London, September 30, 1889
DUQUESNE’S RESTAURANT

1:45 p.m. Monday

LORD BANCROFT EYEBALLED THE SCHOOLMASTER WITH UNEASE. Duquesne’s was a fashionable venue, and the young man clearly didn’t fit with the restaurant’s usual clientele. In fact, he looked like someone’s disreputable nephew about to beg for a loan. “Are you sure it is wise for you to be here?” Bancroft asked.

It wasn’t an unreasonable question. The man was, after all, one of those planning to upset the Empire’s entire political applecart.

The Schoolmaster slid into the chair on the other side of the small, round table. “Probably not. The maître d’hôtel looks like he’d prefer to toss me out.”

Already caught off guard, Bancroft relaxed beneath the disarming charm. “You could use a barber.”

“Spoken like an experienced father.”

Bancroft grimaced. “My son is very different from you. For one thing, you’re early. He’s always late.”

“Is he?”

Bancroft knew that the smile was a mask. The Schoolmaster was the linchpin of the Baskervilles—charismatic, ruthless, and with a brilliant mind for strategy. And his coat, though well brushed, had gone shiny at the cuffs. He obviously didn’t waste any of the rebels’ money on himself. He was utterly dedicated to overthrowing the Steam Council.

Tobias, on the other hand, had confined his youthful rebellion to the usual vices. Now he was the perfect employee, shaking in his boots lest Keating strike down one of the family—all the more galling because he’d done it to cover Bancroft’s mistakes. A good man, but where does that get anyone besides an early grave? Annoyed, Bancroft fidgeted in his chair and then stiffened when he saw Sherlock Holmes drift across the room.

“Are you joining us?” he asked Holmes when it became clear that was exactly what was about to happen.

“I invited him.” The Schoolmaster flashed an apologetic grin. “He promised to advise me on the menu.”

“I advised him against it altogether,” Holmes said dryly, “but he insisted on sampling la crème brûlée à la vanille for himself. Youth these days are fascinated by direct experience. None of this business of truth strained through the careful sieves of their advisors. Terribly gauche, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s unnecessary exposure,” Bancroft snapped.

The young man shrugged. “No one here would know me from one of the pot boys. All my friends are in the taverns.”

He was probably right. Although most had heard of the Schoolmaster, few had seen his face. Boxing up his temper, Bancroft waved toward the array of food on the table—mostly cheeses, cold meats, a lobster pâté, and warm bread. “Then help yourself. Would you like something more substantial? A roast chicken, perhaps? Or your crème brûlée?”

“No, thank you. This is more than enough.”

“Some wine?”

The Schoolmaster pulled off his green-tinted glasses, revealing intelligent blue eyes. There were lines around them that said he was a little older than Bancroft had first thought. Those blue eyes studied him shrewdly. “But you don’t drink.”

“No.” Not anymore, and it still cost him something to say it.

“Then I will just have coffee.”

“Holmes?” Bancroft eyed the man, who waved away the offer.

Relieved, Bancroft signaled the waiter. He’d sworn off alcohol, but he still craved it. In the meantime, the Schoolmaster helped himself, spreading a chunk of bread with a soft white cheese. Bancroft eyed him. His manners were good; whoever the Schoolmaster was, he’d been raised by gentry. “I confess that I expected Mycroft Holmes.”

“This is my brother’s favorite eatery,” Sherlock replied. “But on a Monday he won’t make his appearance until half past two precisely. He is a creature of strict habits.”

“And after all the support you’ve given our cause,” the Schoolmaster added, “I wish to thank you myself on behalf of the makers. Your generosity is most impressive.”

Despite his innate cynicism, Bancroft felt a surge of pleasure. “There is no need to thank someone for doing what is right.”

As Holmes gave a faint cough, the Schoolmaster cocked an eyebrow. “And yet people seem to like it.”

Bancroft chuckled. “I concede the point.” It was true, he’d given money to the rebel cause—sometimes more than he could afford. Patriotism played a role, but so did ambition. If the rebels overthrew the Steam Council, his political career would be made. He hoped generosity now would pay huge dividends later—and he didn’t care if bounders like Sherlock Holmes called such motives crass. A man had to provide for his future.

Still, there were obstacles. Bancroft shifted uneasily in his chair. “It grieves me to report that you have little to thank me for today. I’m not making much headway with our Chinese contacts.”

