A Study in Ashes (10 page)

He laughed, holding the bird up a notch. The gesture spoke to his strength, because the thing must have been enormously heavy. “Perhaps to roast them.”

The creature opened its beak, and a tongue of flame lashed out with a sound like ripping silk. The crowd leaped back, cries of alarm filling the room. Reading laughed again, clearly enjoying himself. “I said it was a firebird.”

The thing spread its huge wings and gave a single flap. Metal feathers whistled through the air as it launched toward the high ceiling. For a moment, all Poppy felt was a fizz of delight that raised the fine hair all down her arms. The firebird sailed in a lazy circle, reflecting the bright lights and sparkle like an orbiting sun. But her pleasure quickly soured to alarm as the thing brushed the crystal droplets of the chandeliers, making them wobble on their chains. And then another blast of flame licked out dangerously close to the drapes.

Poppy suddenly had visions of Hilliard House ablaze. Dark fear snaked under her ribs as she glanced at Reading. What she saw there made her shrink back. His bright blue
eyes held an unpleasant spark—this bordered on more than mischief. He was enjoying the crowd’s distress.

The firebird swooped over the table where footmen were replenishing the refreshments. They ducked from sheer surprise, one of them dropping a bottle that smashed with a sound like a gunshot. Guests began backing toward the door.

Poppy looked around for her mother, who was open-mouthed with horror. The party was about to become a disaster, but no one was brave enough to tell a steam baron to stop playing with his toys. Like Keating, Reading was too powerful to insult.

Poppy’s fingers crushed the ruffles of her skirts, anger curdling her fear. It was unfair and wrong for grown men and women to cower before an idiotic bully.
Blast him anyway!
What could he do to a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl? She wheeled around and stood squarely in his path.

“Sir,” she said in her best public-speaking voice, “wouldn’t you agree that this is a pleasure best enjoyed out of doors?”

Everyone within earshot went quiet. The firebird flapped lazily over the startled orchestra, finally coming to rest on the column of the harp. The instrument teetered dangerously.

The Scarlet King’s smile grew broad as he swept an elaborate bow. “My beautiful young miss, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

They had—when he’d been courting Imogen, he’d foisted his presence upon the family far too often—but there was no point in reminding him of the fact. “My name is Poppy, and this is my house. Please don’t burn it down.”

“Ah,” he said with aggravating slowness, his gaze traveling over her in a way that made the blood rush to her cheeks—and not in a pleasant way. “And if I take my firebird outside, will you come along to enjoy it with me?”

Embarrassment corkscrewed her insides. It wasn’t the fact that he’d asked, but the way he’d made it sound like another proposition entirely. No one had ever spoken to her like that, not even in jest. And he was
old
—much older than even Tobias. The man had to be twice her age.

“Good God, no!”

His eyes went wide—that had caught him by surprise.
That was stupid, you idiot, now what’s he going to do?
It was one thing to be bold, quite another to cause offense. But then Reading burst into laughter, mortifying her even more. It was a fat, loud guffaw that spared her no dignity—not one little scrap. Poppy slunk back a step, quivering, not sure if she was supposed to slap him or run from the room.

But then he stopped as abruptly as he had started. “I apologize, my sweet Miss Roth. That was unconscionably rude of me. You are quite right, my behavior is
hardly
suited to such delicate company. I hope we can still be friends.”

Reading reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small enamel box. He pressed a spring that flipped it open, revealing neat rows of small pastel candies. “Peppermint?”

Poppy really didn’t know what to make of that. What a strange man! Did she refuse the candy out of caution—who wanted to eat anything that had been on his person?—or did she take one to smooth over everyone’s feelings?

Rescue came from the most unexpected quarter.

“Are you truly proposing to rob the cradle, William?” Keating said, suddenly appearing at her elbow. He tucked her gloved hand under his arm as if he were about to lead her to dinner and pulled her well out of reach of the little enamel box. Under the circumstances, she almost welcomed the gesture.

Reading gave the Gold King an outrageous wink. “Off limits, then, old man?”

Poppy’s eyes widened. The two men were supposed to be allies, but she’d never heard anyone speak to the Gold King this way. She looked up from under her lashes, turning icy at the grim set of Keating’s mouth.

“Yes, very much off limits.”

“And why am I obeying your commands?” Reading sneered.

“Are you drunk?”

The Scarlet King chuckled. “You don’t think I’d come to this sort of an affair without lubrication?”

Poppy gasped on behalf of her mother.

Keating squeezed her arm. “Get your bird under control, William. I have any number of chefs who can provide expert advice on plucking and skinning a troublesome rooster.”

Reading made a noise like he’d swallowed his own tongue. “I have a few recipes of my own, old man,” the Scarlet King said in a low, dangerous voice. “Have a care.”

But Keating didn’t back down. Poppy looked from one to the other, her interest quivering like the antennae of a butterfly. She’d seen half-wild alley curs circle one another, looking for any weakness worth exploiting. This was the same, only neither man actually moved.
I don’t think they are as good friends as everyone thinks
.

She barely dared to breathe, her heart thumping against the bodice of her dress so hard that it surely must have showed. Willing her feet to move, though, didn’t seem to work. It was as if her legs belonged to someone else who just wasn’t listening to her desperate urge to back away.

Then she saw Reading make a small motion with the hand that held the controls of his mechanical bird. In a lazy flap, the eagle launched from the pillar of the harp and drifted back to the Scarlet King’s arm, coming in so close to Keating’s head that the older man had to dodge the razor wingtips. Reading lifted his wrist, letting the bird catch the glove in a motion as neat and graceful as a dance move. Keating stood, smoothing his hair, and glared at the firebird.

