The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (9 page)

“You needn’t fear my wagging tongue,” Imogen said with a lift of one brow, pleased that she had wiped away his smug expression. “I’ve known you all since you were schoolboys.”

Back then, the handsome Smythe had been skinny and covered with pimples—the last and the least of the four. She watched the unpleasant memory flicker through his eyes. “But I asked how SPIE fares,” she repeated.

He tugged his jacket a little straighter and smoothed the glittering braid along its front. “To be honest, it has lapsed. Now that your brother has made a profession of his tinkering, he has no need of a private workshop. I have my regiment, and Edgerton has gone north to work with his father. I’m afraid SPIE has existed only in memory these last few months.”

“That is a little sad,” Imogen confessed. “I rather enjoyed the picture of you all in a dirty shed building outrageous things.”

He shrugged but somehow made it look pompous. “We all must eventually choose our destinies, Miss Roth. My loyalty is to my uniform, and to the ideals of honor and manhood that go along with that choice.”

“Don’t you miss the friendship?”

“Of course.” But the statement didn’t ring true. It sounded as if he were soothing a child.
“No man would scorn friendship with a man like your brother.”

You mean a man who has a steam baron as his patron
. She’d known Smythe for years. Like a cat following the fishmonger, he’d go where the pickings were best. They fell silent for a few steps. Imogen took the time to notice that Lady Porter had acquired an automated butler that poured tea at a verbal command. Something had gone wrong, and it was dispensing the steaming beverage into the aspidistra.

Smythe watched the display with mild interest. “And what do you plan to do with your time in the country, Miss Roth? Will it be a quiet end to the Season?”

She knew what he meant. Young ladies were supposed to have one goal in mind during the busy social whirl of the spring months—catching a husband. Imogen had collected plenty of admirers and even a few proposals, but nothing had been settled. She was just as glad, but the fact that Smythe had pointed it out made her feel like an old maid. “Yes,” she agreed. “All the quieter since Tobias is staying in London with his work.”

“Then I look forward to calling on you.” He said it matter-of-factly. “It sounds as if you will need the excitement.”

The presumption annoyed her. “Doesn’t the man usually ask permission to call before simply announcing that he means to do so?”

He gave a white-toothed smile. “Usually, but I’ve never been refused.”

Oh, really?
“Speaking of your old chums, what is Mr. Penner doing?” she asked in a careless tone, deliberately shifting the conversation away from the captain.

Smythe gave her a narrowed-eyed look that said he’d caught her slight, but then managed a chuckle. “Is he my rival, then?”

No, because you don’t stand a chance
. But she couldn’t say that, so toyed with her fan. “I
merely asked after his well-being, Captain Smythe. You read too much into a simple question.”

Smythe didn’t look fooled. “If you must know, Bucky is up to his old tricks.”

Imogen raised a brow. As a youth, Bucky had been famous for his inventive persecutions. He had—during schooldays at Eton—sewn a sleeping Tobias into his bedding. Another time, he had painted her kitten Snowball with bright yellow tiger stripes. He’d been thirteen at the time, Imogen just turned nine, and she still hadn’t quite forgiven him. “I trust that none of the neighborhood cats have changed color?”

Smythe gave her a confused look. He must not have heard the story. “Um, no, nothing like that.”

They had reached one end of the room, and the eddies of the crowd trapped them next to the tea table. A footman was wheeling in a cart with a large samovar, no doubt to replace the rogue teapot scalding the greenery. “What, then?” Imogen felt a slight, nervous twinge in her belly that she couldn’t explain.

“Confess it. He is a favorite of yours, isn’t he?” There was a competitive glint in Smythe’s eye.

She was certain Smythe didn’t love her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t jealous. Imogen’s skin prickled with a primal sense of danger. “I’ve known Mr. Penner for years. We are old friends.”

A servant slipped to the front of the room to arrange the piano bench and music stands in readiness for the performance. In a moment or two, they would have to go sit down. Impatience made Imogen fidget. She wanted to be rid of Smythe, but curiosity nagged at her. “So what old trick is Mr. Penner reviving?”

Smythe leaned close. “You know he prides himself on the fine toys he makes.”

“Yes.” Imogen’s fingers tightened on the strings of her reticule, feeling the weight of Bucky’s gift. “And?”

