Then he paused, remembering the difficulties he'd had dealing with the Chinese traders. He wondered again about Harriman and the goldsmiths. The episode felt like ancient history, even though it had not been two years past. No doubt he was worrying for nothing. He hadn't personally met any of the Chinese workers, outside of Han Zuiweng. Engaging and directing the help had been Harriman's job. By rights, no one involved with hiring the Chinese should even know Bancroft's name.

He turned over the note, studying the Chinese character on the reverse side. Again, he thought it looked familiar, although that might have been his imagination. Bancroft shrugged his shoulders, shaking off the sensation that he was being watched. Nonsense. The only other pair of eyes in the room belonged to the stuffed tiger's head fixed to the wall above his desk. Figure this out and get it out of your brain. You can't afford the distraction.

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a file of correspondence he'd received from merchants in the coal trade. Leafing through the thin stack of pages, he wasn't sure what he hoped to find. When he'd taken on the task of finding a source of coal for the rebels, he'd done much of the legwork in person. In part, he'd become personally involved because of the delicacy of the mission. One didn't simply march up to the sales desk asking for contraband supplies for a group of traitors. Bancroft had needed all his amba.s.sadorial skills, building personal relationships with the merchants who came and went among the ever-shifting population in the Limehouse area.

But there had been a few letters, most in English. His idle flipping began to take on purpose, and he turned the pages faster. The ones that interested him were the few that had come on paper stock with the company crest printed at the top. He pulled them aside one by one until he found the one he wanted-a letterhead with ornate Chinese dragons down the margins. The note itself had been a polite but brief apology from a merchant who was closing down his operation to return to his own country.

Bancroft shoved the note with the hand-drawn character closer to the letter. There it was: a match to the character that formed part of the design. Even though he couldn't read the script, Bancroft had long ago trained himself to remember shapes and ornamentation. In the diplomatic business, remembering the details of a piece of jewelry or the crest on the side of a coach could be key. After a while, it became habit.

But now that he'd made the connection, what did it mean? Had the note from Duquesne's come from someone connected to the merchant company? He picked up the letter, reading it over again. It was still the same bland apology as before, so he turned his attention to the letterhead itself-and the two fierce dragons descending to the underworld, smoke pouring from their nostrils. He'd thought them picturesque but irrelevant before, and yet now he began to wonder. Han, the Chinese foreman, had commanded some sort of magical serpent guardian.

Spurred by a fresh idea, Bancroft returned to the file and kept flipping pages until he found a second paper. It had been a list of companies in the Limehouse area that he might want to contact. He'd got it from the tax rolls. These were the official company names gathered by the local authorities, and they sometimes differed from what the traders put on their signs. Bancroft found the listing with the same address as his dragon letterhead. It was for the Mercantile Fellowship of the Black Dragons of the Hidden Sea. There were two contacts listed, and with a ping of surprise, he recognized one of the names. It wasn't the signatory of the letter, but instead a Mr. Fish.

Bancroft sat back in his chair. Mr. Fish? He knew the name from the minutes the Steam Council published in the Bugle. He knew the minutes were just official drivel meant to project the image of public-spirited men of business-and probably reporting about 5 percent of what actually occurred-but the list of attendees was probably correct. The oddity of the name-who called himself Fish?-had made it stick in his mind though he had only seen it on two occasions, for the Black Kingdom sent a different representative to the council almost every time.

That raised brand-new questions. Did the Mercantile Fellowship of the Black Dragons of the Hidden Sea have a connection with the Black Kingdom underneath London? Since the Chinese were supposed to be unaligned with any member of the Steam Council, that gave Bancroft pause. Had he stumbled across a little-known alliance?

But worse was the possibility that he'd drawn the attention of the underground world. n.o.body knew much about it, and those who did were too afraid to speak of what they knew. Black ruled more than the utility infrastructure that pa.s.sed beneath the streets-and the other barons had paid dearly for permission to install most of that anyhow. Silence Gasworks, the company that provided Black's steam and gas, produced just enough for the underground's use. No, Black's true power lay elsewhere, ruled over by a presence-no one knew precisely who or what-that seemed to be far older than the Steam Council.