“Did they give a reason?” the Schoolmaster asked, pausing in his demolition of the lobster pâté.

“Not any that made sense to me.” It should have been an easy assignment. Like everyone else, the rebels needed fuel to run their armies, whether for engines, cookstoves, or weaponry. The steam barons had the monopoly on domestic sources, so the rebels were forced to buy from abroad. Since the Chinese traders had no ties to the Steam Council, they were an obvious choice—except Bancroft hadn’t been able to convince them to do business. “I haven’t given up yet.”

“Have you had dealings with them before?”

“A few. Or, I should say that an associate of mine did.” He shot a warning glance at Holmes, but the man was busying himself with the cheese.

“Who was that?” the Schoolmaster asked.

“Just an importer I once knew.” His name had been Harriman, Jasper Keating’s cousin. Together, they had stolen a wealth of treasure out from under Keating’s nose with the unwilling assistance of some Chinese goldsmiths.

“Fair enough.” The Schoolmaster finished the last of the bread and pushed his glasses back on, intense blue eyes vanishing under a murk of green. “But you feel hopeful enough to keep trying?”

Bancroft waived a dismissive hand. “I have nothing to lose by giving it another attempt.”

“Excellent. Please let Mr. Mycroft Holmes know how you get on.” With that, he rose, adding, “My lord, excuse my unforgivable manners. I apologize for having to leave so soon, but I have pressing matters to attend to.”

The detective rose as well, dusting crumbs of cheddar from his fingers.

Bancroft was startled by the abrupt departure, but he had been a diplomat. With a smooth smile, he rose and shook the Schoolmaster’s proffered hand. The young man had an understated air of command Bancroft admired. “I do have one question.”

The young man paused, his wide mouth curling into a slight smile. “Yes?”

“Did you ever teach school?”

“Ah, no.” The smile widened, and the Schoolmaster dropped his voice so that only Bancroft could hear. “I like to think of myself as giving the steam barons a lesson.”

“I like it.” Bancroft found himself returning that infectious smile. “I hope to give you a better report soon.”

“I am in your debt.” The Schoolmaster gave a slight bow. “Until later, then, my lord.”

Bancroft and Holmes exchanged an icy nod, and then the two men left Bancroft to his coffee. He sat, wondering how best to win the foreign traders to their side. Something in the young man’s manner made him want to succeed—and that was the mark of a true leader. So be it. Bancroft had worked for fools; he might as well serve someone who could at least inspire.

Bancroft spooned more sugar into his coffee and stirred, a frown settling over his entire being. The rebels needed coal, and they had money to pay for it, so what was the problem? If the Chinese refused to cooperate, there were a few others he could try, but the steam barons had influence over almost every European concern. There weren’t many avenues open unless he changed the game in his favor.

The waiter arrived, a dainty silver dish in one hand. An extravagant pastry perched in the middle of it, the flaky confection layered with dark chocolate and slivers of strawberry floating in custard cream. It looked delicious, but Bancroft was confused. “I didn’t order this.”

The waiter bowed. “No, my lord. It was sent with the compliments of another diner.”

Suspicion made him bristle. Had someone recognized the Schoolmaster? “Who?”

“That person has left, my lord. They did, however, ask me to deliver this note.” The waiter produced a small envelope and set it next to the dessert. He bowed again and departed.

Bancroft eyed the pastry and decided to leave it alone. He’d learned long ago not to accept sweets from strangers. Instead, he slid on his gloves—one never knew about poisons—and opened the plain white envelope. Inside was a simple card, stamped with the restaurant’s name in heavy black type. Whoever had sent the note must have asked the staff for the stationery. So why write instead of coming over to speak in person? There was no happy answer to that question.

Foreboding crept through him as he flipped open the card and read: I see you have your allegiance, just as we have ours. But your allies do not know you, whilst we do not forget.

What in the infernal depths? He flipped the card over. There was a Chinese character on the back, drawn in carefully shaded pencil to mimic the strokes of a brush. The shape of it looked vaguely familiar. He had no notion what the symbol meant, but a burst of irritation shot through him, followed quickly by an instinctive fear. With a sharp intake of breath, he dropped the note on the table. Then he glanced around, but no one appeared to be watching. Perhaps I am being irrational?

