A Study In Ashes Part 10

"I have no data on that," Mycroft replied with a dubious frown. "What have you got hiding under your hat?"

"The faintest glimmer of an idea. It's time Evelina began earning her keep for Keating."

"Are you serious?"

Holmes gave a short laugh. "Whatever Keating demands, she won't throw any magic users to the lions, you can be sure of that."

"Then what are you plotting?"

"Not much yet. But Keating needs to remember that he values Evelina, and she needs to start leaving the university from time to time."

Mycroft's eyes brightened. "Because if he's used to the idea of her getting out and about ..."

Holmes raised his gla.s.s to Mycroft, for once in perfect accord with his brother. "When the moment is right, it will be a thousand times easier to set her free."

London, September 24, 1889.

CAVENDISH SQUARE.

7:45 p.m. Tuesday.

TOBIAS ARRIVED AT HIS TOWN HOUSE IN CAVENDISH SQUARE just before the supper hour. His ears still rang with the din of the Gold King's workshop, and his mind felt like something dropped from the top of Nelson's Column. As he stepped out of the cab, all he wanted was a drink, a meal, and a good night's sleep. He'd spent the day dissecting the great bra.s.s bug-an activity that produced more questions than answers. Exhaustion battled irritation for possession of his soul.

As the cab pulled away, the horse's hooves clip-clopping into the darkness, Tobias loitered in the street, taking deep breaths of the cool air. The park at the center of the square was quiet. All around, the glow of gaslights softly brushed the pillars and pediments of the Georgian town houses. Above, the sky was a deep indigo fading to black. It was one of London's rare peaceful moments.

Somewhat refreshed, he mounted the front steps of his house, the granite stairs lit by the fan light above the door. A twinge of pride buoyed his mood. This was his place, not his father's. It wasn't nearly as grand as Hilliard House, but it was more than enough for any reasonable man. And it had all the modern conveniences-hot water, indoor plumbing, steam heat, and gas lighting on every floor. The endless renovations had been worth the time and cost.

The door opened before he'd mounted the last step. He stepped into the pool of warmth and the butler took his hat and coat. Whitford had come with Tobias from Lord Bancroft's residence, glad of a chance to be the head of a new establishment.

"Please let Mrs. Roth know that I have gone upstairs to dress for dinner," Tobias said. "I'll be down as soon as I can."

"Very good, sir," Whitford intoned.

All butlers intoned, Tobias decided as he mounted the stairs. It must be part of their training, right along with the supercilious eyebrows. Amused, he started down the hallway to his bedroom.

But he hadn't gone far when his feet took a turn toward the nursery, the way they did every night. If there was someone inside with the baby, he would pa.s.s by, a busy man with places to go. If no one was there to see, he would enter. He stopped to listen, his hand on the painted china doork.n.o.b. There were no voices, no lullabies haunting the air. A sliver of light crept from beneath the wet nurse's door at the end of the hall, so he turned the k.n.o.b quietly, hoping to steal in without attracting notice.

The door drifted open on silent hinges. A lamp was turned low, shedding just enough light to make out the cradle and its tiny occupant. Tobias crept closer, feeling gigantic and awkward in the pastel sea of tiny blankets and knitted toys. Savoring the private moment, he peered into the cradle at the chubby, perfect face of his son. As always, a wash of confused, almost painful amazement flooded over him. He had done nothing to deserve a blessing like this-rather the reverse-but he would d.a.m.ned well make himself worthy of the innocent child who'd been entrusted to his care.

Jeremy had his amazingly small fingers dug into the knitted coverlet, as if determined to keep what was his. Tobias rather liked that sign of tenacity. In this world, and with Keating and Bancroft for grandfathers, he would need all the stubborn spirit he could muster if he was to find his own way. But he has one thing I never did. He has a father who will fight for him.

