Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

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?”

“I was looking for you. I heard rumors that my son graced this humble abode. I could scarce credit such a miraculous event.” Bancroft’s expression was hard. “I imagine you were just trying out my chair for size. After all, someday this will all be yours.” He swept his arm around the room.

“I don’t want your chair.”

“No? It comes with a seat in the House of Lords. Those cushions are even better.”

Tobias swore under his breath. “Why are we arguing?”

“I’m not. I’m trying to have a conversation. You don’t make it easy.”

Tobias sat back in the disputed chair. “About what?”

“It was the Scarlet King kicking up a fuss downstairs. Is he the one poking holes in Big Ben? He seemed to relish provoking your employer.”

That was an interesting tidbit, and Tobias filed it away. “I don’t know who was behind the attack, and Keating refuses to speculate. He has no desire to rush about with guns blazing and troops scouring the streets.”

Lord Bancroft digested that. “Interesting. And wise.”

“How so?”

“No point in showing his strength.”

“I think it has more to do with the disturbance just before the attack. I was there; the mood on the streets is dangerous. Someone put a crowd of rioters into motion, but the public was eager enough to join in once there was a fight.”

“That’s my point. He’s right to hold back. Whoever did this is trying to draw Keating out, to assess what forces he has at his disposal. They did much the same thing last year with that bomb in Baker Street. It didn’t work that time, so now they’re going for bigger game.”

The bomb had been the Blue King’s work, but Tobias doubted King Coal was behind this attack. His maker had been Dr. Magnus, and the sorcerer had burned up last November aboard the Wyvern . And as far as Tobias could tell, there was nothing magical about the brass mosquito.

“Speaking of Baker Street,” his father mused, “is there any plan of calling Holmes in on this?”

“Not yet. I have an airship the size of a small carriage, and the best clues will be in its engines.”

Lord Bancroft, who knew his way around a toolbox, nodded. “If anyone can decipher it, you will.”

Tobias was almost startled. “Was that a compliment?”

Lord Bancroft’s eyes almost twinkled. “You’re an idiot about many things, but I’ve never doubted your talent with machines.”

Before Tobias could reply, he heard the thud of feet pounding up the stairs. Tobias and his father exchanged a look, confusion mirrored between them. No one, gentry or servants, clomped about like farm boys in Hilliard House. It simply wasn’t done.

“Who’s that?” Tobias asked, his suspicion forgotten—at least for the moment.

“Damned if I know,” Bancroft replied.

There was a pause followed by the sound of smashing china. Bancroft spun and was in the hall in seconds, with Tobias right behind him. Bancroft held up his hand for silence. Both men listened, Tobias holding his breath.

Heavy feet thundered on the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. The bedrooms? Alarm tightened his entire body. Closing his hands into fists, Tobias strode quickly toward the sound. “Call the footmen,” he told his father. They would all be downstairs with the guests.

Surprisingly, Lord Bancroft turned to obey without argument, and Tobias mounted the steps alone. He’d barely gone a dozen feet before he heard loud, drunken laughter. Shards of white and blue china littered the stairs—the remains of a tall vase that had been one of his mother’s favorites. Then Tobias bounded up the stairs two at a time.

He saw at once what was going on. Two young men—tall, mustachioed, sporting types—were reeling from wall to wall. And they were engaged in fisticuffs. One swung at his friend, staggering forward, but the other was too tipsy to dodge away in time. Flesh hit flesh with a resounding crack and both collapsed into the wall, knocking over a delicate étagère holding a collection of ferns. They began to giggle with the sloppy, high-pitched hiccups of the extremely drunk.

Tobias surged forward, grabbing the nearest one by the collar and dragging him toward the stairs. “Steady on!” said the man stumbling beside him. “No way to treat a guest.”

“Hospitality has its limits.” Tobias heaved him faster, rather enjoying himself.