The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (8 page)

“Sad? It was tragic.”

“Then I’m sorry for it.” His words were earnest but impersonal, the tone used with sympathy for strangers. “No good ever comes of playing with magic.”

Uneasy, Evelina said nothing. The only sound was their feet on the cold earth, stepping in time with each other. It struck her how very much she and Violet were alike—gifted, independent, and tempted.

“Well, I had best get to my mission before we both turn blue with cold.” He held out a folded piece of paper. “I had hoped to catch you alone so that I could make my apologies for
delivering this late. I promised to put it in the mail a week ago and then I found it in my jacket pocket this morning.”

A letter?
Hope and panic flared in her chest, but it melted to confusion. “Why do
you
have a letter for me? Is it from my grandmother?”

“No, it’s from my mother. Imogen’s been trying to hatch this plan for weeks and she’ll wring my neck when she finds out I’ve been holding it up. She doesn’t yet know Mama agreed to her scheme.”

Already wound tight with anxiety, Evelina couldn’t stand it a moment longer. She lunged for the paper, but he caught her hand. His was warm, the fingers long and strong. Then his grip turned gentle, almost to a caress.

“Would it be inappropriate to demand a delivery fee?” His voice was suddenly low and teasing. He had flirted with her before, the older brother plaguing his sister’s playmates, but now there was an edge to it that said he wanted more.

I could kiss him, right here and now
. A thrill passed down her spine. She could feel his breath on her face, warm and clean. She had dreamed of this moment, ached for it, but the timing was all wrong. This night had been far too unkind to lovers. “By your own admission, the delivery is late. I don’t pay for such poor service.”

“Not even as an incentive to improve?”

She hesitated just long enough to see his expression grow speculative.
He means no harm, but has no idea of the power he has. He could crush my heart like an egg, and he would just be playing. He’d forget me, just like he forgot the letter
.

She jerked her hand away and snatched the paper from Tobias. “I’d like to keep my reputation, thank you.”

“Do you think so poorly of my intentions?” he asked mockingly.

She wasn’t listening anymore. With trembling hands, she fumbled the letter open. “It’s too dark to read!” Her voice was thin with dismay.

He chuckled. “Poor Evelina. It’s a prescription.”

“Pardon?”

They’d almost reached the corner of the school. A little way ahead, gaslights cast sparkles on the lawn, where the snow was beginning to coat the grass. Swirls of it played in the crisp air as if a whole flock of devas were dancing.

He tugged a lock of her hair, back to the playful quasi-brother. “A prescription to wipe that tragic look off your face. You look wrung out. Not even threatening to kiss you will cheer you up.”

She wanted to say the right thing, to be the soft and playful girl, but it wasn’t in her tonight. “What does your mother say in the letter?”

“She’s invited you to spend the holidays with us. It was Imogen’s idea, but my mother and your grandmother agreed. And if I dare say it, you look like you could use a dose of plum pudding.”

Evelina stared at the paper, then raised her eyes to Tobias, who was regarding her with a smirk.
I shot a walking corpse. I burned the body. And he talks to me of plum pudding
. But oddly, unexpectedly, she was grateful that he did. Kindness had its own power against monsters.

I have somewhere to go
. Relief touched her, as soft and sweet as the falling snow. There would be a tomorrow, and it would be among friends. It was more than she had dared to hope. “Pudding sounds delightful.”

June 1888

London

What was more intriguing than a mysterious parcel, especially one wrapped in rose-colored tissue spangled with gold stars?
Nothing
, thought Imogen.
Nothing at all
. The ribbon curled like feathery gold question marks, teasing her with the possibility of what lay inside.

She pulled her wrap around her and slid up the window sash to let the warm breeze flood in. It was a beautiful summer morning, all blue sky and chirping birds. The maid had already delivered the tray with Imogen’s morning chocolate, pushed open the bedroom curtains, and curtsied her way out of the room. Imogen was usually slow to pry herself out of bed, but as soon as she had rolled over to face the brightly shining day, she had seen what the maid had not—the pink box tucked in the corner of the ledge outside the window. After that, she’d been up like a shot.

Imogen reached through the window, carefully grasping the teetering parcel. The paper was soft under her fingertips, as if it had come from a stationery shop that sold only the finest supplies.