Tobias reached down, his fingertips just brushing the baby's blanket. Jeremy scrunched his eyes tight, a tiny frown making him look alarmingly like Lord Bancroft. But Tobias let his hand linger there, needing to feel the warmth of the little body. Perhaps it was to remind himself that good things could still happen-ones that he could see and touch. Someday he would teach Jeremy all the necessary skills men required, like how to skip stones and swing a cricket bat, and especially how to find his way around a toolbox. One of the few good memories Tobias had of his own father was repairing an old steam-driven water pump together. It was hard to connect that memory of his sire with the Lord Bancroft he knew now, but at least he had it.

A soft footfall made him look up. Alice was on the other side of the cradle, the lamplight turning her fox-red hair into a burning halo. She was lovely, with a heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes, but there was a peppery streak to her character that could surprise the unwary. None of that showed now, though, as she looked down at her child.

"Enjoying a private moment?" She said it with a touch of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Just some man-to-man time."

"Too bad he's asleep," she murmured, adjusting one corner of the blanket. "His Royal Stickiness loves to see you."

Tobias gave a rueful smile, though he was still in mourning for his favorite waistcoat. "How was he today?"

"I think he's over his sniffles."

Tobias nodded, more relieved than he cared to show. He could see it in Alice as well, a softening in the angle of her mouth. The year since their marriage had been a process of discovering such signs. He'd learned her limits and boundaries, what she liked in her tea and the fact that she saved the gossip page of the newspaper until last.

He'd known none of that beforehand. For him, the union had been an act of duty, and at first he hadn't always been kind. They were still more strangers than not, but things had become much better. They'd both made an effort to forge something worthwhile, and he was more than grateful for her willingness to try-especially at moments like this, with the lamplight gilding the graceful lines of her profile.

He leaned across the cradle, catching her hand and pulling her closer. Alice was small and as dainty as a sprite, but she rose up on her toes to lean forward. His height made up the distance, and he brushed his lips against hers. Beneath the bridge of their bodies, Jeremy slept the profound sleep of infants.

She was warm and delicious, tasting of sherry and possibilities. He kissed her again for good measure, and she caught his lip with her teeth, nipping lightly. A rush of interest blew away the last of his fatigue. As she heated beneath his touch, her scent grew stronger-a perfume of sandalwood and jasmine and the softness of female skin. He began to calculate how long it would take to get her out of all those elaborate clothes.

"Alice," he said softly. He finally released her.

"Papa has arrived."

d.a.m.nation. He had entirely forgotten that the Gold King would be there tonight.

She lifted her gaze. There was an element of apology there, and not a little worry. She loved her father, but she knew him far too well. He was only a comfortable guest when it suited him.

Seeing that apprehension, Tobias's first instinct was to reach across and smooth away her frown. But Keating's presence seeped through the floor, souring his stomach. He dropped his hand with a silent oath and went to make himself ready. A man was lord of his castle until his father-in-law and employer came to dine.

When Tobias finally went downstairs, the Gold King was in the drawing room, a gla.s.s of whisky in one hand and a silver-framed photograph of Alice and Jeremy in the other. He set it down on the mantelpiece as Tobias entered.

"How went the work today?" Keating asked. A speculative glint pa.s.sed through his golden eyes as he took a sip of the whisky. He might have been there on a social visit, but he was no doubt far more interested in whatever Tobias had learned about the bra.s.s bug.

"The work goes slowly." Tobias had washed and changed, but didn't feel refreshed. Keating's presence made it impossible to relax.

"Have you found any clues as to who made the craft?"

Whitford entered with a drink on a tray, and Tobias accepted it gratefully. "I'm not sure. All makers have a signature-a way of approaching things that marks a work as theirs. But an effort was made to disguise that here. Many of the parts are salvaged from other ships."

"But surely something stands out?"

"The steering system is clearly drawn from the one used by underground postal carts."

Keating set down his gla.s.s, his expression incredulous. "From the underground? Are you telling me that the Black Kingdom attacked the clock?"

Even the notion made Tobias stiffen. The Black Kingdom was one of the enduring mysteries of the age. No one-not even Keating-knew who ruled it or exactly what powers it controlled, only that it claimed everything under the streets as its territory.

Tobias shook his head, fighting off a frisson of superst.i.tious dread. "No, no one has ever seen any machines created by those that dwell underground. The steering system originally came from the Scarlet King's foundries and was adopted by several others. Green uses it on the carts that run the post from one part of London to the other on the underground rail lines."

