“And what’s it to you?” Mrs. Kent asked.
Cull was not fooled by her mild tone. “In recent weeks, Chester Squibb has tried to kill me twice. He is a nuisance that must be dealt with. Squibb makes his living robbing the houses he’s paid to sweep, and I want Doolittle to cut off his lifeblood. To ensure that no pawnbroker in London will take his goods. Squibb’s gang is based on greed, not loyalty. When the money stops coming in, his gang will disperse like a dandelion.”
“Diabolical.” Mrs. Kent turned her cup in its saucer. “Why not just kill Squibb and be done with it? An eye for an eye.”
“Because I do not wish to walk through streets littered with eyeballs and running with blood.”
Mrs. Kent’s lips formed a humorless curve. “A charming image.”
A boom suddenly shook the walls, sloshing coffee out of cups. Instinct propelled Cull to his feet. Kent was slower to rise and looked remarkably unconcerned.
He exchanged glances with his wife, who said with a sigh, “Whose turn is it?”
Kent chucked the Duchess of the Underworld beneath her chin. “I believe it is yours, sprite.”
“It figures,” she grumbled. She stood and said in a voice that carried, “Bartholomew Kent, get in here this instant!”
Footsteps sounded outside the room. A guard let in a boy who was around ten years old, handsome and sturdily built, with a shock of unruly hair that had come from his papa. Currently, tuffs were sticking straight up, ash streaked across his face. He flicked his gaze at Cull, registering the presence of a masked stranger, yet reining in his curiosity to deal with a more immediate peril. He’d inherited his shrewdness from his maternal side, no doubt.
With a confident smile, Bartholomew Kent said, “Hello, Mama and Papa. You called?”
“Don’t youMamame, young man,” Mrs. Kent returned. “What did we say about setting off Papa’s inventions?”
“That I’m not supposed to,” the boy said virtuously.
A wise rule, Cull thought, since Kent’s rock-blasting explosives had taken down mountains.
Mrs. Kent crossed her arms. “And what were you doing just now?”
“I didn’t set off Papa’s device,” Bartholomew said. “Ask Mr. Parkin.”
He pointed to the scholarly-looking fellow who stood trembling in the doorway.
“Come in, Mr. Parkin,” Mrs. Kent said imperiously. “Tell us who set off Harry’s device.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Parkin.” The boy’s tone matched his mama’s. “Tell them.”
Parkin edged inside, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, his eyes darting between mother and son. “It was…it was me, ma’am.”
Mrs. Kent’s brows pinched together. “Explain.”
“When I went in to give Master Bartholomew his lesson, I, er, accidentally triggered a system of levers and pulleys. We have been studying the physics of simple machines, you see,” the tutor said apologetically. “Anyway, the string on the doorknob was attached to a weight, which lowered onto the lever, which set a ball in motion, which hit a row of books lined up like dominoes, which toppled a lit candle—”
“I get the idea,” Mrs. Kent snapped.
Her husband’s lips quirked.
“It was an ingenious application of the lesson,” the tutor mumbled.
“And an even more ingenious attempt to evade the rules.” Scowling, Mrs. Kent turned to her son. “Nonetheless, Bart, youareultimately responsible for the device going off. Papa and I will be discussing your punishment. For now, go with your tutor”—she wagged her finger at him—“andno more shenanigans, do you hear me? Or you shall remain in the nursery with your younger siblings, and I shan’t let you accompany us to Nightingale’s again.”
“Yes, Mama,” Master Bart said with a beatific smile.
He strode out, the tutor scurrying after him.
Mrs. Kent sighed. “The boy takes after his namesake.”
“And his mama.” Kent grinned at her. “I seem to recall that you once rigged a similar system.”
