Curtsies & Conspiracies fs-2

by Gail Carriger

  Lady Linette interrupted, “Weather is only safe with a male vampire. Never discuss the weather with a queen. Since she can not leave her hive house, this is considered a rude reminder of her loss of freedom. Lord Mersey, how would a vampire respond?”

  “Rain, in your glorious presence, Miss Temminnick? I hardly think it should dare.”

  Lady Linette interjected. “No, no, too much flattery. Only roves would be so aggressive. Miss Temminnick, a rebuttal, if you would?”

  Sophronia said, “And how are you enjoying your sojourn on board our ship?”

  Lady Linette said, “Nicely played, except, of course, no vampire except Professor Braithwope floats. We are pretending that Lord Mersey is a hive-bound vampire. Let us say, instead, that you are both visiting Vauxhall Gardens of an evening.”

  Felix’s eyes twinkled at her. “I’m finding myself quite enchanted with… gardens, at the moment.”

  Sophronia persisted. “Have you ever visited Vauxhall before?”

  “Indeed, but I find this a whole new kind of garden experience, now that I have met you.”

  Sophronia stepped away from the impossible boy with a glare. “Lady Linette, Lord Mersey is not speaking by the rules. Either for vampires or regular gentlemen.”

  “Well, Miss Temminnick, you are using only standard niceties. Examine your subject and tailor your remarks to his taste.”

  Given permission, Sophronia took in Felix Golborne, Viscount Mersey, from head to toe. “The mark is of average height and slender build. He is a man of means, but not overly interested in fashion. His hair is a little long. The mark has a slightly sullen expression denoting chronic ennui. Peculiarities include kohl about the eyes, fake gears sewn to the waistcoat, and a top hat with a brass ribbon.” She pointed to the hat where it sat atop an articulated bronze hat rack. “In short, an average hive-bound toff with a few eccentricities.”

  Felix looked remarkably nonplussed under this string of observations. “You wound me.”

  Lady Linette was delighted. “Note, however, the expense of the haircut? It takes a great deal of money to acquire a look of not having spent any at all. The precise fit and cut of the waistcoat? That is next season’s color. We have here a vampire of more than considerable means. He probably has not only hive backing but his own as well. His eccentricities might lead you to direct the conversation accordingly. Kohl is sourced where?”

  Sophronia did not know; cosmetics were not her strong point.

  Preshea spoke up. “Oh, me, me!”

  “Yes, Miss Buss?”

  “Egypt, my lady.”

  “Very good, Miss Buss.” Lady Linette turned back to Sophronia. “What might you gather from that?”

  “He has business concerns overseas, is possibly a collector of antiquities, or thinks his eyes are so pretty they must be exaggerated, which, given the length of his eyelashes, seems a waste of kohl.”

  Lord Dingleproops let out a guffaw. “Got you there, Felix!”

  Lady Linette finally realized Sophronia’s antics had distracted the entire class. “Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your own encounters! Sophronia, proceed with your discourse, applying our new information.”

  Sophronia sighed and faced Felix. “My lord, are you interested in ancient Egypt?”

  “I’m interested in the fact that you noticed the length of my eyelashes.”

  Sophronia gritted her teeth. “Does your hive have historic ties to exotic lands?”

  Felix’s intense focus on Sophronia was momentarily distracted by the mantelpiece behind her. “Speaking of exotic, your reticule seems to have moved of its own accord.”

  Felix was not the only one to have noticed. One of Lady Linette’s cats was a full fluff ball of bristling offense, staring up at Bumbersnoot.

  Sophronia hurried over. In the guise of retrieving her shawl, she gave Bumbersnoot an impressive whispered lecture on sitting still. The mechanimal crouched down with a small steam puff of slowing gears. The cat took further offense and hid under a sofa.

  “What, for aether’s sake, is wrong with Artemisia?” asked Lady Linette, distracted by her cat’s behavior.

  Felix followed Sophronia and leaned in to whisper, “Italian design, did you say? I must see about getting my mother one. Then again, if all the best households have one, she may already be blessed.”

  Luckily, shortly after that, they were required to switch partners. Then the class got thoroughly distracted by the spectacle of Dimity Plumleigh-Teignmott, normally a placid young lady, positively bristling at a surprised Lord Dingleproops. Their vampire-meets-maiden conversation was full of hissed undercurrents. Sophronia observed that when Dimity flashed her letter at the young man, he shook his head violently, not understanding her ire. He was either a very good actor or had no involvement in the fiasco on the squeak deck. Sophronia was relieved that she had interfered and set the airdinghy falling. But if Lord Dingleproops wasn’t involved, who was? The flywaymen? The Picklemen? How did they get hold of the stationery? And the question still remained, why Dimity?

