Free The Clockwork Scarab by Colleen Gleason Page B

but she curtseyed and thanked Lord Cosgrove-Pitt for his kindness, then responded to his wife. “Yes, indeed, Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. Sherlock Holmes is my uncle.”
    “He is quite a clever man.” She looked up at her husband. “He assisted me with a little problem some years ago—you do remember, don’t you, dear?”
    “Something to do with the upstairs maid filching the silver?” He rubbed his chin.
    Lady Isabella patted his arm. “It was the downstairs maid, and Mr. Holmes proved she was innocent , as it turned out, of breaking one of the glass cases in the gallery.” She turned back to us. “I do hope you enjoy yourselves tonight. Please make certain you take a stroll through the art gallery while you are here.”
    As we thanked her, turning to make our way into the throngs of people, I felt a sudden awareness sing down my spine. Someone was watching me.
    I glanced around the party. Since we were still standing on the terrace, which connected the outside with the ballroom, we were several steps above the main floor. Through the dancing and visiting below, I could see quite well.
    A huge cluster of potted topiaries festooned with rich red roses mingled with some of the painted trees. My attention focused there on a trio of manservants, standing at the ready with trays and white towels over their arms. Even as they watched the partygoers, they talked and laughed together. They wore gold jackets with a rose on each lapel.
    As I stared at them, one in particular caught my eye. There was something familiar about him.
    That tingle up my spine grew cold.
    He reminded me an awful lot of Pix.

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