There were certainly places the daylight traveler could go beneath the earth-the carefully negotiated territories of the underground rail lines, for instance-but it was folly to step outside those carefully demarcated boundaries. Few who strayed into the labyrinth of Black's subterranean pa.s.sages ever came back.

Bancroft's fingers twitched, then started to shake.

So what did the Black Kingdom want with him?

Dartmoor, October 4, 1889.

BASKERVILLE HALL.

3:15 p.m. Friday.

BASKERVILLE HALL WAS ONE OF THOSE NIGHTMARE PROPERTIES that argued for a box of matches and a barrel or two of oil. Watson had first thought so upon arrival and now, standing outside and staring up at the grim edifice, he was ready to a.s.sist the would-be arsonist. The beds alone were a felony.

The hall had probably been the last word when it was built-Watson guessed the original parts of the house dated to Good Queen Bess or maybe even her father. But nothing in it had been updated since. The furniture and finishes were oily black with age. The house itself was square and dark, made gloomier still by the fact that someone had bricked over many of the windows, probably during an era when windows were taxed. The only people who could have been happy there were Gothic novelists, maniacs-more or less the same thing-or perhaps moles.

And when one tried to escape the dank chill of the house, the main attraction was a path-about twenty feet across, counting the lawn-flanked by impenetrable twelve-foot yew hedges. And, to complete the effect, the only way in or out of the walk was a wicket gate that led onto the bleak, wandering vastness of the moor. And there, amid the rolling sea of wild gorse and prehistoric ruins, were bogs waiting to suck down unsuspecting ramblers and the occasional pony.

It was at that place, near the moor gate, where Sir Charles had died. The man had been found face down, his arms splayed and clutching the ground, and his face contorted with fear. There had been no physical injuries to speak of, beyond heart failure. The consensus at the hall was that the old gentleman had been frightened to death. Maybe he'd finally noticed where he'd been living.

Holmes, who had been peering at the ground where the body had been discovered, came up beside Watson. "I found nothing but the footprints of a dog."

"Well, you were looking for a legendary agent of death. Besides the mildew in my bedding, that is. Perhaps it was the ghostly Hound of the Baskervilles enacting an ancient curse."

Holmes looked amused, but it was fleeting. "Very good. See what you can do with that in your literary exploits. I've convinced the Gold King that Evelina's presence is mandatory to the investigation, but we have yet to give substance to the tale. Make it convincing."

Watson was getting just a little testy. He had set out to chronicle Holmes's cases, not spin tall tales. "One thing I wish to question from the start. Speaking as a medical man, I don't understand how heart failure translates to murder."

Holmes grew serious. "Sir Charles clearly died of terror. Perhaps not a usual weapon, but effective nonetheless."

Watson considered that. "Despite the man's appearance at the moment of death, how can we prove such a thing? What kind of clues, much less evidence, can we hope to find to convict this bogeyman?"

Holmes hunched slightly, as if to fend off the question. "We shall work the same as we always do, my good doctor. No detail will escape our notice."

Watson was doubtful. "And Evelina?"

"The Gold King is sending Tobias Roth with her, which may prove a nuisance."

"He shot you not so long ago."

"Thank you for reminding me." Holmes gave a short laugh. "Perhaps you should be the one to keep him distracted. I propose that we-by which I mean you-find a means of sedating the young man, relieve him of the key to her manacles, and get her to safety. Once she is gone, it will be no great matter to lead him off in a false direction as he searches to recapture her. He must leave before the rest of the Baskerville council arrives. And just to complicate matters, Miss Barnes and her friends are installed in the town, waiting for Evelina to join them. They are devoted to the Baskerville cause, and yet not all of the council are friendly to magic users. We have done what we can to ensure the two groups do not mix, for the last thing we need now is a spat between our allies."