Smythe’s lips twitched. “He sent one to each of his lady loves. Half a dozen in all. I don’t think one of them knows of the others. Of course, he means to keep it that way.”

Imogen froze. Then a sickening heat coursed through her, much like the light-headed rush before a swoon. She drew a deep breath, forcing air into a chest suddenly far too tight.
Surely he’s lying
. She knew Bucky, and he wasn’t the type to trick a girl. Dye her cat the color of a daffodil, yes. Break her heart, no. She cleared her throat. “Half a dozen?”

“You know how agreeable Penner is. He never likes to disappoint, and he never promises anything directly to his lovers. That way, no one can say he deceives them.” Then his gaze slid down to Imogen’s bulging bag, which did not match her dress at all. It wasn’t the sort of detail most men would notice, but Smythe was particular when it came to wardrobe.

Stiffening, she fell back a step. “Indeed, he is most agreeable, Captain Smythe. It is a fine quality in a gentleman.”

“One not to be taken for granted, Miss Roth,” Smythe returned in a silky tone. “Especially when it has been such a distressing summer.”

So he had heard the rumors about the blow her father’s fortunes had taken from bad investments, particularly in the Harter Engine Company. The family’s future was less secure than it had been a year ago—something a man wanting a large dowry would know.

“You’ll find me generous enough to be agreeable, Miss Roth,” Smythe went on. “I’m sure you’re aware of how high you rank in my esteem. High enough to overlook obvious shortcomings.”

“How lovely.” Her tone was flat. “I think it’s time that I rejoined my mother.”

It was a rebuff, plain and simple, and Smythe’s face said he knew it. “Very good, Miss Roth.”

“Good day, Captain Smythe.” She put all the disgust she felt into the words.

He gave a bow that held a shred of mockery. “Enjoy the music.”

Imogen turned without another word, walking away so briskly that her reticule banged against her leg. She refused to believe Smythe, but she couldn’t help remembering the stories about Bucky and Tobias carousing all over London not all that long ago. And just because her father thought Bucky too common didn’t mean other families were so particular. They’d want him courting their daughters because the Penners had money to spare.

Imogen’s mouth went so dry she thought she might choke.
But half a dozen?
She’d made an assumption that she had an understanding with Bucky but, really, had they truly spoken about it? Bucky wouldn’t betray her, but was it betrayal if he’d never made a promise? What if Smythe was right, and she was just one of many?

Jealousy made her stomach burn as if she had swallowed a live coal.

* * *

Bucky Penner mounted the steps to the front door, hearing conversation but no music. That meant that—for once—he wasn’t late. He’d just about reached the door when Smythe shot through it with the look of a man who’d taken a bite of bad fish. The captain drew up sharply when he saw Bucky.

“What’s got your pistons in a jam?” Bucky asked.

“It’s to be an Italian singer this afternoon,” Smythe drawled. “I am wearied to death of
Italian.” He jogged down the stairs and through the tall iron gates to the street.

Curious, Bucky followed him and they fell into step, walking briskly toward the park that lay like a cool green blanket at the end of the road. Since Bucky wasn’t quite late yet, he could delay a minute or two to find out what had Smythe fuming. “You seemed fond enough of Italian the other night. Wasn’t the opera by Rossini and the diva your dinner guest?”

“Trust me.” Smythe waved a hand brusquely. “A case of indigestion followed. But you did well enough with the understudy, I think.”

Although the comment nettled him, Bucky smiled affably. “Well enough.”

The girl had been homesick, and he’d not done more than listen to her ramble about the glories of Rome. He’d only been to Italy once, but he remembered enough to keep up a conversation with a lonely girl far from her native land. The next day he’d sent her a jewelry box with a painting of the Teatro Costanzi, the Roman opera house, painted on the lid. It had been a souvenir he’d bought and then modified with a tiny clockwork orchestra inside. Perhaps it was an extravagant gift for someone he’d just talked to, but it had seemed as if she needed cheering up.

They had reached the corner, and Bucky resettled his hat to shade his eyes from the warm sun. The light glinted off the brass buttons of Smythe’s uniform, turning them to gold.

“I saw the present you gave her,” Smythe said. “Your little Maria was showing it to half the theater district.”

“I’m happy she liked it.”

