Apparently the London Alpha and his lady wife were calling that very evening. Missing silver was of serious concern in any household, but especially a supernatural one. Imogene cursed herself for bad timing.
Cook found the missing spoon later (where Imogene had stashed it in the breadbox). So, trouble didn’t come down on Imogene’s head. At least, not in the form of a silver teaspoon.
Oh, no, it came from a different source entirely.
* * *
Imogene’s shift had ended but they kept her on that evening despite her limp. All available hands were set to work; apparently these guests required a serious show of respect in quantity if not quality.
“It happens sometimes, dear.” The housekeeper patted Imogene’s head absently in an irritating manner.
Mrs Gladstone was a strict taskmistress but fair and kind at elusive moments – a mannish female, with a set mouth and crooked teeth. One wouldn’t have thought her the vampires’ type, except that she moved with such grace – her neck long and elegant, her hair pulled severely back to show cheekbones that could etch an aetherogram, and clear skin for all her advanced age. I suppose vampires are old enough to appreciate all kinds of beauty.
“I don’t mind, ma’am,” replied Imogene.
“You’re a good girl. It shouldn’t go too late. It’s the werewolves, you see? The hive likes to put best necks forward. And Lord Maccon has an eye for a pretty, dark-haired lass. So, the queen wants all the nicest specimens on display. Including you, she specifically said.” Mrs Gladstone was a true servant, not a drone, hired for her skill at household management with no expectations of trying for immortality. Nevertheless, she wholly embraced the whims of the supernatural set without question.
Madame Lefoux is pretty and dark-haired, Imogene thought. Will she be commanded to perform this evening too? Show off some invention or another?
It looked to be that way. Because while Imogene waited with Greta to act as receiving staff, she witnessed Madame Lefoux return from her laboratory.
Lord Ambrose accosted her in the hallway. “You’re late!”
“Plenty of time, Ambrose.”
“They’ll be here within the hour. You’re to give them proper regard. Full evening dress. Appear as you do now and they’ll think we torture you. You’re filthy, and your shirt sleeves are rolled! Are you mad, woman? Rolled shirt sleeves is taking artistic expression to an utterly unacceptable level. Not to mention the fact that you’ve lost weight again.”
The inventor looked cross. “I’ve been working.”
“Yes, yes. And you miss your son. Excuses, excuses. But there is no excuse for rolled sleeves! You think the muhjah will care for that? It’ll be all our fault. She likes you, for all she punished you with us.”
Madame Lefoux grinned. “Sometimes, I think she punished you with me.”
The vampire actually smiled, showing fang. “You and me both, woman. Quickly, now!”
“Well,” said Madame Lefoux to Lord Ambrose as they made their way upstairs. “I can reliably assure you that Alexia would never notice my sleeves.”
Lord Ambrose gave a dry, humorless smile, by which point they were out of eavesdropping range.
Imogene was fascinated. She was also deeply suspicious of the so-called muhjah. This Alexia person. What right had she to like Madame Lefoux? Or to not notice her sleeves?
“Stop listening at doorways, Imogene,” Greta hissed. “Help me with this tablecloth.”
Imogene went to assist. It hardly mattered, since Madame Lefoux was now upstairs in her room.
Imogene wondered where that was. Was it near the queen’s private quarters? Did she have her own chamber or did she share with another indenture? For some reason, it had never occurred to Imogene to wonder before now. She had, until this moment, conceived of Madame Lefoux as beginning and ending with the potting shed. In Imogene’s mind, the inventor sprang into existence just before Imogene entered the potting shed, and then out of existence when she left it.
But no. Madame Lefoux had a room somewhere up there.
With a bed in which she slept.
Imogene straightened the tablecloth with a yank and stopped herself forcibly from thinking in that direction. Except that she couldn’t stop.
For Madame Lefoux was there now, undressing and then redressing for supper.
Who would help her with that? Who was her lady’s maid? Did a woman who dressed as a man have a lady’s maid or did she have a valet? Imogene found the idea of a valet less troubling. That a man might be assisting the inventor into her waistcoat and cravat was fine, but a woman…
Why is that? Imogene shook her head, frustrated with herself. Because I want to do it was the obvious answer. As if I ranked lady’s maid… or valet, for that matter.