"That's a lot of stage management," Watson said uneasily. "A lot of players to keep out of each other's way."

Holmes made a face. "Very true. And it would be bad enough if Evelina had come with an ordinary Yellowback, but Roth will make this harder. He is smart, and anything he sees will find its way back to the Gold King."

"Is it worth the risk to attempt this all at the same time?"

"When else would we have these circ.u.mstances? If we can free my niece, then take down the laboratories, we shall have struck two blows against the Gold King. With some victories behind us, swaying others to the Baskerville cause will be easier."

Watson heard the call to action in his friend's voice and felt his blood stir. "What made you join in this Baskerville affair?"

"My brother, Mycroft, believes he recruited me." Holmes gave him a serious look. "But any doubts I had about the cause vanished the moment the steam barons pushed the makers underground. No nation can survive when the free play of thought is outside the law."

It was a sobering observation. "How did the Baskervilles become involved in the rebellion? I've seen their home. It looks ordinary enough."

The detective looked down the length of the yew walk toward the house. "Prince Albert was a planner. Even after he had suppressed the steam barons, he could see they would not remain obedient to the Crown and so he set up safeguards. If only he had lived a little longer, he would have strengthened those plans, but he did not. So we are left to work with an imperfect solution-but at least he pointed the way. And he made Sir Charles the keeper of his plan."

Watson shook his head. "That's not an explanation. That's not even a hint."

Holmes laughed, his mood suddenly light. "Work with it, Doctor; you have all the pieces you need."

He'd said that to Watson on far too many cases, leaving him stumbling behind in the dark. "Holmes, I loathe it when you say that!"

"And I enjoy watching you puzzle it out. It is most entertaining." Holmes turned and walked toward the house.

After a moment of stewing frustration, Watson followed. A steam-a.s.sisted carriage, looking rather like a smoking horse-drawn tea caddy, had pulled up in front of Baskerville Hall, and both Holmes and Watson hurried to greet the newcomers. The doctor blinked in the gloom as they entered the front hall, but quickly spotted Evelina Cooper and Tobias Roth, accompanied by a lady's maid no doubt meant in part as chaperone. Evelina launched herself at a slightly fl.u.s.tered Holmes with a squeal of delight. She looked pale, but as pretty as ever, with the waves of her dark hair pulled up under a black straw hat adorned with a spray of pheasant feathers. Mary would like that hat, Watson thought, then remembered his wife was gone.

Evelina turned from greeting her uncle, her lovely blue eyes wide with happiness. "Dr. Watson, I'm so glad you're here! It's been ages."

"Delightful as always to see you, my dear girl." Watson squeezed her hand, feeling suddenly old. One glance said that she wasn't actually a girl anymore. He'd heard a little of her misadventures from Holmes, and that experience showed in her confident manner-and in the shadows behind her eyes. Perhaps maturity is the knowledge of how much we can survive.

More greetings were made-congratulations on the birth of Roth's son, condolences on Mary's death. Watson paid little attention, instead studying Tobias Roth. Holmes had said it was his job to keep the young man distracted and, if necessary, drugged. It would have been easier to simply kill him, but no one was prepared for cold-blooded murder when a bit of medical mischief could get the job done.

But unless he was mistaken, something was already amiss with the young man. It was hard to tell when they were still wrapped up against the moor winds, but Roth's color wasn't good. He looked almost green, and the circles under his eyes were the purple of fading bruises. It was obvious, from the way Evelina hovered near him, that she was worried, too. As Baskerville Hall's two servants-a surly caretaker named Barrymore and his surlier wife-moved in to deal with luggage, coats, and fresh linens, Watson took the opportunity to pull Roth aside.

"I have been consulting on your sister's case," he said, and then wondered about the nurse Holmes had asked him to recommend as a subst.i.tute at Hilliard House. Watson had never learned the details, but Holmes had hinted that she might uncover a clue as to what was ailing Miss Imogen Roth.