And they paid for the privilege of using Black's tunnels. The postal system was exclusively Green's enterprise, as were most of the counting houses, law offices, and many of the banks. "Of course," Tobias concluded, "that's not enough evidence to prove who built the ship."

Keating grunted his agreement, albeit reluctantly. "I want to see progress."

Tobias bit his tongue, calling on long training as a diplomat's son. "Of course, sir. I'll return to the problem first thing tomorrow."

Alice arrived to herd them to the table. The dining room was a modest size but showed off her taste. The colors had been chosen for a sense of light and air, and the ornate plaster of the ceiling had been painted a plain white. Alice herself was the brightest thing there, the deep green of her dress like the first leaves against the snow.

They sat, the soup was served, and they began to eat with the determination of people obliged to be polite to one another. Normally, dinnertime conversation between husband and wife was pleasant and of late had become comfortable. But tonight, Keating's impatience hung like a pall in the room.

Alice cast a glance at her father, speculation in her wide blue eyes. "How goes the development of the battery-powered generators?"

Keating cast his daughter a cool glance. "You have a good memory. It's been a year since I worked on them."

"I have an interest in that project."

Tobias looked up from breaking apart his dinner roll. This was the first he'd heard of it. "How so?"

Her face took on a sharpness that said she was engaged by the topic. "Small generators have so many uses, especially in rural settings, or where people cannot afford a constant power supply. It could ease a great deal of hardship if the poor could pay for only the fire or warmth they needed as opposed to an ongoing charge."

"And what about revenue?" Keating said, his tone slick with contempt.

Tobias set down his b.u.t.ter knife. "There are many who can only pay now and again." The cost of power was an ongoing grievance against the Steam Council. It wasn't hard to see why the rebels had gained a foothold.

Keating flicked a hand, consigning the subject to the dustbin. "Unpredictability is the enemy of sound business. Besides, I have more pressing affairs, as do you." He turned to his daughter. "Raising Jeremy must fill up your days. I'm sure you don't have time to ponder what goes on in your old father's factories."

She flushed at the rebuke. "I will never grow weary of hearing what you do, Papa."

The next course arrived, and Tobias exchanged a look with Alice, whose heightened color said she was fuming. He raised an eyebrow, doing his best to take the sting out of the moment. She rewarded him with a small, tight smile. And then she tried again. "So what are you engaged with, Father?"

Keating dusted salt over his potatoes. "There are always a number of projects in hand."

"It seems odd for me not to know each and every one," Alice said with the slightest suggestion of an edge. "There was a time I think I was as informed as your foremen."

But she was no longer part of Keating's plans. By marrying and producing an heir, she had served her function. Unfortunately, Alice refused to accept her irrelevance. Tobias wondered if the meal would ever end. He cast a sidelong glance at his father-in-law, who was chewing as if his dinner had done something to offend him.

"When Jeremy is old enough, why don't you bring him to the London factory for a tour? You can see it then," Keating said.

"I'll look forward to it," she said, her eyes downcast as she abandoned her plate.

Tobias guessed what she was thinking. She would only need to wait a decade or so to see the business she could have run as capably as any man. Whether they meant it or not, parents had the power to wound as no others could.

Frustration burned and he set down his cutlery before he was tempted to use it on his guest. If so many people hadn't been counting on Tobias to keep Jasper Keating on good terms, he would have slammed the man's face into his veal roulade. Restraining himself took a special kind of fort.i.tude.

He turned to Keating, a smile fixed on his lips. "Would you like to try the pinot?"

"Please," said the Gold King, pushing his gla.s.s forward.

The servants were out of the room, so Tobias poured, his mind churning with useless resentment. Keating lifted the gla.s.s to his lips, his nostrils flaring as he tasted the wine.

Tobias watched the man the way he would a deadly spider. Others might have daydreamed of poison in the wine, or a knife to the throat, but Tobias just wanted his household to be left in peace.

Unfortunately, the price for such freedom would be far more complicated than simple murder.

London, September 25, 1889.