Or perhaps not. Every one of those Chinese craftsmen he and Harriman had hired to steal gold from the Gold King had been a loose end, walking evidence of the crime. Bancroft knew better than to ignore such danger. Consequently, the workers had wound up floating in pieces in the Thames. That had been the final task of the foreman, Han Zuiweng. Later, Bancroft had shot Han himself, for all the brutal bastard had been acting on orders.

He’d almost wiped the entire distasteful episode from his mind. And, in truth, he had no black-and-white reason to revisit it now—except for his own unease. How could approaching the Chinese to do business stir up the past? No one could have known about what happened. Or so he fervently hoped.

We do not forget. Disgusted, Bancroft tossed his napkin over the extravagant dessert and rose. Someone was playing games. Surely there could have been no witnesses, for it had all happened underground.

Still, Bancroft couldn’t suppress a shudder when it occurred to him that Harriman had died in his jail cell, convicted of theft and forgery. Others involved in the scheme had confessed or fled the country. Only Bancroft had walked away—and only because Tobias had agreed to be Jasper Keating’s maker and his son-in-law. Everyone else had paid.

Bancroft stared at the note, then snatched it up and stuffed it into his pocket before he stalked from the restaurant. We do not forget. He snorted. No one wrote cryptic notes like that unless they were minutes away from naming their blackmail price. He just wondered what the hell it would be.

HOLMES AND THE Schoolmaster left the restaurant and hurried toward the Thames.

“We need that coal,” said the Schoolmaster. The young man’s look was expressive, and Holmes felt his worry.

“We do,” he agreed, doing his best impression of a seasoned cabinet counselor. “I am willing to bet there will be open warfare within weeks. The potential hangs like a stink in the air.”

Especially since the heir to the Empire was critically ill. The crown prince is the last of all those children that the queen raised around her. What will happen when he is gone? And when would he be gone? How long did the Baskerville enterprise have before the heir’s death forced their hand?

Westminster was near, the crowd in the streets mostly dark suits milling in a self-important bustle. There was scaffolding shrouding the Clock Tower and apparently it would be there for some time. The damage from the mosquito-shaped airship had been significant.

Bloody waste, Holmes thought, although a tiny impertinent voice deep inside had to admit the visual of the bug in the clock had been amusing. Someone out there had a healthy if destructive sense of the absurd.

But any spark of humor evaporated as he saw his brother striding their way. Mycroft wore his bear-with-a-migraine expression.

“You are early,” Mycroft said to the Schoolmaster without looking at his watch. Since he was punctual to a fault, there was no need. “And I didn’t expect to see you.” He shot Sherlock a narrow look, as if wondering what mischief he meant to cause.

“I am precisely on time,” the Schoolmaster replied grimly. “I am where I mean to be at this moment.”

Mycroft frowned. “But I was going to Duquesne’s.”

“And I have already been. I spoke with Bancroft already.”

The effect of his words was immediate. Mycroft’s features flushed, his nostrils flaring as he grabbed the Schoolmaster’s elbow, pulling him into the passageway between two buildings. Sherlock darted between them, shoving his brother back against the wall. Mycroft was a big man, and he knew from experience that his brother’s fierce grip could hurt.

“Have a care, brother mine,” Sherlock said between clenched teeth as he jammed his forearm beneath his brother’s chin. “Remember to whom you speak.”

But Mycroft was looking right past him to glare at the Schoolmaster. “What do you mean by exposing yourself like that? Now Bancroft knows your face.”

The Schoolmaster’s cheekbones grew flushed as his temper flared to life. Sherlock had not met the man’s mother more than once or twice, but he recognized the stubborn set of the mouth. “I can’t let others do all my work. It’s not wise.”

In other words, he needed first-hand information, not just the facts that Mycroft and his cronies saw fit to share. If that was the only lesson he ever taught the Schoolmaster, Sherlock would have done his job as a friend.

“That’s why we’re here—I’m here,” Mycroft said much more humbly. “To keep you safe.”

Sherlock watched the Schoolmaster ruthlessly rein in his mood. “I’m the leader of a rebellion. Safe isn’t on the table.”

“And what did you just gain by taking that risk?”

“Probably a shred of respectability. Bancroft is a viscount, and Edmond Baskerville is the vaguely eccentric but charming adopted son of a minor baronet. I don’t usually lunch in such exalted company.”

Mycroft huffed in disgust. “Bancroft is a snake.”

Sherlock smiled, finally releasing his brother. Mycroft stepped back and snapped his jacket into place, his gaze trained on Sherlock like twin poignards.

