Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

Evelina nodded. “We may both be recalled to our respective masters.”

“I certainly hope not, Miss Cooper. I would not choose you as an adversary. Despite the circumstances, I have enjoyed our conversations.”

She was about to say she had as well, but then she saw that cold glitter in his eyes that she didn’t trust. He was trying to win her confidence. That worried her almost as much as the damnable bracelets. “Thank you again, Dr. Moriarty.”

“I still await the list of supplies you need for your studies.”

“I won’t forget.”

He gave a slight bow, touching the brim of his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Cooper. Perhaps we shall yet find a way to be of use to one another.”

She fingered the silver about her wrists. “Good afternoon, Dr. Moriarty.”

As she turned and mounted the stairs to her room, instinct made her look over her shoulder. The professor was making his way back to the gate of the college, his cane swinging. And yet, she still felt him lurking behind her, as if some part of his intent remained. He reminded her of a desert serpent with most of its coils still hidden in the sand. The head might look small, innocuous even, but beneath the surface there were yards of deadly muscle coiled to strike.

The question was when and where to turn that to her advantage.

London, September 20, 1889

HILLIARD HOUSE

8:15 p.m. Friday

PENELOPE ROTH—BETTER KNOWN AS POPPY—PAUSED OUTSIDE the main drawing room of Hilliard House, feeling hurt and betrayed by her parents. It was a feeling she experienced quite regularly these days—something her mother put down to being fifteen years of age, but any girl with an ounce of true poetic feeling knew better.

Poppy peered inside the room, not quite committing to the act of stepping over the threshold. The place was crowded, a surf of voices washing over a small orchestra playing Haydn. The room was elegant, with a gilt ceiling and gaslit chandeliers, and white pilasters dividing the walls into harmonious proportions. There was nowhere to look without seeing expensive objets d’art, unless there was a duchess or a cabinet minister standing in the way.

It was the first time since early last November—almost eleven months ago, now—that her father, Lord Bancroft, had entertained on this scale. Eleven months of grief, and he’d done a decent job of wearing a long face and a black suit. It was what was expected of him and, after all, Imogen had been his favorite. But eventually his ambitions had got the better of him. Like a hound scratching at the door, he wanted back into the games of power, and this gathering of London’s elite was the signal of his readiness.

And Poppy loathed him for it, because he had chosen to move on. He either didn’t see, or refused to see, why his choice was so wrong—and whatever Papa decreed, her mother embraced. There would be no help from either of them.

After all, it wasn’t as if Imogen was actually dead . She lay upstairs, deep in a sleep that should have seen her starve to death, or corrode in a mass of bedsores, or otherwise dwindle away in some nasty fashion. The nurses were able to administer broth and gruel, but little else. Yet she survived, lovely and remote as a fairy-tale princess in an enchanted tower.

Of course, such phenomena worked better between the covers of a book. Poppy could read her father’s silences and frowns. As far as he was concerned, Imogen’s besetting sin had been that she simply would not die so everyone else could get on with things. Lord Bancroft’s pity only extended so far—eleven months, to be precise.

Poppy would not forgive that. She trembled with fury at the tide of brittle laughter tumbling from the drawing room. She loved Imogen fiercely, and she wouldn’t give up on her. And perhaps that meant not being at this wretched party at all. Poppy turned, determined to march back to her bedroom and strip off the ridiculous ruffled gown the maid had stuffed her into.

But before she made it three steps, her mother appeared out of thin air. “Penelope, you’re late.”

She only got “Penelope” when her mother was upset. Poppy turned, cheeks hot with defiance. But Lady Bancroft—her fine brows drawn into a sharp crease—was having none of it.

“My stays are laced too tight,” Poppy declared, a little too loudly.

“Hush,” her mother whispered, since feminine undergarments were hardly drawing room fare. “That’s what you get for refusing to wear your training corset all those years.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“Young ladies are not required to breathe. They are required to be punctual.” Lady Bancroft, pale and slender as a reed, gave the impression of a delicate, biddable woman. Poppy had never experienced that side of her. “If I let you return to your room, in an hour I’ll find you with your nose in a book.”

“No one else will care.”

“Your task is to make them care.” Lady Bancroft grabbed her elbow, her pale pink gloves nearly matching the lace on Poppy’s sleeve. “You will go in there and be charming. If not for your own sake, do it for your father.”

That was hardly incentive. “I’m not even out of the schoolroom yet! I have at least a year before I have to be pleasant to people.”

“You need the practice, and there is never a time like the present to begin.”

And to Poppy’s chagrin, her mother steered her through the door into the crowded drawing room. Poppy pulled her arm away and lifted her chin. If she were doomed to attend the party, she would face it with dignity. They hadn’t gone a dozen feet before Poppy was forced to plaster a smile on her face.

“Lady Bancroft,” said Jasper Keating, emerging out of the crowd like a ship under full sail. From what Poppy could tell, he was usually a vessel of ill omen.

Keating had thick, waving white hair and amber eyes that reminded her of some monster from a storybook. He bowed over her mother’s hand. “You are enchanting as always, Lady Bancroft. I see you’ve lost none of your touch as London’s most elegant hostess.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Keating.” Lady Bancroft granted him a queenly smile. “And it is so good of you to bless this gathering even after the, uh, incident.”

That would be the affair of the bug in the clock. Poppy had endured an entire day of her parents agonizing over whether to cancel the party because no one wanted to make light of what had happened. For her part, Poppy had been forced to stifle the giggles when she saw the cartoons in the Prattler . Her father had given her the Glare of Death over the breakfast table.

“If the culprit sees us cowering under our beds, he has won,” Keating replied. “Though when the time comes, we will be swift of action and merciless in our wrath.”

If his words were chilling, his smile was even worse. Poppy wondered if people called Mr. Keating the Gold King because of the yellow globes of the gaslights his company owned, or because of his sulfur-colored eyes. Or his heaps of money. There were a dizzying number of reasons to be wary of the man.

And he was one more reason to slip out of the drawing room. Poppy began inching away, eager to vanish, but he turned and looked her square in the eye. “And here is Miss Penelope.”

Trapped, Poppy managed a proper curtsy, proving that she hadn’t ignored all her lessons. “Good evening, Mr. Keating.”

He gave her an approving nod. “You will grow into a lovely young lady, I can tell.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Keating’s strange eyes glinted. “Such lovely manners never go amiss.”

She nearly snorted. All the young ladies she knew—Imogen, Alice, and Evelina to be specific—had hardly profited by learning to use the right fork. Maybe they would have done better if they’d spit tobacco and sworn like sailors—or at least had a bit more fun before their lives ended up snarled like a yarn ball once the cat was through.