  Sophronia tried to approach her friend after class with her concerns. “Dimity, about that letter…”

  Dimity, practically in tears, only brushed by and scuttled off as fast as she could, trailing a worried-looking Agatha and Sidheag in her wake.

  Felix, thought Sophronia as she made ready for supper that evening, is liable to be a problem. Despite all due attention to deportment, she could not help thinking of him as Felix, even while addressing him as Lord Mersey. They shared several lessons—including tea and delusions with Mademoiselle Geraldine and portion allotment, puddings, and preemptive poisonings with Sister Mattie. He would keep flirting, despite more tempting prospects like Monique and Preshea, who practically hurled themselves in his direction. I wonder if I should warn him about Preshea. She does so desperately want to murder her first husband. Sophronia had no idea why Felix was so intent upon her. She had not yet received lessons in seduction, or she might have understood the appeal of sharp confidence, a topping figure, and green eyes. All Sophronia’s intellect was directed at something other than attracting male companionship. These things combined to make her particularly appealing to gentlemen. Soap could have told her that.

  The boys were permitted to take supper with the girls, distributed among the tables. Lord Mersey, Lord Dingleproops, and Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott sat with Sophronia’s group because they were the youngest of the gentlemen visitors. Pillover was the youngest of all, at thirteen, and was distressed at having been singled out for special treatment.

  “I’m not that good a student,” he confided in Sophronia. “This trip was supposed to be a reward for the top evil geniuses. I’ve no idea why Professor Shrimpdittle chose me. It could be because I’m the only one with a sibling on board. What is going on with you and Dimity, by the by? My sister is a raging pain but not the type to snub a friend.”

  Sophronia winced. “Set up, I’m afraid. Some kind of test.”

  Pillover nodded. “Ah, well, she’ll come around eventually.”

  “I certainly hope so. It’s terribly boring without her constant gossip.”

  “Really? I don’t miss it at all. You are an odd duck.”

  The supper was served—broiled salmon, hashed mutton, potatoes, parsnips, and baked apple pudding. The young men had passable table manners, but conversation was stilted at best, with the young ladies either flirting or nervously silent at the prospect of using the wrong fork.

  Despite his best efforts, Felix was not sitting on Sophronia’s left. She sat isolated at the end of the table next to Preshea, who turned to speak with Lord Dingleproops. Pillover was a godsend, sitting across the way, although he would shovel mutton into his maw as if sheep were soon to be obsolete.

  “I must say,” he commented between bites, “you eat better at this school than we do.”

  “And in greater style, I imagine.”

  Pillover looked at the tablecloth and flower centerpiece as though he had not noticed them bef
ore, which he probably hadn’t. “Rather.”

  “We are training to handle such things for the rest of our lives. You are training to be evil geniuses. Table settings and the like are regarded, I am sure, as beneath you.”

  “You are disposed to see this as careless?” wondered Pillover.

  “Some things are more important than they seem. Note, for example, that by having larger flowers in taller vases, you can prevent people from conversing across the table, thus confining them to their dinner partners. Wider arrangements with cascading ferns, and you might even pass notes or objects to a dining companion without anyone the wiser.”

  Pillover looked uninterested. Sophronia switched topics.

  “I think someone is after Dimity.”

  “Well, despite what she claims about that silly letter, it isn’t Lord Dingleproops. I can tell you that.” Pillover appeared to be aware of the situation.

  “Have you had any odd encounters?”

  Pillover started. “Me? Who would be after me?”

  “Well, who would be after your sister?”

  “It must be some kind of lark. Or mistake. I wouldn’t put it past the Pistons.”

  Sophronia detailed the events on the squeak deck.

  Pillover shook his head. “Can’t be Pistons, not that. Even they don’t have access to an airdinghy. No, I think you’re right that someone else wants my sister.”

  “But who?”

  Pillover was remarkably unconcerned. “Isn’t that your job?”

  “Have you missed the part where she’s not speaking to me?”

  Pillover had once been made to wear Sophronia’s petticoats in pursuit of information and safety. This gave him an inflated opinion of her abilities. “You’ll manage.”

  “You’ll give it some thought, please?” Sophronia pressed. “I’m a little worried.”

  “Well, she is my sister,” Pillover reluctantly agreed.

  The meal proceeded, and Sophronia and Pillover conversed civilly, in a manner quite in keeping with training, until the tables were cleared and the cards brought forth.

  Given their new numbers, the girls were told that round games were to be played so the entire table might participate. Monique declared that they would play loo and dealt without waiting for a consensus. Since loo was best played with seven, Sophronia, without being asked, and Pillover, who cared not one jot, sat out.