In no time at all, the guests arrived.
Given the general tizzy, Imogene might have expected the entire London Pack for supper. However, it was only the Alpha, his wife, and their Gamma.
The Gamma, as it turned out, was a familiar face. He was a big man, pale blond with icy blue eyes and the up-tilted arrogance of hidden secrets. He didn’t notice her. He wasn’t the type to notice staff.
Imogene kept her eyes down as she took coats and hats. Practicing the servant’s art of invisibility. Greta passed around a blood-and-claret aperitif for the werewolves and vampires. Lady Maccon took tea. Imogene watched the Alpha’s wife with increasing curiosity and no small measure of envy.
Countess Nadasdy did not join them. She would wait for a more formal arrangement. Lord Ambrose, being her praetoriani, stayed at her side. Thus the other two Woolsey vampires, Dr Caedes and the Duke of Hematol, entertained the guests, along with a few of the more long-standing drones. And Skoot.
The conversation was painfully polite, although the Alpha werewolf seemed to want none of it. He was grumpy and restless. His wife kept giving him exasperated looks.
Skoot was not impressed by the werewolves, or had no sense of self-preservation. During one very fraught moment, the tiny dog actually looked as if he would cock a leg over the Gamma’s boots.
The werewolf in question drew back his lips and actually growled at the dog. “I have eaten your kind for less.” At which Skoot finally registered the danger and went to cower in a corner. Imogene was too much on duty to offer him comfort.
“He’s not lying,” admitted Lady Maccon in a resigned tone, and then, “I didn’t know vampires liked dogs.”
Dr Caedes shrugged. “It’s the country. All country houses keep dogs. And that one was the prettiest.”
Such pleasantries disposed of, Lady Maccon asked, “Where is Madame Lefoux?”
Imogene tried not to look interested in the woman’s evident eagerness for the company of one skinny inventor.
The dog-eating Gamma, whose name, as it turned out, was Major Channing, rolled his eyes. Apparently, Madame Lefoux’s welcome to this party was somewhat fraught.
Dr Caedes summoned Imogene with a glance, since the butler had momentarily stepped away. “Go get the inventor.”
Imogene dropped a curtsy and trotted out, terrified and thrilled. Was his singling her out for this task some level of permission? Was he relaxing his stance on her helping with sums? And would she now get to see Madame Lefoux’s bedroom?
The butler was directly outside in the hallway, arranging some small nibbles to be brought in with more tea.
“Sir? They want Madame Lefoux. Should I get her or would you rather?”
“I’ve no time for that, and the footmen are occupied with the table arrangements. You go.”
“Which room, sir?”
“Madame Lefoux occupies the Crane and Chrysanthemum Room. Turn right at the top of the grand staircase, third door down on the left. Quickly, girl!”
Imogene limped off up the big stairs.
She knocked loudly and briskly, as she’d been instructed for the shed. It seemed a great deal more echoing and aggressive inside Woolsey Castle.
From behind the heavy door an aggrieved voice called for her to enter. Perhaps a mistake. Did I knock too loud?
Imogene wasn’t sure what to expect inside, but she liked it.
The inventor’s room was tidy (especially when compared to her laboratory) and decorated in a style wholly different from every other part of the house.
Woolsey Castle boasted eight flying buttresses – an architecturally immodest choice. Imogene had grown up with Woolsey as the foremost residence in the area, but had never once heard anyone refer to it as pretty. Even she, who cherished no little loyalty to the castle, was realistic about its appearance. In truth, Woolsey was no castle but instead a manor house made to look like a castle, with stone facings, an excessive number of haphazardly applied turrets, crenellated battlements, extensive dungeons, and the aforementioned immodest buttresses.
Being for most of its recent history the residence of a wolf pack, the interior had fared no better. Imogene had heard reports of a true bachelor existence – if said bachelors turned to raving, slavering beasts once a month. The vampires had taken possession only to find claw-marked hardwood, gnawed banisters, no carpets at all, and the occasional bleached spot on the floorboards – which no one wanted to investigate further.