Under other circumstances, she might have assumed there was a mistake. It wasn’t her birthday and she wasn’t expecting a gift. But the tag read, “For the Delectable Miss Imogen Roth” in neat gold script. Overall, the parcel was a perfect cube, six inches to a side. Small, but not too small to be intriguing. A tingle of excitement ran up Imogen’s arm, as if the present was alive with magnetic forces. She shivered, but it was a delicious wriggle of anticipation.

How did the box get out here in the middle of the night?
After all, her bedroom was three sets of windows above the ground floor, and there wasn’t even a good climbing tree outside.
Magic? An acrobat from Ploughman’s Paramount Circus? The Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events?
After all, SPIE had destroyed the opera with a giant mechanical squid. A stealthy aerial delivery was hardly beyond their skills. The morning quivered with possibilities, and Imogen hadn’t even had her chocolate yet.

A moment later she was sitting on her bed, the parcel in her lap. She chewed her lip a moment, feeling an obligatory pang of guilt. It wasn’t proper for young ladies to accept anonymous gifts, but somewhere in the back of Imogen’s mind, she felt she deserved it. This was supposed to be her first Season in London society, but so far it had been horrible.

Her best friend had been sent away from London in disgrace, and Imogen’s brother had been obliged to save the family fortunes by going to work for Jasper Keating, the most powerful man in London. Tobias had also promised to marry Keating’s daughter, but the whole thing was hardly a happy ending. Poor Tobias had given away an independent future—and, she also suspected, a woman he loved—to cover their father’s mistakes. And if Imogen were to be an equally dutiful daughter, she would put on a bright smile and catch a rich and titled husband who would boost her father’s political career.

Given all that, she
deserved
a present.

She pulled the end of the gold ribbon, and the knot came open with a gentle rustle. In another minute, she had the paper off. A note was taped to the top of a heavy white box. “Lovely Imogen,” it read. “Please accept this bit of whimsy. May it bring a smile to your bright eyes. Yours, BP.”

“Bucky,” she whispered into the sunny morning air. Buckingham Penner was the one bright spot in her existence. She’d known him for years as Tobias’s best friend, but he’d lately transformed from a familiar face to her most promising suitor. He was funny, smart, handsome, and he danced extremely well. And, apparently, he could get a gift box to her window ledge in the dead of night.

She lifted the lid, and a puff of lavender smoke curled up through her fingers. Tentatively, Imogen peered inside. Although she wasn’t supposed to know, both Tobias and Bucky were members of SPIE, and there was no telling what kind of invention might come out of their workshop.

The box was lined with more of the rosy tissue, and nestled inside was a heart-shaped piece of brass with an antiqued finish. She lifted it out to discover it had tiny curved feet and a hinged lid, rather like something she’d set on her dressing table to put her rings in. She set it on the nightstand.

No sooner had she pulled her hand away than the lid began to slowly open. A flock of tiny paper butterflies no bigger than the end of a pencil wafted into the air, borne on another gust of lavender smoke. Imogen let out a gasp of pleasure, trying to catch one of the delicate paper marvels midflight. Then a bright blue bird whirred into the air on clockwork wings, trilling sweet, crystalline song. It sparkled in the sunlight as it circled around the room, throwing shards of rainbow onto the walls and ceiling. Imogen gaped as it fluttered to a halt on her writing desk,
and then began an elaborate version of the last music she had danced to with Bucky Penner.

Imogen pulled herself onto the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees and losing herself in the sheer romance of the moment. The bird trilled the chorus just the way the violins had that night, taking her back to the feel of Bucky’s arms around her, of flying around the polished hardwood floor in her beautiful white dress … and then there had been a kiss.

They’d only been able to meet once or twice since that night months ago—painfully polite words in public, or whispered exchanges when no one was looking—because Bucky wasn’t the man her parents wanted her to marry. But he had sliced through all their precautions. When he’d put this present together, gear by gear, he’d known exactly how to pull the sweet ache of memory from deep inside her.

She’d seen magic, and magical birds, but none of those compared to the wonder of that moment. Imogen rested her chin on her knees, swaying slightly to the music, relishing the way that Bucky made her feel so very special.

