A Study in Ashes (30 page)

Nick swallowed, the chill in his blood deepening to ice. He knew she had accessed a dark power he barely understood. The line between his kind of magic and a sorcerer’s like Magnus was like a thin but very deep crevasse, and she’d stepped over it more than once. But fear—his or hers—wasn’t going to help her now.

He returned to the practical problem of her escape. “Keating isn’t going to keep you safe from anything, least of all yourself.”

Her brows drew together. “And you will?”

And then he understood just how scared she was. Evie was strong, but she had been lost among enemies too often. Now—since this fight she spoke of—she saw her own powers as one of them. He had to remind her that she wasn’t alone. “Do you actually feel the need to ask if I’ll watch your back? After all we’ve been through?”

Her eyes were guarded, but he took her hands in his and kissed them each in turn. That made her lips curve into a sweet, wicked bow. “Just my back?”

He grasped her slender waist, pulling her close. “I could be convinced to patrol the other boundaries …”

She slid her arms around his neck. She was still tense, the lines of her body saying how deep her anxiety ran, and how much she was counting on him to set her free of it. “Show me exactly what you mean, Captain Niccolo.”

This was what he had been waiting for. “My lady.” He swept her up in his arms, the wealth of her skirts spilling over his arm like a graceful waterfall. And then he kissed her, drinking in the warm, sweet essence of her lips.

He found the bedchamber more by instinct than by any conscious intent, and set her down as gently as if she were made of spun glass. And that was the limit of his patience. He’d shed his jacket and shoes before Evelina had caught her breath. He stood over the narrow bed, regarding her
with anticipation both reverent and filled with shameless greed.

“At the moment, you rather look like a pirate,” she said, her voice suddenly shy.

“And yet if I say something about pillaging, I’ll sail into turbulence for certain.” He slid onto the bed, remembering how much he wanted to undo all those buttons. How long had it been since he’d touched anything so fine?

“I think you almost have a carte blanche at the moment,” she whispered as his fingers remembered the art of a lady’s garments.

She reached up, her warm, soft hand cupping his face as she kissed him. Then her hands were in his hair, holding him as she took her fill. “The best thing about plundering you is getting plundered in return,” he murmured.

He brushed the silk of her throat and almost heard the threads of his self-control snap. He pressed his mouth to the curve where her collarbone flared, and the scent of her skin set him on fire. And yet Nick took his time, making a ritual of removing every article of her dress, appreciating each revelation as it came. If he rushed, he might miss the curl of hair that lay just below her ear, or the way her shoulder sloped when she leaned against the pillow as he tasted her breast.

But as he progressed, her urgency grew. And all at once, her hands were busy, too, helping him unwrap her layer by layer, the satin and lace and steel that was as much a metaphor for Evelina’s character as it was the fabric of her clothes.

And then his own shirt disappeared and she was caressing him, hot and needy. He felt the scrape of her nails and teeth, and they thrilled him like the brush of a strong wind. She was all contrasts, soft flesh and sleek bone, sweet perfume and the earthy musk of her desire.

And where they touched, there was the silver fire, binding them closer than any vow. Lights began to wink to life in the corners of the room, blue, and green, and red, as if all the colored gaslights in London had shrunk to bright pinpoints and swirled about the room.

“Devas!” Evelina gasped, but Nick had gone to a place beyond language. The spirits always came when they raised the silver fire, and if they didn’t get their fill they would tear the room to pieces. The phenomenon had kept him apart from Evie for years, until they’d figured out what they wanted—which was basically a whole lot more than just two scions of the Blood holding hands. But now he aimed to keep the wild magic flowing until the little beggars exploded.

He had tonight to make sure she remembered they belonged to each other, as no magic on earth was going to tell them what tomorrow would bring.

