The Clockwork Scarab

Miss Holmes Of Firefly Lanterns, Copper Heels, and Convenient Waltzes

I felt Miss Stoker go rigid next to me. I turned to follow her gaze, but even my sharp observation skills revealed nothing that seemed out of place.

“Impossible,” she muttered, staring down into the crowded room. “Not a bloody chance.”

I’d been around my uncle and his friend Dr. Watson enough not to mind curse words, but I was taken aback that Miss Stoker employed them as handily as the men did. Just as I was about to ask her for an explanation, an unfamiliar roar from outside caught my ears. I turned to see a sleek steamcycle shoot up the steps and onto the far edge of the terrace. Bent over the handlebars, the rider wore goggles, a tight aviator cap with earflaps, and a long coat that whipped out behind him. He manipulated the cycle neatly into a spot far beyond the partygoers.

The vehicle, which looked utterly dangerous—and possibly illegal—gleamed like the sun with its copper and bronze machinery and sported a bit of brass detail around the bottom. A bell-shaped metal skirt hid whatever mechanism kept the cycle gliding along more than a foot above the ground, and there was a trio of copper pipes at the rear from which the steam could escape. The rider turned off the engine and the vehicle gave a soft hiss, then sank to the stone terrace as if lowering itself on invisible legs.

Like dismounting from a horse, the steamcycle’s rider climbed off and raised his goggles, giving an abrupt wave to the grooms who’d noticed his arrival. If their gawking was any indication, those young men would be easily convinced to give up their livelihood of managing horses in favor of this tempting new mode of transportation.

But it wasn’t until the rider yanked off his hat by an earflap and revealed a head of ginger-colored hair that I recognized him.

Inspector Grayling.

What on earth would he be doing at an event like this? A simple Scotland Yard investigator? At a Society party? Surely he wasn’t here as a guest. Which meant he must be here in some official capacity. That conclusion caused me to relax only slightly. Could he be investigating something related to Miss Hodgeworth’s horrible death—just as we were?

I was not about to let him interfere with my investigation.

Grayling hadn’t yet noticed me. As I watched, he pulled off his long duster and slung it carelessly over the back of the cycle, giving some direction to the nearest groom. He was dressed in evening wear and not the more informal garb of his occupation.

My eyes narrowed in consideration, and I turned to speak to Miss Stoker, but she was gone. I perused the room from a high vantage point, but saw no sign of my companion’s dark head.

It was to my advantage not to be seen by Inspector Grayling when and if he should enter the festivities, so I lifted my skirts and made my way as expediently as possible down the steps into the shallow, circular ballroom.

I reminded myself of the reason for my presence at this crush of a party. But looking over the number of people crowding the room, spilling onto the terrace and into other interior chambers of the mansion, I despaired that I would find anything related to Sekhmet, an Egyptian scarab, or the meaning of the number nine and stars.

I lifted my chin in determination. I was a Holmes. Observation, deduction, and duty to the Crown were my life. I would brave even a Society event to fulfill my destiny, though I hoped I’d remain beneath the notice of the eligible young men who were in attendance. I had no interest in attempting to converse with any of them.

Or—worse—to realize that none of them had the least bit of interest in conversing with me.

Chin still firmly in the air, I made my way along the perimeter of the room, skirting past topiaries and innumerable roses. I considered the situation as I brushed past an urn containing man-size red branches. The beetle marking on the invitation could be a form of identification or perhaps a call to action, such as to a meeting, which would confirm my suspicion that the nine had to do with some event at nine o’clock. An event that had to do with stars. And one thing had become clear: several young women were connected by Sekhmet’s scarab, which implied some sort of association—or at least a communication system.

If they didn’t know each other, the scarab must identify another member of the group. If they did know each other, then that would make it all the more difficult for me to masquerade as the recipient of a scarab message. The fact that I had the invitation with the beetle symbol on it was definitely a point in favor of attempting the risky proposition.

Something Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had said echoed in my mind. Please make certain you take a stroll through the art gallery while you are here.

An art gallery could include many forms of art and possible topics of conversation. Including that of Egyptology and Egyptian antiquities. Aside from that, looking for the gallery might also help me with the other part of my plan: to find the guest list for this event in Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s study.

Exhilarated by these possibilities, I turned to the interior of the house. My skirt caught on my tall, skinny copper heel, and I felt the fabric of my crinoline tear beneath it. Even worse, in my haste, I bumped into one of the pots holding a tree-branch arrangement.

The urn wobbled, tipped, and then the whole cluster began to fall. I lurched at the branches and tried to catch them, my skirt still caught on my heel, and somehow managed to rescue the whole pot before it crashed to the floor.

Well, almost all of it.

One of the branches escaped my grip and fell into another set of false trees, throwing them off balance in their own vase. I grabbed them before they tipped over and spent the next few moments breathing heavily, rearranging the blasted things, and hoping no one had noticed my near disaster.

