Free The Clockwork Scarab by Colleen Gleason Page A

Sneaking into Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s study would at least bring some intrigue into what was sure to be a boring evening.
    “I think it might be prudent,” said Miss Holmes, “for your invitation to be marked up as well. One must be prepared for any eventuality.”
    “One must,” I said, keeping my sarcasm to a minimum, “but I’m sorry to say that I don’t happen to have in my possession any specialty indigo ink from Mr. Inkwell’s—” I stopped when I saw the look on her face. “Right. Of course.”
    She produced a writing instrument that was, presumably, already loaded with the special indigo ink. I handed over my invitation without another word, and to my relief, she didn’t make any further comment or show any sign of smugness.
    The carriage jolted forward again, then stopped. Miss Holmes used the little fan-like wings of her dragonfly pin todry the ink and then handed me my invitation. We lapsed into silence until our door was opened and a white-gloved coachman helped each of us down. The sun had set and any natural illumination was only a glimpse of moon from behind wispy gray clouds and a faulty swath of stars arcing over the dark sky.
    The mansion, which was one of the few in the city that boasted large, gated grounds, loomed above us. A flight of steps led up to a well-lit entrance on a side of the building rather than the door facing the drive. A smooth mechanical ramp ascended so ladies in their cumbersome skirts and high-heeled shoes wouldn’t wear themselves out from the climb. Some fashionable skirts were so narrow, with their high bustle over the rear, that the wearer could only take small, mincing steps. At least Mina had had the wherewithal to don a gown with petticoats that allowed for some movement, despite their weight and layers.
    Medievaler that I am, I disdained the ramp in favor of the stairs and found myself waiting for Miss Holmes as she rode up the mechanized trolley.
    A series of panels and doors had been removed from the building, leaving an entire wall of the foyer open to the night air, with no boundary between terrace and interior. The dull roar of people talking and laughing mingled with the music from a small orchestra, spilling into the outdoors. Even from where I stood, I could see glittering gold streamers and bunting, and hundreds of bloodred roses in vases, clustered ontrellises and attached to potted trees. Someone had cut many large leafless branches, painted them dark red, and arranged them like trees. A number of self-propelled, copper-winged lanterns flitted about like hand-size fireflies.
    “It’s beautiful,” Miss Holmes murmured. “Like a gilded English rose garden.”
    I couldn’t disagree, but how often did they have to replace the gears in those silly flying lights anyway? “They’ll want to announce us,” I said. She grimaced, but stepped up with me to hand our calling cards to the butler.
    “She pronounces her name Evah- line , not Evah-leen,” Miss Holmes informed the butler as she pointed to my card. I rolled my eyes. I didn’t care.
    “Miss Evaline Stoker and Miss Mina Holmes,” the butler intoned.
    The place was an absolute crush, with people hardly able to move about the room. Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt stood just inside the entrance to greet each guest, and we dutifully approached.
    Lord Cosgrove-Pitt, who was older and grayer than his pretty dark-haired wife, was stately and a bit portly. He took my hand and bowed, but it was my companion who attracted his attention. “Sir Mycroft’s daughter?” he boomed over the noise. “Mr. Holmes’s niece? How can it be that we’ve never met? Bella, surely you’ve invited Miss Holmes to our parties, haven’t you? Important young lady, you know.”
    “Why, Miss Holmes,” said his wife, taking my companion’s hand in her gloved ones. “I am so pleased to meet you, and I apologize for never having done so in the past. Mr. Holmes’s niece, you say?”
    My companion’s nose had gone dull red,