The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) by Emma Jane Holloway

nodding to his acquaintances as they passed by.
    Horne Hill was the family’s country residence. “Yes. I look forward to getting out of the London bustle for a while.” That wasn’t quite true. Horne Hill was about as exciting as a mortuary, and she would miss Bucky. She could feel her reticule, heavy with the heart-shaped box, swinging as she walked.
    “How lucky for you that my regiment will be stationed nearby for the best part of the summer,” Smythe said with the irritating confidence of a man who knew he was good-looking.
    “Perhaps it is you who are in luck,” Imogen returned.
    His answering smile said he was
certain
she was the fortunate one. “I stand corrected.”
    Annoyed, Imogen bit her lip and then gave him the sweetest possible simper. “How fares the Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events?”
    Smythe gave her a sharp look. “How do you know about that?”
    “SPIE might be a secret society, but my brother is a founder and so are his three best friends. I would have to be terribly stupid not to figure it out.” Besides Tobias and Smythe, the other charter members were Bucky and Michael Edgerton. The society’s purpose was, as far as she could tell, to invent preposterous mechanical gadgetry and drink a great deal while doing so.
    “You must listen at keyholes.” He didn’t look particularly charmed.
    “Little sisters adore their brothers’ secrets.”
    He leaned close so that he could lower his voice. “It’s not one that we would care to share.”
    “I know that.”
    The Steam Council jealously guarded their monopoly on mechanical power, and didn’t take kindly to freelance inventors. Even the rich had trouble getting access to mechanical parts. That made SPIE’s activities more than a little daring—and it explained Smythe’s suddenly cautious air.
    “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