“Really, Mother! He is a veritable hobbledehoy. Don’t be silly.”
“Oh, thank you for that,” muttered Pillover, utterly dejected. Which fortunately made him seem less threatening.
Sophronia said smoothly, “My school has trained me to recognize when a young man offers no risk. He is my dearest friend’s younger brother. I asked him to see me ’round the garden. I was feeling most unwell after that cart ride, and the rain has abated somewhat.”
“Don’t you dare talk back, young lady!” Mrs. Temminnick looked at Pillover with new eyes. He did seem as if he could barely muster enough energy to hold his own head up, let alone menace her daughter. It obviously took great effort for him to speak to, let alone kiss, a lady. There was clearly no threat to her daughter’s reputation, aside from the fact that they had been caught alone together. Mrs. Temminnick checked to see if anyone else had noticed. No one had. Still, the value of having her youngest daughter trussed up at only sixteen?
Sophronia perfectly followed her mother’s thought process. “Mumsy, the ball is to start soon; everyone must be looking for you. If you leave quickly, Pill and I will return separately, with no one the wiser.”
Mrs. Temminnick wasn’t going to let them get away that easily. “I will be looking into the Plumleigh-Teignmott family. If Mr. Temminnick thinks them suitable, we will arrange the match. I know what is happening here, daughter, even if you are both too young. I demand an understanding. Do you understand, Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott?”
Pillover shrugged, which was his response to everything.
Sophronia blinked. “If you insist.” There was no point in arguing further at the moment.
Shortly thereafter, Sophronia slid back into the dressing room full of primping ladies. No one had noticed her absence.
“Well?” hissed Dimity. “How’d it go?”
“You were right, Sidheag had a message for me. Although I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the information.” She quickly relayed the bulk of Pillover’s communications.
Dimity was suitably appalled. “Treason and murder? Lord Maccon’s abandonment is totally understandable, of course. To conspire against the queen is to conspire against the Alpha.”
Sophronia nodded. It was the stitching that kept the fabric of an integrated society together. Supernatural leaders, in their way, were Queen Victoria’s strong arm. To betray her was to betray them. Sidheag was the one who’d taught them that very fact. “Anything else, dare I ask?”
“Yes, unfortunately, I seem to have gotten myself secretly engaged to your brother.”
Dimity raised her eyebrows. “Oh, dear. Although I should like to have you for a sister-in-law, of course.”
Sophronia glared at her.
“Well, yes, Pillover is perfectly ghastly. But does that really matter? He’d make an amenable husband. You could do whatever you liked, take any patron you wanted. Secretly run the empire as Her Majesty’s Mistress Intelligencer and he’d never notice. So long as you kept him well supplied with bacon and books.”
Sophronia smiled. “I suppose we could play with it for a while. But I will have to find a nice way to jilt him, eventually.”
Dimity sighed and twirled her mask. “Of course you will. But it will be fun to torture Pillover in the interim.”
Sophronia’s smile turned into a grin. “Not to mention Felix Mersey.”
Dimity’s eyes sparkled. “My, yes!”
So it was that Sophronia attended her brother’s engagement masquerade secretly engaged herself. Mrs. Temminnick insisted Pillover be Sophronia’s escort and take the first dance. A very surprised Lord Mersey was forced to lead in Dimity. Thus paired, they undertook the opening quadrille with great discomfort on the part of everyone, except perhaps Sophronia, who was starting to view it all as a joke. She flirted shamelessly with Pillover, who told her to stop it in tones of such abject misery she almost pitied him.
The ball was certainly up to snuff. Sophronia felt proudly that it was good enough to impress even a man of Felix’s standing. Preshea would have found flaws, but it was a vast improvement on last year’s ball. The masquerade dresses were divine. The masks were varied, and Ephraim looked ridiculously happy dancing with his fluff of a bride-to-be. She was a pretty, jolly sort. It was impossible to determine her costume, with so many layers of white and pink. Sophronia settled on cupcake.