“Snakes eat vermin.” The Schoolmaster pointed to the Clock Tower. “We have an infestation.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Does that make us a pack of stoats?”

The Schoolmaster grinned. “If I have to be the exterminator in chief, so be it.”

Mycroft clasped his hands behind his back, fighting with his scowl. “Just keep in mind Lord Bancroft has a penchant for disaster. He barely escaped Disconnection once. Got on Keating’s bad side.”

“He seems too crafty for that,” the Schoolmaster said.

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a look. “There are times that Bancroft is too clever for his own good,” said Mycroft. “Every utility was switched off. My informant said Bancroft had to do some impressive backpedaling.”

Disconnection was serious. Once that happened, a family was socially dead, plunged into metaphorical as well as literal darkness. Their bank accounts vanished, their credit was ruined. No school, no social club, and no drawing room would accept them. Eventually, they always disappeared, slinking away into obscurity. It was no wonder that anyone who could afford it festooned his house and gardens with every conceivable type of light. Although it was enormously expensive, a bright glow showed just how secure the family was in the steam barons’ favor.

“So you see what he risks,” Sherlock added. “The gentry who follow the rebels face utter ruin.”

“All the more reason to look him in the eye.” The Schoolmaster looked away. “When war finally comes, it won’t be just my fate in the balance. I need to know who is with me.”

Mycroft gave a mordant smile. “A good policy, and while you are about it, always be sure you can see both their hands. When are you leaving for Baskerville Hall?”

Holmes’s ears pricked up.

“Very soon.” The Schoolmaster sighed. “Very soon I get on a train and face my destiny. I might even splurge and go first class.”

“Who will go with you?” Mycroft asked. “As always, I must stay with the queen.”

“If you broke your routine, the world would know something was afoot,” Sherlock observed.

“And if you left Baker Street,” Mycroft shot back, “the world would suspect a crime.”

The Schoolmaster looked from one to the other. “I shall travel with Edgerton.”

Mycroft looked sour at Edgerton’s name but for once didn’t argue.

“Perhaps you should go alone,” Sherlock suggested. “Whether we win or lose, it might be the last time you are free to travel in private, your face known only to friends and family.

“But be careful. We need you alive more than ever.” Mycroft leaned closer, dropping his voice to almost nothing, “Your Highness.”

A beat passed between them, the noise of the busy street vanishing behind the thunder of blood in Sherlock’s ears. Mycroft had blundered.

“I told you not to call me that.” The Schoolmaster’s voice grew icy. “Schoolmaster. Baskerville. Never the title.”

Mycroft straightened, his own expression frozen. “I’m glad you retain some sense of your peril.”

The Schoolmaster laughed, but it wasn’t mirthful. “I’ve been in hiding since I wore nappies. I’ve met ice cream with a better chance at longevity.”

It sounded melodramatic, but Sherlock understood. Alert to the Steam Council’s schemes, Prince Albert had secretly placed his youngest son in the care of a loyal subject. It had been a piece of brilliant foresight. Since then, all the prince’s brothers and sisters had died one by one, and the eldest was about to go. Many suspected the hand of the steam barons at work, but there had been no shred of evidence to support such an incendiary accusation.

Now the country was on the brink of a civil war, and revealing Prince Edmond’s identity would plunge the Empire into chaos. Unfortunately, the rebels consisted of amateur gentlemen and a passel of crazy inventors—not exactly a dream army. It was a wonder the only remaining prince hadn’t run screaming to the Antipodes.

“Your Baskervilleness, perhaps?” Sherlock suggested.

At the quip, the Schoolmaster seemed to catch himself. He looked up at Mycroft. “Forgive my ill humor, but I haven’t earned the title of prince yet. Until the day I blast the Steam Council from the face of the Empire, I’m nothing but a traitor about to set fire to this land.”

Mycroft looked astonished, but Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you being rather harsh on yourself?”

The Schoolmaster smiled, but it was bitter. “You told me history is written by the winner, Mr. Holmes. If I want a happy ending, I’d better get my troops in order.”

“Any particular order?” Sherlock asked dryly. “Alphabetical, perhaps?”

Prince Edmond, falling into the spirit, waved an imperious hand. “You know. Pointing at London. Otherwise, they’ll fall in the water.”

“Very good, sir.” Sherlock tipped his hat, including Mycroft in his glance. “You may trust the Holmes brothers to see the proper arrangements are in place.”