Scarlet smiled. “You know your problem, Keating? You never let yourself enjoy any of the power you work so hard to get.”

“Go sober up,” Keating snapped. “You and I have business to conduct together. You don’t want an unfortunate incident to poison our accord.”

Some of that must have penetrated Reading’s skull, because his smirk soured. “Fusty old bastard, aren’t you?”

He slouched back a step, a movement out of keeping with his usual military dash. It was as if a mask had slipped, and someone much rougher and hungrier peeped out. Someone Poppy never wanted a good look at. She hated Jasper Keating, but all at once she feared the Scarlet King more. Keating at least seemed to have reasons for the things he did.

Then Keating turned and walked away, as if he knew Reading would leave just because he’d told him to. On one hand, Poppy was disappointed. A real fight would have been much more interesting. On the other, she wasn’t sure her mother would have survived any more excitement. The moment Keating moved, Lady Bancroft descended on the Gold King and started apologizing for the upset, as if there should have been a rule about guests leaving their birds at the door.

That left Poppy standing there, facing the Scarlet King. His angry blue eyes met hers, and a chill speared through her. It was almost painful, but it unglued her feet from the floor. She was suddenly able to walk away—so she did. When she glanced back over her shoulder, he was carrying his firebird from the room. Poppy’s breath escaped in a relieved
whoosh
.

At least she wasn’t bored any longer. If this was a representative sample of her parents’ social evenings, graduating from the schoolroom might not be as dull as she’d thought.

OUR NATIONAL MONUMENT BLINDED

Reports on the damage to Big Ben are grim, prompting a public outcry for the blood of the perpetrator who launched an airship through the nation’s best-loved timepiece. The Palace issued a statement condemning the act, while Mr. Jasper Keating, in an interview with this correspondent, cautions against responding with passion rather than reason. “My staff are committing all our energies to the solution of this unusual crime,” he declares. “There will be no mistakes made because evidence is lacking. The time for passion comes when judgment is handed down. Now is the time for detection.”

—The Bugle

BIG BEN GETS A POKE IN THE EYE

Critics question the sluggish reaction of both the Palace and the Steam Council to this latest attack on our fair city. Is this going to be another case such as that of the Whitechapel Murders, on which authorities are slow to act and never do convict? If so, the citizens of London had better begin building some very large flyswatters in the event that the carnage has just begun.

—The London Prattler

TOBIAS CONCENTRATED ON THE CREASED PAGES OF HIS
pocket notebook, scribbling down an idea that had fluttered like some exotic moth into his awareness. He was upstairs in Hilliard House, and he could hear the mutter of the crowd below, but he was avoiding the party until he absolutely had
to put in an appearance. None of his friends would be there, and he wasn’t in the mood for polite chitchat about the weather. He hadn’t been since the air battle.

Plus, his mind was still dwelling on the brass mosquito. It had taken them till late the next day to get the thing down. He’d spent all day today with his head in its workings. So far he hadn’t figured out who had made it, but he had learned quite a bit of interest, including the fact that there had been a pilot who had somehow slipped away.

But every maker had a unique signature, just as individual as handwriting or the ridges on one’s fingertips. The trick was to recognize it in the way a housing was put together or how a steering problem was resolved. A man’s work showed who he was. And there was something about that steering he recognized, though he couldn’t recall where he’d seen that design before.

Tobias tapped the end of his pencil against his teeth, the etched brass holder softly clicking. He ran the faces of the other head makers through his mind. He knew most of them from the Steam Council meetings, where the entourage of each baron was expected to stand behind his lord and master’s chair. The makers sometimes exchanged sympathetic looks as their bosses droned on and on, and Tobias figured most of them were nice enough blokes. But which one had that kind of talent?

Eyes closed, he leaned back, feeling sleep tug at the edge of his consciousness. The familiarity of the room coaxed him to relax, even though it was the last place he should have felt welcome enough to sleep. He was in his father’s study, in his father’s chair, and beneath the stuffed tiger’s head that hung high on the wall. The spot held so many memories, most of them unpleasant—and yet it felt more like home than his own town house a few streets away. It took time to put down roots, and he hadn’t been given a chance. Too much work, too many emergencies—and for a long time, Alice had been at Horne Hill in Devonshire with the baby. They were in London now, but they hadn’t completely settled into a habit of familiarity. He and his wife were still strangers living under the same roof.

It would have been worse without Jeremy. In truth, he hadn’t expected to feel such instant devotion to a creature only minutes after he had been born. He’d seen the same look on his wife’s face, that shock of belonging to a small, red-faced despot. It was the one thing they truly shared.

“What are you doing here?” his father asked from the doorway.

With this additional interruption, the idea he’d been trying to write down fluttered out of his grasp and back into the wilds. Tobias tensed, his mouth going sour with dislike. “Keating made me come.”

Lord Bancroft was an imposing man, gray haired but still fit enough to put younger men to shame. He regarded Tobias with a coolness that bordered on amusement. “You missed a spectacular scene involving two steam barons and a fire-breathing bird. The drawing room curtains nearly caught fire, but we’re guaranteed to make the society pages in the
Bugle
. I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried. Too bad everyone’s friends again, or there might have been a follow-up piece.”

Good God, he doesn’t miss a trick
. Disgusted, Tobias folded up his notebook, slid the pencil down the spine, and tucked both into his pocket. “Perhaps I should get downstairs.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” his father said with deceptive mildness. “Since I’m your host, convincing a guest to join the party is rather the point.”

“And why aren’t you with your admiring public?”