She recognized most everyone in attendance, even with masks. After all, the society afforded by the local gentry was not varied. There were a few unknown young ladies, friends of the bride, and a gaggle of older folk of a similar jolly roundness that suggested familial relations. Behind them stood a tall young man who held himself beautifully, if a little stiffly, wearing a full mask of black velvet and a wig of a style popular some hundred years ago among the French nobility. His costume matched the wig, complete with velvet coat and satin breeches of dark silver, and waistcoat and gloves of bloodred. He reminded Sophronia of her vampire friend, Lord Akeldama. Had the vampire sent her a message via drone? The young man did seem intent on watching her movements. This when there were a number of young ladies without partners who might benefit from his attentions.
In and around the glittering throng, the extra mechanical staff trundled, bearing trays of enticing nibbles. The mechanicals were also dressed for the occasion. These were not the faceless utilitarian creatures of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, but proper household issue, with shiny—if impassive—metal faces. They blended nicely with all the masks. Dimity could be seen posing with one or another as they passed, for her costume was much admired. The mechanicals all wore small black evening cravats or crisp white aprons. Their protocols were simple and they moved smoothly from crowd to dumbwaiter and back, engaged in a dance of their own.
Felix demanded an explanation the moment they began to waltz. He was dressed as a particularly handsome jester, his mask so small as to be a mere nod to the theme. Sophronia contemplated playing coquette but decided that would be cruel. Felix seemed genuinely enamored, and she didn’t want to hurt him. So she explained that Pillover had needed to deliver a message from a friend and that they had been caught in the garden together.
Felix found the whole thing amusing. “Would you like to walk out into the gardens with me, Ria, my heart? I could arrange to get us caught.”
Sophronia twinkled up at him. Her heart fluttered at the idea of a nighttime stroll with such a handsome boy. I could practice some other bits of seduction class. “Oh, now, my dear lord, I think that might be jumping from toast fork into fire. You are far more dangerous a proposition for me, and far more desirable a prospect to my mother. I should think you would wish to be more discreet.”
“For you, my Ria, I would sacrifice my reputation.”
“Now, now, Lord Mersey, you are perfectly aware that you would be sacrificing mine.”
He whirled her into an elaborate twist. He danced divinely, his frame always a little too intimate but not enough to shock the chaperones. The hand at her back was warm and supportive; the one clutching hers to lead was direct and assertive. He looked into her eyes in a melting manner, but only long enough to let her know he was interested and not so long as to lose track of the others around them. He could have been a dance instructor had he not been born the son of a duke.
A duke who would see all vampires and werewolves dead. Sophronia tore herself away from his blue eyes to find she was the object of envious glances from nearly every young lady there.
“Felix, my dear, do me a favor after this dance?”
“Anything for you,” he said, rather unguardedly. Then quickly, “You aren’t going to leave me to finish the set alone, are you?” There was real fear in his voice; twice Sophronia had abandoned him in the middle of a dance.
“Not tonight, I hope. No one I know has been kidnapped, and the prototype is beyond my control.”
Felix tilted his head. “Indeed it is, as it should be. It was the Picklemen’s by right. Ours by right. Not something for you to worry that pretty
head about.”
Sophronia wanted to argue that point, but midwaltz was not the time; besides, she liked it when Felix underestimated her. More room to maneuver. “Mmmm. No, I was going to ask… My sister Petunia is there, the one dressed as the fluffy shepherdess? Dance with her next, would you? Otherwise she’ll never forgive me.”
Felix looked over, winced a tiny bit, then said gallantly, “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”
“Oh, thank you.” Sophronia nearly slipped up and applied another longing glance at that juncture, she was so grateful.
Felix noticed and leaned in. “Careful, my sweet, we are in a public place. All eyes are upon us. And you are affianced to another.”
That made her smile again.
The dance was nearly finished when the tall, stiff young man dressed as a vintage dandy appeared at Felix’s elbow.
“If I may?” he said, insinuating himself between them like oil into a mechanical and dexterously depriving Felix of Sophronia.