But when I turned away from them, ready to make my escape and to continue on my mission, I found myself face- to-face with Inspector Grayling.

“Are you quite finished, Miss Holmes?”

I wasn’t certain whether to be mortified that he had witnessed my mishap or vexed that he’d stood by and watched me struggle without bothering to offer assistance. My face, which was hot and damp, was probably crimson—a fact which I tried not to think about, but couldn’t dismiss, causing my cheeks to grow even hotter.

Since I had no good response to his query, I responded with one of my own. “What are you doing here?” I lifted my nose and tried not to be annoyed by how tall he was.

“I’m here in an official capacity,” he said, lifting his nose.

“As am I,” was my rejoinder. I was trying to inconspicuously extricate my slender copper heel from where it was still embedded in the lace trim of my underskirt.

“Is everything quite all right, Miss Holmes?” he asked, looking in bemusement at my skirts, which were moving due to my foot’s contortions. I wished earnestly for one of the flying firefly lanterns to crash into his arrogant, too-tall head.

But before I could reply, a sunny voice from behind interrupted us. “Why, Miss Holmes! I see you’ve met our dear Ambrose.”

I turned to see Lady Cosgrove-Pitt bearing down on us. Her pale gray eyes lit with enthusiasm, and she looked from Grayling to me and back again. Perhaps she read our tension, for she said, “Brose, darling, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s niece. It would be nice for you to get to know her a bit, since you might cross paths with him in your line of work. Miss Mina Holmes, please meet my husband’s cousin’s nephew by marriage, Inspector Ambrose Grayling. Perhaps the two of you would like to get better acquainted during this waltz?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think—”

“Miss Holmes, would you do me the honor?” he interrupted, and offered his arm. His cheeks had gone a bit dusky beneath their freckles.

My face was hotter than ever. It was approaching nine o’clock, and I had other things to do. I didn’t even want to dance with him, and I certainly didn’t want to dance with a man who was forced into partnering me.

But words failed me, and before I knew it, I’d placed my fingers on his arm. It was warm and steady, and very sturdy. I took one step before I discovered my heel was still caught up in my crinoline.

I managed a muffled “Drat!” before the underskirt pulled my shoe off rhythm and I lost my balance. I released Grayling’s arm, but not before I jolted into him.

He’d stopped after that one step and looked down at me. “Miss Holmes, is everything quite all right?” The bemusement was gone, and now he wore an expression of wariness.

That was when I noticed the dark mark on his square chin. A small cut from shaving. How could I have missed it? And then it occurred to me with a cold shock that I’d been standing next to him for several minutes and had forgotten to be observant.

“Erm,” I managed to say. My head was pounding from the heat on my face and my thoughts had scattered. “Yes, I just . . . I tripped and—”

“Yes, I can see that,” he said. “Although I’m not certain on what you tripped,” he muttered, looking around on the ground, which happened to be devoid of anything trippable.

Once again, I had the strong desire to see one of the lamps veer down and slam into his forehead.

He was still looking down around the hem of my skirts, as if to discover what nonexistent item I’d tripped over. “Oh,” he said. “Have you caught a shoe on your skirt? May I?” He made a move as if to bend and assist me in extricating the recalcitrant heel, then paused and straightened, as if realizing how improper that would be, fumbling around at the hem of my skirts and possibly seeing my ankles. Or worse—my legs.

Now his face was flushed.

“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself,” I said with sharpness meant to cover my mortification. I bent down to free my heel, taking care not to show anything more than a flash of ankle in that endeavor.

My shoe thus liberated, a section of my delicate crinoline in tatters and dragging on the floor, I once again curved my fingers around the wool sleeve of his forearm.

I’d never had occasion to dance with a young man before. Practicing the waltz with a Sure-Step Debonair Dance-Tutor and its creaking, mechanical pacing was hardly the same as waltzing with a tall, arrogant, ginger-haired, freckled Scot.

My palms were damp beneath my fingerless gloves, and my bare digits had turned to ice. My stomach fluttered as Grayling maneuvered us out onto the dance floor and turned me to face him. His movements were careful and deliberate, almost as if he wasn’t any more sure of himself than I was. Or, more likely, as if he were expecting me to somehow trip again.

He put his right hand lightly on my waist and collected my fingers in the left. His hand, despite its white glove, was warm around mine. This proximity affirmed that not only was he nearly a head taller than I, but that his shoulders were so broad I could hardly see around them. He was so solid. I drew in a deep breath, trying to steady my pulse. He smelled pleasant, like German cedar, lemon, and Mediterranean sandalwood, with an underlying scent of—mechanical grease? Of course. From the steamcycle.

My other hand had settled on his shoulder, my fingertips sensing the soft bristle of wool and the movement of shoulder muscle beneath them. My skirts swayed, rustling between us as he stepped into the rhythm of the waltz. It was more of a hitch than a confident step, and the second one was just as jerky and abrupt.