"Ah, yes, I know." The young man gave him a tired smile. "My sister still clings to life, for which we all have to thank your excellent care."

Watson wasn't so sure about that, but he moved on. "Perhaps, if you have time later, you would permit me to discuss a few ideas for treatment. I am wondering if an unwholesome substance might have brought on this latest fit."

They were moving toward the stairs, lagging a little behind the others. Tobias was puffing harder than someone of his age and obvious fitness should have. "What do you mean? That my sister was poisoned somehow?"

Actually, Watson was making it up as he went along, but he nodded. Anything to engage Roth in a long conversation that might involve a drug in his brandy, the theft of a key, and so on-although now Watson felt cautious about administering a sedative to someone whose breathing was already compromised. "Since I have worked with Mr. Holmes, I have acquired quite an extensive knowledge of poisons and their antidotes, and what I do not know I have means of finding out."

For the first time since he'd arrived, a spark came into Roth's eyes. "Yes, indeed, Doctor, we shall have that conversation."

Watson gave his most trustworthy smile, exuding the aura of a serious medical professional. "Come to the library once you are settled. The scenery here isn't much, but Baskerville has a most satisfactory stock of brandy."

MRS. BARRYMORE, THE HOUSEKEEPER, SHOWED EVELINA TO a small bedchamber that was as spare and old-fashioned as the rest of Baskerville Hall. The only modern convenience she'd detected was the glimpse of a steam-driven lift running up the side of the barn for delivering feed. The steam barons hadn't yet invaded with their gaslights and engines-but she'd seen plenty of their soldiers patrolling the moor.

The sight of her room did little to comfort her. Like everything else in the house, it felt oppressive. Dark beams crisscrossed a low ceiling and heavy leading made a diamond pattern of an old cas.e.m.e.nt window. The only furniture was a sagging bed, a washstand, and a wardrobe large enough to hide a body. Even the student quarters at the college had been luxurious by comparison.

"Thank you," said Evelina, wanting to bring a smile to the dour woman's face. "This is most pleasant."

Her good manners had little effect. "Your maid can have a bed in the attic with the other servants. We will ring the bell when meals are served. Will that be all, miss?"

Evelina hesitated, slightly taken aback by the woman's tone. But she had to remember that the Barrymores had suffered a loss, too. "Were you a long time in Sir Charles's service?"

"Aye, miss."

"I am very sorry for your loss."

The woman's face softened a degree. "Thank you, miss. But there have been so many comings and goings of late that it was no wonder Sir Charles up and died. It was too much for the old man."

"You have that many visitors here?" Evelina could not help being surprised. They were a long way from anywhere.

"Aye, miss. One gentleman after another, it seems, in the last month. But I suppose with a new head of the household, we'll be faced with entertaining more."

"I imagine Mr. Edmond Baskerville will be a pleasant master."

"He is not the heir, miss. Sir Charles took him in as a babe and raised him as one of the family and he turned out as good a young man as you please. But there is a nephew, Mr. Henry Baskerville-Sir Henry now-who will be coming home from Toronto to take up residence at the hall." And she didn't sound particularly pleased about the fact.

So Edmond took Sir Charles's name, but was never formally adopted. That kept things simple where an entailed estate was involved, but it was still an interesting fact, especially where there was suspicion of murder. If Sir Henry was overseas and Edmond was not the heir, that weakened any argument to include them as suspects.

She was leaning toward a killer from Her Majesty's Laboratories, but there was still Edmond's radical politics to consider. She had known the Schoolmaster was one of the rebel leaders, but had never suspected he was actually a Baskerville-although technically he wasn't a Baskerville at all. Still, if anyone knew he was a radical, they might go after his family. Evelina chased that thought a moment, mesmerized by the sight of the moor through the wobbly gla.s.s of the ancient window.

"Miss?" asked the housekeeper.

"Thank you, Mrs. Barrymore. I can look after myself from here."

"Very good, miss." The housekeeper left, her solid tread receding down the corridor.