Sophronia had never been removed from a dance partner before, although she had been trained for it. Felix certainly had never had anyone dare to cut in on him! At a loss, he bowed out politely. He was angry, though. There was a good chance that he, like Sophronia, was thinking of Lord Akeldama when he saw this man’s costume. And Felix did not like vampires.
The dandy guided her, clumsily it must be admitted, through the final refrain of the waltz. He relaxed noticeably at the end and whisked her to the punch bowl, taking proprietary control of her dance card so that she could not find her next partner. As it happened, she had no partner. She was, after all, not out, and could really only dance with her escort or her brothers.
Sophronia glared at him, waiting for some kind of sign.
“You’re awfully friendly with that young man,” said a horribly familiar voice from behind the velvet mask.
“Soap!” hissed Sophronia, backing them both away from the punch and into a corner behind a potted plant. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Swilling punch with the aristocracy. Keeping an eye on you.”
“I can take care of myself!”
“Not from what I hear. Rumor around the floor is that you got yourself engaged!”
“Oh ho, trust you to be in on the gossip.”
“The ladies like me, what can I say? What do you have to say for yourself?” He was glaring at Felix, who held court across the crowded ballroom and raised his glass at them in a challenging, cocky way.
Soap inclined his head.
Sophronia could almost feel the sharpness of Felix’s glare.
Sophronia was convinced these two shouldn’t encounter each other when Soap was pretending to be a gentleman. Dueling might result.
“Silly Soap, it’s not to Felix. Mumsy has decided to engage me to Pillover.”
“What?” That took the coal out of Soap’s boiler.
“Misunderstanding.”
“I should hope so. He’s a child.”
“Sadly, he doesn’t look like it anymore.”
Soap stopped staring angrily at Felix and turned to follow Pillover’s slouched form as he led an excited lady through a reel in a competent—if desultory—manner. The young woman clearly thought he was the most wonderful thing.
“Oh, dear,” said Soap.
“Who knew Pillover would turn into a lady-killer?”
“Who indeed?” Soap could do a fair imitation of an upper-crust accent when he put his mind to it.
If Sophronia hadn’t been so annoyed with him for putting himself in danger, she might have said something complimentary on this subject. “I think it’s the general air of bleakness and dyspepsia; women want to save him and administer good cheer.”
“Poor old Pillover.”
As if knowing he was the object of their discussion, Pillover spotted them lurking behind the palm and, with an air of desperation, began to bend his set in their direction. Felix extracted himself from a flock of eager young ladies and desperate mamas and circled in on their location as well.
Sophronia panicked. “Soap, you have to get out of here! You haven’t been invited. What if someone finds out who you are? I’m sure there’s a law against it. You could be cashiered or whatever it is they do upon encountering unsanctioned mixing of the classes.”
“I thought my accent was rather good!”
“Soap, and I don’t mean to be rude, but you do know you are of African descent, don’t you? What if your mask slips?”
Soap shrugged. “I like your costume, miss. You look a treat, almost like you was one of us down below.”
“You’re impossible! Why, I… Wait a moment. You were Roger’s friend, on the box! How did I not know it was you?”
“I bundled completely up and I slouched so you wouldn’t recognize my posture. And I stayed quiet so you wouldn’t know my voice.”
“How did you persuade Roger to go along?”
Soap grinned. “You think I don’t have just as many tricks as you, for all your education?”
That was fair; he had taught Sophronia a whole mess of dirty fighting techniques.
“Who are you? You upstart poodle faker!” demanded Felix, interposing himself between Soap and Sophronia in an overbearing white knight way.
Sophronia was instantly annoyed. Felix should know she was perfectly capable of dealing with things!
“That is none of your concern,” replied Soap, sounding even more the toff, his speech patterns influenced by Felix’s upper-crust accent.
“Oh, now, if you are focusing in on my lady here, I should make it my concern.”
“Ho there!” said Sophronia, in a low hiss, attempting to get both young men to lower their voices and not cause a scene. “I’m no one’s lady, thank you kindly. Despite what my mother thinks.”