The hive had done its damnedest over the intervening years. Being the world’s premier civilizing force (in a bite-your-neck-and-suck-your-blood kind of way), they insisted on plush rugs, beautiful paintings, and stunning statuary. They’d buffed, painted, and shined away all evidence of werewolf occupation. The walls were paneled in dark wood or rich jewel-toned wallpaper. The furniture was solid and mostly mahogany. The cushions and curtains were heavy velvet, and everything else brocade.
Imogene found it all lush, mildly oppressive, and highly uncomfortable. Not that she got to sit very much, but it certainly looked uncomfortable.
Madame Lefoux’s room was entirely different.
The walls had been papered in a pale green with bright birds and flowers of some exotic overseas style. The furniture was a light wood – easy to clean, how nice of her. The curtains were white and filmy, allowing for the extensive view of the grounds to be displayed to maximum advantage and giving the chamber the general feeling of cheerful airiness. Imogene imagined it might be a little like this on one of those famous airships.
Madame Lefoux was standing before a vanity, putting the finishing touches to her toilette.
No one was helping her dress.
No one, it seemed, was needed.
She looked wonderful. She’d done something to her dark hair to make it even more glossy. She wore a suit perfectly tailored to her figure, with no attempt to hide any femininity. True, she was slender, but Imogene still found that figure very finely curved indeed. Madame Lefoux’s trousers and frock coat were soft blue, and her waistcoat a black paisley over silver with touches of the same blue. She wore a black cravat that made her eyes appear enormous and her skin very white.
She turned to find Imogene gawping.
“Oh, good, Miss Hale.” She seemed to have recovered her cool aplomb. “This pin is quite fiddly, would you mind?”
Imogene didn’t mind in the least.
The inventor smelled mostly of vanilla with only the tiniest lingering hint of machine oil and coal smoke. Imogene tried to slow her excited breathing as she stood, so near, and concentrated on threading the pin through the inventor’s neck tie without damaging any of the fine silk. The pin was a simple silver filigree with one small blue center stone. Nevertheless, it looked expensive. Could inventors afford sapphires? Was this a gift from some former patron? Or lover?
“Careful, it is loaded.”
Which is when Imogene realized it was a dart emitter of some kind. Was the inventor expecting trouble this evening?
“What with?” Imogene asked, trying to sound timid.
“Numbing agent. Not effective in the long term on supernaturals, but works a treat for a good ten minutes or so.”
I thought she was friendly with the London Pack. Or is it the vampires she’s worried about? Imogene dared not ask. She didn’t want to push her luck, standing too close, breathing in the other woman’s scent. The last thing she wanted was the inventor leaping away from her again. I don’t think my pride could take it.
Imogene was pleased to find that her fingers shook only slightly, and Madame Lefoux didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, she attributed it to the danger inherent in a loaded cravat pin and not the inexplicable urge to stroke the neck underneath.
“Thank you, Miss Hale.” She had gone all stiff and reserved again.
Imogene drew away, crestfallen. “Dr Caedes says you’re wanted in the drawing room. Lady Maccon was asking after you.”
The inventor brightened. “Was she? Good. But I believe I shall make her wait a little longer. After all, she put me in this position – she can suffer the dubious company of Caedes and Hematol for a while longer. Let her stew.”
Imogene only nodded. “May I be of assistance with anything else?”
The inventor touched her cheek. “Thank you, choupinette, no.”
Was it wishful thinking or had her hand trembled a little? Perhaps she was thinking of Lady Maccon.
Imogene turned to leave.
“What really happened to your ankle?” The inventor’s tone was sharp, almost angry.
“Nothing, Madame, an accident.”
“Oh, indeed?” Madame Lefoux did not sound convinced.
Imogene turned back to her, fearful. “Please don’t concern yourself.”
The green eyes narrowed. “I do not have time this evening, but we will discuss this further.”
Imogene sighed and gave a little nod.
