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

taken from bad investments, particularly in the Harter Engine Company. The family’s future was less secure than it had been a year ago—something a man wanting a large dowry would know.
    “You’ll find me generous enough to be agreeable, Miss Roth,” Smythe went on. “I’m sure you’re aware of how high you rank in my esteem. High enough to overlook obvious shortcomings.”
    “How lovely.” Her tone was flat. “I think it’s time that I rejoined my mother.”
    It was a rebuff, plain and simple, and Smythe’s face said he knew it. “Very good, Miss Roth.”
    “Good day, Captain Smythe.” She put all the disgust she felt into the words.
    He gave a bow that held a shred of mockery. “Enjoy the music.”
    Imogen turned without another word, walking away so briskly that her reticule banged against her leg. She refused to believe Smythe, but she couldn’t help remembering the stories about Bucky and Tobias carousing all over London not all that long ago. And just because her father thought Bucky too common didn’t mean other families were so particular. They’d want him courting their daughters because the Penners had money to spare.
    Imogen’s mouth went so dry she thought she might choke.
But half a dozen?
She’d made an assumption that she had an understanding with Bucky but, really, had they truly spoken about it? Bucky wouldn’t betray her, but was it betrayal if he’d never made a promise? What if Smythe was right, and she was just one of many?
    Jealousy made her stomach burn as if she had swallowed a live coal.
    * * *
    Bucky Penner mounted the steps to the front door, hearing conversation but no music. That meant that—for once—he wasn’t late. He’d just about reached the door when Smythe shot through it with the look of a man who’d taken a bite of bad fish. The captain drew up sharply when he saw Bucky.
    “What’s got your pistons in a jam?” Bucky asked.
    “It’s to be an Italian singer this afternoon,” Smythe drawled. “I am wearied to death ofItalian.” He jogged down the stairs and through the tall iron gates to the street.
    Curious, Bucky followed him and they fell into step, walking briskly toward the park that lay like a cool green blanket at the end of the road. Since Bucky wasn’t quite late yet, he could delay a minute or two to find out what had Smythe fuming. “You seemed fond enough of Italian the other night. Wasn’t the opera by Rossini and the diva your dinner guest?”
    “Trust me.” Smythe waved a hand brusquely. “A case of indigestion followed. But you did well enough with the understudy, I think.”
    Although the comment nettled him, Bucky smiled affably. “Well enough.”
    The girl had been homesick, and he’d not done more than listen to her ramble about the glories of Rome. He’d only been to Italy once, but he remembered enough to keep up a conversation with a lonely girl far from her native land. The next day he’d sent her a jewelry box with a painting of the Teatro Costanzi, the Roman opera house, painted on the lid. It had been a souvenir he’d bought and then modified with a tiny clockwork orchestra inside. Perhaps it was an extravagant gift for someone he’d just talked to, but it had seemed as if she needed cheering up.
    They had reached the corner, and Bucky resettled his hat to shade his eyes from the warm sun. The light glinted off the brass buttons of Smythe’s uniform, turning them to gold.
    “I saw the present you gave her,” Smythe said. “Your little Maria was showing it to half the theater district.”
    “I’m happy she liked it.”
    “You should be more careful, linking your name with women of that stripe, especially if you wish to court the fair Miss Roth—though perhaps I do myself a disservice by urging you to caution.” There was an unpleasant gloat hiding in Smythe’s tone, and Bucky’s instincts soundeda warning. He liked Smythe well enough as a boon companion and coconspirator in SPIE, but that didn’t extend to