The boys ignored her, squaring off rather like two hounds after the same smelly old carcass.
“Oh, really,” said Sophronia, annoyed at being ignored. “I’m not really important in this situation, am I? You two simply wish to bicker.”
This was probably unfair to Felix, who didn’t recognize Soap. Where did Soap get such an outlandish outfit? Felix would consider a sootie so far beneath him as to be unworthy as a rival, if he knew.
Soap, on the other hand, had taken an active dislike to the young viscount the moment Felix entered Sophronia’s life.
Things might have gotten quite out of hand, except that Pillover pulled up, panting. “Oh, Sophronia, thank goodness. Save me? Please? All those young girls, in pastels, talking about the weather. I shall go jump off a bridge, I swear I shall. Do you have bridges in Wiltshire? They chatter, they chatter worse than Dimity ever did. Oh, the chattering! The chattering, it haunts me.”
That broke the tension.
Felix looked at Pillover as if he were some yappy dog.
Soap chuckled.
“Well,” said Pillover truculently, “if we’re secretly engaged, she’s obliged to save me.”
Sophronia did not want to leave Soap and Felix together. “Oh, Pill, I really would like to help, but we seem to be in the middle of some kind of whose-top-hat-is-the-biggest contest.”
Pillover looked between the two young men in question. “Well, I don’t know who you are, sir,” he addressed Soap, “although I respect the courage of a man who wears satin breeches that tight, but in the end you’ll have to cede to Lord Mersey. He’s too much of a peer, you understand? And a bit of a prick as well.”
“Pillover!” gasped Sophronia.
“Well, he is. Girls never see it, but it’s true. All I’m saying is, he’s going to win no matter what you do, stranger. So you might as well give up.”
Felix looked as if he had been given some kind of caped weasel—part gift, part insult, part utter confusion. “Thank you, I think.”
Pillover glared at him. “Pistons! Trouble, the lot of you. Now that’s settled, you’ll save me, Sophronia?”
“Pill, I don’t think you’ve solved the problem.”
“Peopl
e tell me that all the time.” He turned about. “Oh, belter, here they come!” A gaggle of pastel puffs mixed with wings and very pretty flowered masks headed purposefully in his direction. Though, to be fair, they might also be after Lord Mersey.
Sophronia followed Pillover’s gaze, only to have her attention caught by a hubbub at the door to the ballroom. Within a very brief space of time, it escalated into a loudly voiced argument of the type that ought never be conducted in public, not even between tradesmen. It had everyone’s attention. Even Felix and Soap left off their animosity to focus on the astounding breach in social etiquette.
Frowbritcher and a human footman were barring the door against some highly excitable interlopers.
“How thrilling, I do believe someone is trying to infiltrate our party,” Sophronia said. “I had no idea an invitation was so desirable. Mumsy will be pleased. We have arrived in society at last.” She realized that might sound like bragging. “Or there is nothing on at the theater this evening.”
Then she caught sight of one intruder. The lady wore no mask and displayed no extravagance of fancy dress. She wasn’t trying to attend the ball; she was trying to get inside for some other reason. She turned to face the crowd.
“Good gracious me, Lady Kingair!” said Felix.
“Sidheag!” said Sophronia at the same time.
Standing to either side of Sidheag, visible only when the ebb of the throng allowed for it, were two huge wolves. One of them had a top hat tied to his head. The other was bigger and shaggier. And hatless.
“Captain Niall?” squeaked Sophronia.
“And a strange werewolf,” added Soap.
Felix looked alarmed. “Werewolves? Unknown, uninvited werewolves? Here? How revolting.”
“You do know the by-invitation-only thing is just vampires, don’t you?” said Pillover, under his breath.
Sophronia wasn’t certain if her mother would take the presence of an underdressed Scottish aristocrat and two beast-form werewolves as an honor or a horror. So she stepped forward. She had better make certain it was thought an honor or they’d all be in trouble. “If you’ll pardon me, gentlemen, I believe I have a situation to rectify.”
Waistcoats & Weaponry Page 9