London, September 30, 1889
DUQUESNE’S RESTAURANT
1:45 p.m. Monday

LORD BANCROFT EYEBALLED THE SCHOOLMASTER WITH UNEASE
. Duquesne’s was a fashionable venue, and the young man clearly didn’t fit with the restaurant’s usual clientele. In fact, he looked like someone’s disreputable nephew about to beg for a loan. “Are you sure it is wise for you to be here?” Bancroft asked.

It wasn’t an unreasonable question. The man was, after all, one of those planning to upset the Empire’s entire political applecart.

The Schoolmaster slid into the chair on the other side of the small, round table. “Probably not. The maître d’hôtel looks like he’d prefer to toss me out.”

Already caught off guard, Bancroft relaxed beneath the disarming charm. “You could use a barber.”

“Spoken like an experienced father.”

Bancroft grimaced. “My son is very different from you. For one thing, you’re early. He’s always late.”

“Is he?”

Bancroft knew that the smile was a mask. The Schoolmaster was the linchpin of the Baskervilles—charismatic, ruthless, and with a brilliant mind for strategy. And his coat, though well brushed, had gone shiny at the cuffs. He obviously didn’t waste any of the rebels’ money on himself. He was utterly dedicated to overthrowing the Steam Council.

Tobias, on the other hand, had confined his youthful rebellion to the usual vices. Now he was the perfect employee, shaking in his boots lest Keating strike down one of the family—all the more galling because he’d done it to cover Bancroft’s mistakes.
A good man, but where does that get anyone besides an early grave?
Annoyed, Bancroft fidgeted in his chair and then stiffened when he saw Sherlock Holmes drift across the room.

“Are you joining us?” he asked Holmes when it became clear that was exactly what was about to happen.

“I invited him.” The Schoolmaster flashed an apologetic grin. “He promised to advise me on the menu.”

“I advised him against it altogether,” Holmes said dryly, “but he insisted on sampling
la crème brûlée à la vanille
for himself. Youth these days are fascinated by direct experience. None of this business of truth strained through the careful sieves of their advisors. Terribly gauche, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s unnecessary exposure,” Bancroft snapped.

The young man shrugged. “No one here would know me from one of the pot boys. All my friends are in the taverns.”

He was probably right. Although most had heard of the Schoolmaster, few had seen his face. Boxing up his temper, Bancroft waved toward the array of food on the table—mostly cheeses, cold meats, a lobster pâté, and warm bread. “Then help yourself. Would you like something more substantial? A roast chicken, perhaps? Or your
crème brûlée
?”

“No, thank you. This is more than enough.”

“Some wine?”

The Schoolmaster pulled off his green-tinted glasses, revealing intelligent blue eyes. There were lines around them that said he was a little older than Bancroft had first thought. Those blue eyes studied him shrewdly. “But you don’t drink.”

“No.” Not anymore, and it still cost him something to say it.

“Then I will just have coffee.”

“Holmes?” Bancroft eyed the man, who waved away the offer.

Relieved, Bancroft signaled the waiter. He’d sworn off alcohol,
but he still craved it. In the meantime, the Schoolmaster helped himself, spreading a chunk of bread with a soft white cheese. Bancroft eyed him. His manners were good; whoever the Schoolmaster was, he’d been raised by gentry. “I confess that I expected Mycroft Holmes.”

“This is my brother’s favorite eatery,” Sherlock replied. “But on a Monday he won’t make his appearance until half past two precisely. He is a creature of strict habits.”

“And after all the support you’ve given our cause,” the Schoolmaster added, “I wish to thank you myself on behalf of the makers. Your generosity is most impressive.”

Despite his innate cynicism, Bancroft felt a surge of pleasure. “There is no need to thank someone for doing what is right.”

As Holmes gave a faint cough, the Schoolmaster cocked an eyebrow. “And yet people seem to like it.”

Bancroft chuckled. “I concede the point.” It was true, he’d given money to the rebel cause—sometimes more than he could afford. Patriotism played a role, but so did ambition. If the rebels overthrew the Steam Council, his political career would be made. He hoped generosity now would pay huge dividends later—and he didn’t care if bounders like Sherlock Holmes called such motives crass. A man had to provide for his future.