“Ridiculous British stiff-upper-lipping,” muttered the inventor.
Imogene gimped back downstairs in a fog. How could Madame Lefoux be so many things at once? Kind and encouraging, cool and polite, and then angry and concerned? Imogene didn’t know what to do or how to react. How can I flirt when she won’t stick to one mood longer than three seconds? Clearly, she’s affected by me, but what good if I cannot control the effect? Imogene’s needs were simple. She wanted the inventor to want her. Yet Madame Lefoux seemed bent upon every feeling but wanting.
* * *
The butler was still puttering outside the drawing room when Imogene returned.
“Well, is she coming?”
“Soon, I think.”
“She’s punishing the Maccons, I suppose.”
Imogene gave him a dignified look.
The butler acknowledged her silence as a respectful reprimand for his nosiness. “Quite right. Best not involve ourselves.”
Imogene reentered the room.
The atmosphere was tense and the request for Madame Lefoux’s presence seemed to have been forgotten.
Lord Maccon was standing and yelling at the Duke of Hematol about something political.
Lady Maccon was frowning furiously at her husband and instructing him to “Sit down, for goodness’ sake. No one is impressed with your ridiculous posturing.”
Dr Caedes was wringing his hands, or at least the vampire equivalent, which meant he was showing fang and drooling slightly.
Major Channing seemed to be finding the whole thing very funny indeed. He was leaning back in his chair with arms crossed over his chest and a supercilious expression.
“You’ve redecorated the room again, haven’t you?” Lady Maccon said to Dr Caedes, somewhat desperately.
“The countess enjoys new curtains every season.”
Lady Maccon raised her eyebrow. “What a novel affectation.”
Imogene took up position near the door, awaiting the tea trolley. She watched Lady Maccon intently. What was she to Madame Lefoux?
Lady Maccon was a substantial female. Everything about her was in excess – from bosom to nose to voice. And she was forthright about all of it, particularly the bosom. The combination was more than the drawing room
could easily contain (although it was a large drawing room). She was also sufficiently rich and titled to say what she thought without consequence. Imogene respected that well enough, envied it slightly, but she didn’t understand the basis of the appeal (aside from the bosom, of course).
Lord Maccon watched his wife (when he wasn’t glaring at the duke) with eyes that fair shone with affection. So, he clearly understood. Major Channing, on the other hand (or should that be: on the other paw?) seemed to find Lady Maccon barely tolerable. The two vampires regarded her with something akin to fear.
Imogene found that confusing. What had vampires to fear from a mere mortal? Even one as bossy as Lady Maccon? True, the bosoms were awe-inspiring, but it wasn’t like she could smother a vampire with them. Vampires didn’t breathe, did they?
When the door opened, Imogene assumed it would be the butler. But instead, Madame Lefoux entered the room.
“My dear Alexia!” she cried, sounding more than normally French. She swept across the floor to bow low, in a decidedly affected manner, and press an ardent kiss to Lady Maccon’s proffered hand. For one brief moment, Imogene caught a flash of green eyes glancing at her. Madame Lefoux, at least, was well aware of Imogene’s presence. She tried not to shiver from that quick look.
“Madame Lefoux, what a pleasure to see you at last.” Lady Maccon grinned.
They’re flirting! Imogene realized. Right there in front of two werewolves and two vampires, and a handful of servants. And her husband! Flirting shamelessly! This gave new weight to the bosoms.
“You look lovely this evening, Alexia. New dress? Did Biffy pick it out for you?”
“Of course. You know I cannot manage such things on my own.”
The inventor turned. “Lord Maccon, a pleasure.”
“Lefoux,” growled the Alpha. There was no real heat to it. He, at least, felt no concern for his wife’s virtue in the inventor’s presence. Foolish overconfidence, wondered Imogene, or does he know something I don’t?
“Was the train here a horrible bother?”
“Horrible,” agreed Lady Maccon. “No tea at all, and the pace quite frantic. I’m sure it can’t be good for the constitution.”
Romancing the Inventor: A Supernatural Society Novella Page 6