Evelina eyed her suitcase, sitting patiently beside the bed, along with a bag that carried, among other things, two of the books on rare elements she'd taken from the college library. She'd read through all of one and most of another on the train. Neither of them were terribly thick volumes.

She had been a long time without a maid to perform little services such as unpacking, and decided to take advantage of her presence. Feeling delightfully lazy, she turned her attention instead to her toilette, using the comb from her reticule to tame what she could. There weren't enough hairpins in the Empire to combat the frizzing effect of the damp moorland air.

It hadn't been an easy trip down. Tobias had said little the entire way, explaining nothing of why suddenly, when he had been about to divulge a secret that would start a civil war, he was taking her south to investigate the death of a minor baronet. Questioning him had got her nowhere, and that was unusual. Tobias used her as a sounding board. Silence meant something serious had happened, and that had her worried. But he can't stay mute forever. We've always been too close for that.

Her fingers stilled, a hairpin in one hand and her comb in the other. Here she was, focused on Tobias Roth one more time, even if she no longer wanted him for a husband or even as a lover. And yet she still cared for him as one of her oldest friends. As long as he was in trouble, she wasn't walking away.

There was a light knock on the door, probably the maid. Evelina looked up from the mirror above the washstand, and nearly dropped her comb in surprise. "Nick!"

He flashed a smile, dark eyes widening with interest as his gaze traveled over her. He'd spent time outdoors and looked much more himself, tanned and confident as he moved. Not that there was much room to move in the tiny room. She was in his arms before she'd drawn another breath, and it felt wonderfully right.

"h.e.l.lo," he said, the vibration of his voice traveling from his chest to every nerve in her body. A warm, liquid ache made her lean closer, as if contact alone could relieve it.

"h.e.l.lo," she replied, glad they were in daylight. She could see the mahogany lights in his eyes this way, like sunlight trapped deep inside them. "What are you doing here?"

His grin widened. "I came with the Schoolmaster. We stopped along the way. That news report you showed me about the Red Jack was correct. I was able to find Athena!"

His excitement sparked through her, and her heart lifted. "That's wonderful news! Is she here?"

"Under lock and key. I stayed as long as I could in hopes of seeing you, but now I'm off to Cornwall."

"Cornwall?"

His smile faded. "There's a town there where Striker and I were building a second ship. If anything happened, the crew agreed to leave word there for the others. That way we'll know if there were survivors."

Evelina's joy faltered. She'd heard this story before, and felt the same chill in her blood. The chance of finding survivors was not good. She put her hands on his shoulders, the wool of his jacket rough to the touch. "Be careful. I don't like the thought of you traveling alone."

"I won't be half dazed from falling out of the sky. I won't be easy pickings this time."

Evelina frowned. Nick was a creature of the air. Without a ship, he was trapped and vulnerable on the ground. "Does anyone else know that you've found Athena?"

"Three of the Schoolmaster's friends: Edgerton, Penner, and Smythe. They're staying in town."

"I know them. Michael Edgerton and Bucky you can trust. Smythe is a hothead."

"I'm not worried about what they'll do to me. They want an airship, and with Athena I can give them the best."

"I'll be happier when you're back in the air."

He gave her a rea.s.suring squeeze. "Whatever I find in Cornwall, I'll be back with a ship. Any pirate worth his salt has booty stashed here and there, hopefully at a decent rate of interest."

She couldn't help smiling. "You always did keep a few coins at the bottom of your saddlebags."

"Gran Cooper always said to hope for the best and plan for the worst." He kissed her forehead lightly. "And there are people I want to look after. That means looking ahead and making plans. And you're the heart of those plans, Evie."

They were still holding each other, carrying on their conversation with noses almost touching. That was just fine with Evelina-she could have stood there holding Nick all day. But she could feel his energy, forward-moving like a hawk in flight. He wouldn't stay still for long-not when he was on the cusp of regaining what he had lost.

"And now that I've told you my tale, what about yours?" He tapped her bracelet. "How did you get out of the college?"