast? You’ll lose your figure if you keep gobbling up sweets that way.” Her grandmother pursed her lips, as if considering Evelina’s prospects. “There is much to be done if you’re to have a proper Season, and not a lot of time to do it. If you can refrain from encountering dead bodies, perhaps Lord Bancroft won’t notice that you’re still here. From the tone of his note, I’m afraid you quite offended his sensibilities.”

  “Odd. He doesn’t strike me as the sensitive type.”

  Her grandmother gave a knowing snort. “He was alarmed enough to send for me to talk sense into you. I got his message at the same time as Mr. Keating’s. Together, they made quite fascinating reading with my morning chocolate. You have a great many shortcomings, but dullness is not among them. It seems you’ve quite riveted these two fine gentlemen, if in different ways. I can’t wait to see what sort of suitors you will attract.”

  Evelina bit her tongue, but her grandmother saw the look. Her eyes twinkled. “Finding a proper husband is rather like selecting a hound. They all have more bark than bite, my girl. One day you’ll look across the breakfast table and realize the only option left is obedience training.”

  An hour later, Evelina had a moment of peace in her bedroom. She sat on the edge of her bed and buried her face in her hands. Her skin was hot. Truth be told, she was verging on frantic. Her grandmother’s visit had panicked her.

  Presented? I am to be presented to the queen? It was beyond belief, even though it was something she had secretly hoped for. It granted her a mark of respectability. It meant she could fully participate in the Season with Imogen and—find a husband?

  Most women assumed they would marry, but because of her uncertain social standing, she had deliberately formed other plans. College fit well with her curiosity about science and magic, and figuring out how she could bridge the two. But now, suddenly, she had another choice.

  She had no idea what to wish for. She’d had no time to think.

  Her mother would have been delighted. Evelina remembered sitting on her lap, listening to tale after tale of pretty dresses and
assemblies. Marianne had done her best to raise her daughter well, tried to teach her how to use all the forks and spoons and “my lords” and how to address a duke’s firstborn son. Evelina wished she could tell her that her lessons had not been in vain.

  But one thing nagged at Evelina’s mind. She had no illusions that a gentleman’s son would want a magic user for a wife. She would have to keep her abilities secret forever.

  She lifted her face from her hands, looking out her window over the back garden. She didn’t see the pale green of springtime trees as much as she did a fondly desired future. One in which magic and science held equal sway, and no one cared how many biscuits she ate or whether she preferred fixing a clock to embroidering handkerchiefs. Where she could marry where she loved, or not at all. She allowed herself a plaintive sigh. That, Evelina Cooper, is what fantasy looks like. There’s a murder to solve. Get to work.

  She immediately felt better. However morbid and terrifying, murder seemed easier to manage than suitors.

  Where do I begin? She knew Uncle Sherlock sometimes struggled to find clues. That wasn’t her problem. There were clues aplenty, but they all led to questions. What was Tobias doing last night, and why wouldn’t he talk about it? Was there a connection with the automatons? Who was Grace’s lover? Why was a penniless scullion carrying a fortune hidden in her clothes? Why had Nick chosen that moment, after five years, to visit? And do I need to go to Ploughman’s to find out?

  The questions flickered, a luminous web, in her mind’s eye. She could almost see the connection from one to the next, but they eluded her vision if she looked at them too hard—almost like the afterimage of a bright candle in a dark room. The longer she stared, the blinder she became. It would be delicate work to tease those will-o-the-wisps into concrete facts, and that meant a lot of investigation.

  But I have no authority to ask questions, because I am a young woman barely out of the schoolroom. As it is, I’m relying on a clockwork bird for help.

  And she wasn’t one-quarter as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes. One person had died already, and trying to solve the case herself carried the risk that her inexperience might put someone else at risk. She wanted to write to her uncle for advice.