The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) by Emma Jane Holloway Page A

the fact that Smythe had pointed it out made her feel like an old maid. “Yes,” she agreed. “All the quieter since Tobias is staying in London with his work.”
    “Then I look forward to calling on you.” He said it matter-of-factly. “It sounds as if you will need the excitement.”
    The presumption annoyed her. “Doesn’t the man usually ask permission to call before simply announcing that he means to do so?”
    He gave a white-toothed smile. “Usually, but I’ve never been refused.”
    Oh, really?
“Speaking of your old chums, what is Mr. Penner doing?” she asked in a careless tone, deliberately shifting the conversation away from the captain.
    Smythe gave her a narrowed-eyed look that said he’d caught her slight, but then managed a chuckle. “Is he my rival, then?”
    No, because you don’t stand a chance
. But she couldn’t say that, so toyed with her fan. “Imerely asked after his well-being, Captain Smythe. You read too much into a simple question.”
    Smythe didn’t look fooled. “If you must know, Bucky is up to his old tricks.”
    Imogen raised a brow. As a youth, Bucky had been famous for his inventive persecutions. He had—during schooldays at Eton—sewn a sleeping Tobias into his bedding. Another time, he had painted her kitten Snowball with bright yellow tiger stripes. He’d been thirteen at the time, Imogen just turned nine, and she still hadn’t quite forgiven him. “I trust that none of the neighborhood cats have changed color?”
    Smythe gave her a confused look. He must not have heard the story. “Um, no, nothing like that.”
    They had reached one end of the room, and the eddies of the crowd trapped them next to the tea table. A footman was wheeling in a cart with a large samovar, no doubt to replace the rogue teapot scalding the greenery. “What, then?” Imogen felt a slight, nervous twinge in her belly that she couldn’t explain.
    “Confess it. He is a favorite of yours, isn’t he?” There was a competitive glint in Smythe’s eye.
    She was certain Smythe didn’t love her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t jealous. Imogen’s skin prickled with a primal sense of danger. “I’ve known Mr. Penner for years. We are old friends.”
    A servant slipped to the front of the room to arrange the piano bench and music stands in readiness for the performance. In a moment or two, they would have to go sit down. Impatience made Imogen fidget. She wanted to be rid of Smythe, but curiosity nagged at her. “So what old trick is Mr. Penner reviving?”
    Smythe leaned close. “You know he prides himself on the fine toys he makes.”
    “Yes.” Imogen’s fingers tightened on the strings of her reticule, feeling the weight of Bucky’s gift. “And?”
    Smythe’s lips twitched. “He sent one to each of his lady loves. Half a dozen in all. I don’t think one of them knows of the others. Of course, he means to keep it that way.”
    Imogen froze. Then a sickening heat coursed through her, much like the light-headed rush before a swoon. She drew a deep breath, forcing air into a chest suddenly far too tight.
Surely he’s lying
. She knew Bucky, and he wasn’t the type to trick a girl. Dye her cat the color of a daffodil, yes. Break her heart, no. She cleared her throat. “Half a dozen?”
    “You know how agreeable Penner is. He never likes to disappoint, and he never promises anything directly to his lovers. That way, no one can say he deceives them.” Then his gaze slid down to Imogen’s bulging bag, which did not match her dress at all. It wasn’t the sort of detail most men would notice, but Smythe was particular when it came to wardrobe.
    Stiffening, she fell back a step. “Indeed, he is most agreeable, Captain Smythe. It is a fine quality in a gentleman.”
    “One not to be taken for granted, Miss Roth,” Smythe returned in a silky tone. “Especially when it has been such a distressing summer.”
    So he had heard the rumors about the blow her father’s fortunes had