* * *

Later, when it had come time to dress and go out with her mother, Imogen had swept up every last butterfly and returned them and the little bird to the heart-shaped box. She simply couldn’t stand to be parted from her present quite yet, so she’d found her largest reticule and stowed the box inside. The bag looked lumpy, and the orange and green beading didn’t match her powder blue dress, but Imogen didn’t care. She was besotted and was determined to enjoy it.

The musical afternoons at Lady Porter’s huge Mayfair house were some of Imogen’s favorites, and her heart lifted as the carriage pulled up before the tall iron gate flanked by neatly
trimmed yew.

“I wonder who has been asked to play.” her mother said, casting Imogen a sidelong glance. “I do hope you have something at your fingertips.” Lady Bancroft was of the opinion that a lady’s musical talent was a powerful lure to prospective suitors.

Imogen was less convinced. She didn’t mind playing in public, but thought a large dowry or a pretty face went further toward a marriage proposal than well-executed arpeggios. “I believe an Italian soprano has been engaged to entertain us. I don’t recall her name.”

“Surely there will be time for the guests to have a turn?”

“Perhaps, Mama,” Imogen said. “But that depends on Lady Porter. All the young ladies have shown off their party pieces time and again. She’s probably wearied to death of Mozart’s sonatinas.”

Lady Bancroft sniffed, but put on a smile as the door opened and a footman bowed them in. The drawing room was large and airy, the fine Broadwood pianoforte set before the French doors to the garden. Guests stood in clumps here and there, mostly near the food. Lady Bancroft stopped to greet friends while Imogen paid her respects to their hostess.

“My dear,” said Lady Porter, clasping Imogen’s hands and giving her a wide smile. “I’m so delighted to see you.” She was a small woman with thick white hair that was never quite tidy. “And of course you know my nephew, Captain Diogenes Smythe?”

“Indeed I do,” Imogen replied as a young man in a smart blue cavalry uniform executed a perfect bow. She returned it with a slight curtsey. “How pleasant to see you again, Captain.”

He was dark haired and mustachioed, square-jawed and lean, like a hero from the illustrations in a storybook. He turned to Imogen with a cocky smile and offered his arm. “Perhaps, Miss Roth, you would care to take a turn about the room?”

She would rather have sought out her friends, but refusal would have been rude. “I would be delighted.” She made her farewells to Lady Porter, whose eyes twinkled with the look of a confirmed matchmaker, and waved them off. Imogen obediently took the captain’s arm and allowed herself to be steered through the crowd of guests.

“Is your family retiring to Horne Hill for the summer?” Captain Smythe asked her, nodding to his acquaintances as they passed by.

Horne Hill was the family’s country residence. “Yes. I look forward to getting out of the London bustle for a while.” That wasn’t quite true. Horne Hill was about as exciting as a mortuary, and she would miss Bucky. She could feel her reticule, heavy with the heart-shaped box, swinging as she walked.

“How lucky for you that my regiment will be stationed nearby for the best part of the summer,” Smythe said with the irritating confidence of a man who knew he was good-looking.

“Perhaps it is you who are in luck,” Imogen returned.

His answering smile said he was
certain
she was the fortunate one. “I stand corrected.”

Annoyed, Imogen bit her lip and then gave him the sweetest possible simper. “How fares the Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events?”

Smythe gave her a sharp look. “How do you know about that?”

“SPIE might be a secret society, but my brother is a founder and so are his three best friends. I would have to be terribly stupid not to figure it out.” Besides Tobias and Smythe, the other charter members were Bucky and Michael Edgerton. The society’s purpose was, as far as she could tell, to invent preposterous mechanical gadgetry and drink a great deal while doing so.

“You must listen at keyholes.” He didn’t look particularly charmed.

“Little sisters adore their brothers’ secrets.”

He leaned close so that he could lower his voice. “It’s not one that we would care to share.”

“I know that.”

The Steam Council jealously guarded their monopoly on mechanical power, and didn’t take kindly to freelance inventors. Even the rich had trouble getting access to mechanical parts. That made SPIE’s activities more than a little daring—and it explained Smythe’s suddenly cautious air.