THE GOLD KING'S WORKSHOP.

1:15 p.m. Wednesday.

HEAT WAS A PALPABLE FORCE INSIDE THE BUILDING, SO thick it might have been sliced and shipped for shillings a pound. Sweat trickled between Tobias's shoulder blades, adding an extra layer of irritation to his foul mood. He'd been hard at work investigating the bra.s.s bug, but this was the third time he'd been called away. Nothing was working right.

He was in his shirtsleeves, his coat and vest tossed over a reasonably clean crate. All around him, the vast warehouse pulsed with the noise of engines, a rusty light shimmering from the coal-powered furnaces. Workers swarmed like jungle insects, hands and minds busy with one project or another, turning plans into prototypes. Tobias had designed most of the machines there, but every unit built was for the greater glory of Keating Industries. Here, the Gold King ruled all.

Sadly, Tobias's latest invention wasn't about to be ruled by anyone. At eight feet in height, it stared down at him with that insouciance peculiar to malfunctioning machines. Go on, make me work, it seemed to say. I have all the time in the world to watch you try.

Tobias wasn't impressed. b.l.o.o.d.y fart bucket. By now there had to be enough steam inside to send it rocketing to Mars. Why wouldn't it run?

"We checked the pressure, guv," said the man standing beside him, whose name was McColl. "And there's not a leak anywhere. I looked myself, every inch."

Tobias nodded, hearing but not bothering to waste mental capacity on speech. He was rechecking his math and reimagining his diagrams, comparing them to the monstrosity a dozen feet away. Keating had asked for weaponized ground transport, and this was it-a steam-driven engine surrounded in armor plating. Or rather, it was a steel and bra.s.s dome on wheels, somewhat taller than it was wide, with enormous gunports on the roof. It had an extra k.n.o.b on top, giving it the appearance of a huge covered dish. However, the k.n.o.b was the greatest feature of the thing, because it allowed the contraption to fly. Then again, it could also explode the entire warehouse.

"Have you checked the aether distillers?" he asked McColl.

The man mopped his shining brow with a sleeve. "I had a look at 'em, guv, but I'm no expert."

Tobias's neck went rigid, and his temple throbbed-but he kept his tone civil. Decent workmen were in high demand all over London, and McColl was better than most. "If they're not calibrated, they can drain power from the main engines. That could explain why nothing else will work."

"All I know is that they were green and bubbly."

Despite himself, Tobias's tone went sharp. Bubbles meant the distiller was growing volatile. "How bubbly?"

"Like a good stout sir, with a bit of froth on top."

Tobias's heart lurched. There was no time even to curse. "Gloves!"

McColl stripped his own off, handing them over. Tobias lunged toward the machine, pulling them on as he went. "Turn off the engines!" he roared. "Power it down!"

He vaulted from the ground to the lip above the wheels, then clambered up the dome, using the overlapping plates as hand- and footholds. When he got to the smaller half-sphere on top of the dome, he balanced precariously, digging the edges of his fine leather boots against the housing, and attacked the wing nuts holding the faceplate. The gloves were clumsy, so he grabbed the fingers in his teeth, tasting the heavy oil-soaked leather as he pulled off the right one so he could work more quickly. But as he feared, the metal was scorching hot. The thing was overheating. Faster, faster!

The principle of the distillation device was simple: it took ordinary air, separated out the aether, and then concentrated it into a liquid form that could be stored. When needed, the aether could be converted back to gas to fill a balloon, providing greater-and much safer-lifting power than hydrogen. Tobias's domed invention was equipped with storage canisters and a tightly folded balloon. In the event a rapid escape was needed, the balloon would inflate and an interior cage would separate from the rest of the machine, floating the operator and key equipment to safety. Because the distiller itself was on board, there was no danger of running out of fuel.

But ironically, that safety feature was about to combust them all. He burned his fingers for a few twists and then s.n.a.t.c.hed up the glove again, using it like a pad between his skin and the nuts. When he finally freed the cover, he tossed it aside. The thing clanged and skidded across the floor. Tobias could hear McColl working below, hopefully shutting down the boiler.