“You should be more careful, linking your name with women of that stripe, especially if you wish to court the fair Miss Roth—though perhaps I do myself a disservice by urging you to caution.” There was an unpleasant gloat hiding in Smythe’s tone, and Bucky’s instincts sounded
a warning. He liked Smythe well enough as a boon companion and coconspirator in SPIE, but that didn’t extend to trusting him with the object of his affection.

Does he mean to court her?
Bucky had seen Smythe dance with Imogen, but had never thought the captain—still getting settled into his career—was seriously considering more than a waltz.

An irritable heat prickled up the back of Bucky’s neck and spilled over into the parts of his brain that governed reason. All at once, Bucky itched to punch Smythe in his classically square jaw. “Thank you so much for your advice,” Bucky said dryly. “But to whom I send presents is my own affair.”

“You miss the point entirely.”

“I doubt it.”

“Are you sure?” Smythe sneered.

“Have you actually got a point?” Was it possible to go drinking with a man night after night, but still not like him?

Smythe gave him a look, remaining silent while a Steamer—one of the clattering, steam-powered passenger vehicles—chugged around the corner. When it had passed far enough away, he cleared his throat. “Once you were as eager as the rest of us when it came to a night of pleasure, and you’ve always had the money to squander on cards and women.”

“So?”

“That’s changed of late. You’ve lost your appetite for all but one particular sweetmeat. And you know who I mean.”

Sweetmeat?
The analogy was idiotic, but otherwise Smythe was right. Bucky had known Imogen for years, but one fine day she’d unsheathed her wit, or tilted her head in that way she
had, or maybe just walked into the room and he’d actually noticed that she’d grown up. And then, all of a sudden, he’d wanted to be a better man.

But damned if he’d say that to Smythe. “Again, not your affair.”

“It’s clear you want her,” the captain retorted. “Am I to surrender the field without a fight?”

“Surrender the field?” Bucky laughed, but it was dry and unconvincing. “I wasn’t aware there was a pitched battle.”

“You know me, Penner. I fight to win. Always have.” The captain constantly worried about who was the best inventor, or had the prettiest mistress, or the fastest horse, or the most friends. It must have been exhausting to be Smythe.

“And where does Miss Roth fit into this picture?”

The captain’s eyes were alight. “Regardless of what they say, women delight in being the spoils of war. They love a victor.”

“Is this some kind of a challenge?” Bucky was incredulous.

“Finally, you begin to see my point. May the best man carry the day.”

Bucky’s vision leached of color. All he could see was a white pall of rage. “Why? Because I fancy her?”

“Let the games begin, Penner.” With that Smythe gave a mocking salute and ran across the street toward the park. “You won’t win this one with a kind word and a wind-up toy.”

Bucky stared after him, blindsided. Men fought over women, for good reasons and bad, but that wasn’t his way.
To Hades with that
. This was Imogen and, drinking companion or not, Smythe had crossed a line. If Smythe wanted a fight, he had one.

His fingers curled into fists that strained the seams of his gloves. Bucky’s first thought
was to finish that fight, right there in the street. His second—and the more urgent need—was to find out what wreckage Smythe had already left in his wake.

Through the veil of anger, Bucky turned and strode back to Lady Porter’s. A sensation of unease crept over him, the hot sun on his shoulders a sinister caress. Without quite knowing why, he broke into a run. The captain was clever in a crafty, hidden-explosives kind of way, and Bucky had the feeling he was about to step on a mine.

He’d no sooner hurried through the door at Lady Porter’s then he saw Imogen. A grin split his face the instant she looked up. She had a vulnerable beauty men desired to own and protect the way one might a rare work of art. Of course, Bucky had known Im since she was a skinny girl in braids and knew the steel beneath. He also knew that she insisted on eating her toast half-burned and had a bad habit of leaving sewing needles in the seat cushions. But knowing who she really was made him want her a thousand times more.

His joy was short-lived. Where he was used to seeing welcome, there was hurt.
Blood and thunder
. Bucky’s temper lurched again. That had to be Smythe’s handiwork, and he didn’t get to use Imogen as a game piece.

To make matters worse, the performance had started. The room was still and hot, only the slight rustle of silks and fans breaking the attentive trance. The soprano had a fine voice, but Bucky lingered at the back of the room, too agitated to sit and pay attention.