“Miss Holmes,” he murmured, his mouth just above my temple, “if you would allow me to lead, we might perhaps find ourselves waltzing a bit more gracefully.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” I forced myself to relax and allow him to dictate our movements.

Soon, to my astonishment, we were gliding about the dance floor in a sedate but smooth rhythm. If it weren’t for the full layers of my skirts, our legs might have brushed against each other. He was so close to me I could feel the warmth of his body, and I found myself having to gaze fixedly over his arm to keep from staring up at the smooth skin of his clean-shaven neck and chin. The sandalwood and lemon scents were likely from his shaving lotion. And we must have been moving more energetically than I realized, for I found it hard to catch my breath.

“I must apologize for putting you in such an awkward situation,” I blurted out.

Grayling pulled back a bit to look down at me and made a slight misstep that told me he wasn’t quite as accomplished a dancer as he seemed. I wasn’t sure why I felt a surge of gratification at that realization.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

I didn’t know what I meant either, and I felt ridiculous. My thoughts simply seemed to disintegrate when I tried to make conversation with a member of the opposite gender. I hoped I wouldn’t be required to interrogate many of them as part of my work for Her Royal Highness. Although I seemed to have no problem interrogating and conversing with Mr. Eckhert.

“I had no intention of dancing tonight,” I replied. “I have other reasons for being here.”

“As do I.” His voice took on that Scottish burr and its proximity sent little prickles over my temple. “But taking a turn around the dance floor is a convenient way to observe the room and get my bearings.”

“Indeed.” So it wasn’t that he had the desire to dance with me. He merely wanted an excuse to look around the room. My cheeks were hot again, and I felt the weight of my hair shifting as if one of my clockwork gears was coming loose. “I’m delighted I was able to be of assistance,” I added crisply.

“Miss Holmes, I—”

“You need say no more, Inspector Grayling. I presume you’ve observed enough that you might release me to my own devices? Do you perhaps know where I might find some cool refreshments?”

I felt him swallow hard, then he seemed to release a pent-up breath. “My apologies, Miss Holmes. I meant no insult. Perhaps—oow-mph.” He stifled a cry of surprise as my pointed copper heel landed on one of his toes.

The misstep was an accident, but I cannot say I regretted it.

Grayling looked down at me, his expression of exasperation mingled with apprehension and perhaps a bit of chagrin. “Very well, then,” he said. “You’ve made your—ah—point. Perhaps you’d prefer to get some lemonade on the Star Terrace instead of finishing this dance? I’m quite certain my toes, at least, will appreciate it,” he added not quite under his breath.

The Star Terrace?

My aggravation evaporated. “What time is it?”

“It’s ten of nine. Did you not hear the clock chime the quarter hour?”

“I must go.” I pulled away. “To—ah—attend to something.”

He frowned but didn’t release my hand. “Miss Holmes, I do hope you aren’t about to get involved in something you shouldn’t be.”

“I’m quite certain,” I said, pulling free of his fingers, “that you haven’t any idea with what I should and shouldn’t get involved. Good evening, Inspector Grayling.”

With one well-placed query to a handsome young waiter, I learned that the Star Terrace was on the same level as the ballroom, but on the east side of the building.

Just as the clock struck nine, I broached the terrace in question. It was aptly named, for natural stars glittered above in a wide swath, and there were few lights to distract from those celestial bodies. Small sparkling lights hung around the edges of the space, but the area was darker than the main terrace, where Evaline and I had made our arrival.

Miss Stoker had disappeared into the crush of people shortly after our conversation with Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. I didn’t have time to search for her, and even if I had, I would have done so only cursorily. She might have been pressed into service just as I had, but she was also more comfortable in these social gatherings than I. Aside from that, I preferred to work alone and saw no need to constantly point out information and data to someone who couldn’t see it herself.

I turned my attention from thoughts of Miss Stoker—who was probably chattering happily with some other young ladies, her dance card (unlike mine) filled with the names of partners for the evening—and observed the area. There was, as Grayling had suggested, a long table filled with libations at one end of the terrace. People stood nearby, talking, laughing, and drinking their lemonade-strawberry punch. Others strolled around the terrace. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to draw my attention.

Then I noticed a movement near the dark line of arborvitae and thick dwarf pines separating the stone terrace from the rest of the grounds. A well-hidden someone was standing there. As I watched, a young woman approached. She walked up to the figure, handed over something white and flat, then progressed past and into the shadows.

My heart began to pound, and excitement made my mouth go dry as I made my decision. I had the fake invitation. I was going to use it.

I pulled it from my reticule and made my way quickly across the stones. When I approached, I saw the figure was cloaked and hooded in dark fabric so as to obscure gender and any other identifying factors. I felt certain the individual wouldn’t be able to discern my features due to its enveloping cloak and the drassy light.

He or she held out a white-gloved hand, and I saw that the image of a scarab beetle had been inked on the palm.

I handed over my invitation and was gestured toward a narrow pass between two tall arborvitae. Drawing in a deep breath, I stepped through.