Still, there were obstacles. Bancroft shifted uneasily in his chair. “It grieves me to report that you have little to thank me for today. I’m not making much headway with our Chinese contacts.”

“Did they give a reason?” the Schoolmaster asked, pausing in his demolition of the lobster pâté.

“Not any that made sense to me.” It should have been an easy assignment. Like everyone else, the rebels needed fuel to run their armies, whether for engines, cookstoves, or weaponry. The steam barons had the monopoly on domestic sources, so the rebels were forced to buy from abroad. Since the Chinese traders had no ties to the Steam Council, they were an obvious choice—except Bancroft hadn’t been able to convince them to do business. “I haven’t given up yet.”

“Have you had dealings with them before?”

“A few. Or, I should say that an associate of mine did.” He shot a warning glance at Holmes, but the man was busying himself with the cheese.

“Who was that?” the Schoolmaster asked.

“Just an importer I once knew.” His name had been Harriman, Jasper Keating’s cousin. Together, they had stolen a wealth of treasure out from under Keating’s nose with the unwilling assistance of some Chinese goldsmiths.

“Fair enough.” The Schoolmaster finished the last of the bread and pushed his glasses back on, intense blue eyes vanishing under a murk of green. “But you feel hopeful enough to keep trying?”

Bancroft waived a dismissive hand. “I have nothing to lose by giving it another attempt.”

“Excellent. Please let Mr. Mycroft Holmes know how you get on.” With that, he rose, adding, “My lord, excuse my unforgivable manners. I apologize for having to leave so soon, but I have pressing matters to attend to.”

The detective rose as well, dusting crumbs of cheddar from his fingers.

Bancroft was startled by the abrupt departure, but he had been a diplomat. With a smooth smile, he rose and shook the Schoolmaster’s proffered hand. The young man had an understated air of command Bancroft admired. “I do have one question.”

The young man paused, his wide mouth curling into a slight smile. “Yes?”

“Did you ever teach school?”

“Ah, no.” The smile widened, and the Schoolmaster dropped his voice so that only Bancroft could hear. “I like to think of myself as giving the steam barons a lesson.”

“I like it.” Bancroft found himself returning that infectious smile. “I hope to give you a better report soon.”

“I am in your debt.” The Schoolmaster gave a slight bow. “Until later, then, my lord.”

Bancroft and Holmes exchanged an icy nod, and then the two men left Bancroft to his coffee. He sat, wondering how best to win the foreign traders to their side. Something in the young man’s manner made him want to succeed—and
that was the mark of a true leader. So be it. Bancroft had worked for fools; he might as well serve someone who could at least inspire.

Bancroft spooned more sugar into his coffee and stirred, a frown settling over his entire being. The rebels needed coal, and they had money to pay for it, so what was the problem? If the Chinese refused to cooperate, there were a few others he could try, but the steam barons had influence over almost every European concern. There weren’t many avenues open unless he changed the game in his favor.

The waiter arrived, a dainty silver dish in one hand. An extravagant pastry perched in the middle of it, the flaky confection layered with dark chocolate and slivers of strawberry floating in custard cream. It looked delicious, but Bancroft was confused. “I didn’t order this.”

The waiter bowed. “No, my lord. It was sent with the compliments of another diner.”

Suspicion made him bristle. Had someone recognized the Schoolmaster? “Who?”

“That person has left, my lord. They did, however, ask me to deliver this note.” The waiter produced a small envelope and set it next to the dessert. He bowed again and departed.

Bancroft eyed the pastry and decided to leave it alone. He’d learned long ago not to accept sweets from strangers. Instead, he slid on his gloves—one never knew about poisons—and opened the plain white envelope. Inside was a simple card, stamped with the restaurant’s name in heavy black type. Whoever had sent the note must have asked the staff for the stationery.
So why write instead of coming over to speak in person?
There was no happy answer to that question.