The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

I lifted my chin in determination. I was a Holmes. Observation, deduction, and duty to the Crown were my life. I would brave even a Society event to fulfill my destiny, though I hoped I'd remain beneath the notice of the eligible young men who were in attendance. I had no interest in attempting to converse with any of them.

Or-worse-to realize that none of them had the least bit of interest in conversing with me.

Chin still firmly in the air, I made my way along the perimeter of the room, skirting past topiaries and innumerable roses. I considered the situation as I brushed past an urn containing man-size red branches. The beetle marking on the invitation could be a form of identification or perhaps a call to action, such as to a meeting, which would confirm my suspicion that the nine had to do with some event at nine o'clock. An event that had to do with stars. And one thing had become clear: several young women were connected by Sekhmet's scarab, which implied some sort of association-or at least a communication system.

If they didn't know each other, the scarab must identify another member of the group. If they did know each other, then that would make it all the more difficult for me to masquerade as the recipient of a scarab message. The fact that I had the invitation with the beetle symbol on it was definitely a point in favor of attempting the risky proposition.

Something Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had said echoed in my mind. Please make certain you take a stroll through the art gallery while you are here.

An art gallery could include many forms of art and possible topics of conversation. Including that of Egyptology and Egyptian antiquities. Aside from that, looking for the gallery might also help me with the other part of my plan: to find the guest list for this event in Lady Cosgrove-Pitt's study.

Exhilarated by these possibilities, I turned to the interior of the house. My skirt caught on my tall, skinny copper heel, and I felt the fabric of my crinoline tear beneath it. Even worse, in my haste, I bumped into one of the pots holding a tree-branch arrangement.

The urn wobbled, tipped, and then the whole cluster began to fall. I lurched at the branches and tried to catch them, my skirt still caught on my heel, and somehow managed to rescue the whole pot before it crashed to the floor.

Well, almost all of it.

One of the branches escaped my grip and fell into another set of false trees, throwing them off balance in their own vase. I grabbed them before they tipped over and spent the next few moments breathing heavily, rearranging the blasted things, and hoping no one had noticed my near disaster.

But when I turned away from them, ready to make my escape and to continue on my mission, I found myself face- to-face with Inspector Grayling.

"Are you quite finished, Miss Holmes?"

I wasn't certain whether to be mortified that he had witnessed my mishap or vexed that he'd stood by and watched me struggle without bothering to offer assistance. My face, which was hot and damp, was probably crimson-a fact which I tried not to think about, but couldn't dismiss, causing my cheeks to grow even hotter.

Since I had no good response to his query, I responded with one of my own. "What are you doing here?" I lifted my nose and tried not to be annoyed by how tall he was.

"I'm here in an official capacity," he said, lifting his nose.

"As am I," was my rejoinder. I was trying to inconspicuously extricate my slender copper heel from where it was still embedded in the lace trim of my underskirt.

"Is everything quite all right, Miss Holmes?" he asked, looking in bemusement at my skirts, which were moving due to my foot's contortions. I wished earnestly for one of the flying firefly lanterns to crash into his arrogant, too-tall head.

But before I could reply, a sunny voice from behind interrupted us. "Why, Miss Holmes! I see you've met our dear Ambrose."

I turned to see Lady Cosgrove-Pitt bearing down on us. Her pale gray eyes lit with enthusiasm, and she looked from Grayling to me and back again. Perhaps she read our tension, for she said, "Brose, darling, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes's niece. It would be nice for you to get to know her a bit, since you might cross paths with him in your line of work. Miss Mina Holmes, please meet my husband's cousin's nephew by marriage, Inspector Ambrose Grayling. Perhaps the two of you would like to get better acquainted during this waltz?"

"Oh, no, I don't think-"

"Miss Holmes, would you do me the honor?" he interrupted, and offered his arm. His cheeks had gone a bit dusky beneath their freckles.

My face was hotter than ever. It was approaching nine o'clock, and I had other things to do. I didn't even want to dance with him, and I certainly didn't want to dance with a man who was forced into partnering me.

But words failed me, and before I knew it, I'd placed my fingers on his arm. It was warm and steady, and very sturdy. I took one step before I discovered my heel was still caught up in my crinoline.

I managed a muffled "Drat!" before the underskirt pulled my shoe off rhythm and I lost my balance. I released Grayling's arm, but not before I jolted into him.

He'd stopped after that one step and looked down at me. "Miss Holmes, is everything quite all right?" The bemusement was gone, and now he wore an expression of wariness.

That was when I noticed the dark mark on his square chin. A small cut from shaving. How could I have missed it? And then it occurred to me with a cold shock that I'd been standing next to him for several minutes and had forgotten to be observant.

"Erm," I managed to say. My head was pounding from the heat on my face and my thoughts had scattered. "Yes, I just . . . I tripped and-"

"Yes, I can see that," he said. "Although I'm not certain on what you tripped," he muttered, looking around on the ground, which happened to be devoid of anything trippable.

Once again, I had the strong desire to see one of the lamps veer down and slam into his forehead.

He was still looking down around the hem of my skirts, as if to discover what nonexistent item I'd tripped over. "Oh," he said. "Have you caught a shoe on your skirt? May I?" He made a move as if to bend and assist me in extricating the recalcitrant heel, then paused and straightened, as if realizing how improper that would be, fumbling around at the hem of my skirts and possibly seeing my ankles. Or worse-my legs.

Now his face was flushed.

"I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself," I said with sharpness meant to cover my mortification. I bent down to free my heel, taking care not to show anything more than a flash of ankle in that endeavor.

My shoe thus liberated, a section of my delicate crinoline in tatters and dragging on the floor, I once again curved my fingers around the wool sleeve of his forearm.