  They watched the others play for a while. Felix kept glancing up over his cards at Sophronia.

  Finally, she asked Pillover, in a low voice, “What is it with Lord Mersey?”

  Pillover’s face darkened, and he shifted in his seat as though it were uncomfortable. “Golborne’s a famously conservative family. Too much money, not enough new blood.”

  “Ah, anti-integration?” Sophronia prodded. Some of the aristocrats had fought hard against allowing the supernatural any part of government. That had happened centuries ago, but aristocrats and vampires had long memories.

  “Worse. Picklemen.”

  Sophronia stared at Felix. “Really?”

  Pillover, whose family was quite progressive, answered sarcastically, “Can’t have monsters taking over the government, can we? We’re food to them. You know the propaganda. Fear supernatural creatures! Forget the fact that they won us an empire.”

  Sophronia had come around to appreciating both the werewolf Captain Niall and the vampire Professor Braithwope as much as one could appreciate teachers. Even if Captain Niall had once accidentally tried to eat her. So she considered herself mostly progressive.

  Her attention was diverted by a small, polite cough.

  “Vieve?”

  “Good evening,” said the scamp, from near her elbow.

  Pillover nodded at her. They’d met before, during the incident with the petticoats.

  “Listen, Sophronia, Soap says there’s something you might want to see tonight when we leave the moor. And I know I want to. I’ll be by with the obstructor later, so you won’t need to climb.” She didn’t wait for Sophronia’s agreement and rabbited off.

  “Did you understand any of that?” Pillover asked, in a tone of voice that said he didn’t really care.

  “You mean to say, you didn’t?”

  “Nor was I meant to. Are you going out this evening, then?”

  “Possibly.”

  Pillover looked down the table to where Felix was once more staring in their direction. The viscount seemed distressed by the amount of attention Sophronia was bestowing upon Pillover. Since Pillover was customarily the victim of the Piston’s pranks, he was morosely pleased to be getting under the boy’s skin.

  “You want any company?”

  “Oh, no, thank you.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of myself.”

  Sophronia gave him a crafty smile. “Has no one officially warned you boys about Geraldine’s alarms?”

  Pillover looked as cagey as a round boy with an obvious stash of apple fritters could. “Nope. I know from Dimity, of course.”

  “In that case, you might mention to Lord Mersey that I’m planning a jaunt later tonight.”

  Pillover smiled for the first time in their acquaintance. “I might do that.”

  The 5th test

  FLIRTING WITH DECEIT

  With the sun firmly down and card games satisfactorily completed, the students went to their next classes. The boys had lessons in mechanics and machinations with Professors Shrimpdittle and Lefoux. The girls, all forty-five of them, trooped down to a lower deck to disembark using the glass platform lift. They had their weekly lesson with Captain Niall. There was a palpable waft of excitement, not to mention perfume, as the werewolf was most every young lady’s favorite teacher. He was also, by far, the handsomest.

  Sophronia liked him, too, even though she knew the floppy, easygoing military man was a sham. In his werewolf guise, he’d tried to kill her and got her best horsehair petticoat instead. He’d been moon-mad at the time, but she’d never quite forgiven the lapse, nor the loss of the petticoat. Like a proper gentleman, the good captain had never made any mention of the undergarment murder.

  The girls stood on the moor. The glass lift turned into a gaslight for evening fighting lessons. Captain Niall strode toward them—a dashing soldier with a beaver-skin top hat tied to his head and a leather greatcoat buttoned from collar to hem. He had a loose way of walking as if he had temporary, and not very good, control over someone else’s legs.

  “Ladies, today we leave off knife fighting and move on to the most useful of all skills.” The werewolf paused dramatically. The young ladies about him inhaled in anticipation.

  “Running away,” said Captain Niall with a flourish.

  The faces about him were crestfallen; running away was hardly a romantic pursuit. Except when one was running to Gretna Green.

  “Now, there are many ways and means to run. Today we will cover escape within a confined area—the fine art of dodging.”

  He divided them into groups, naming some rabbits and others wolves. The wolves were each given a short wooden spoon that had been dipped in red gooseberry jelly. They had to tap the bodice of a rabbit to eliminate her from the game. This added incentive for the rabbits to dodge, given their dresses were about to be covered in jelly. Wolves could only chase assigned rabbits, and rabbits could not work together. Apart from that, they were free to be as creative as they liked.

  Sophronia, Sidheag, and Preshea were the rabbits to Monique, Dimity, and Agatha’s wolves. Sophronia was pleased with this arrangement. She was good at running away and saw nothing morally reprehensible in it. She promptly scampered off to a nearby copse and climbed a tree to watch the proceedings.

  A game of chaotic tag commenced, with the werewolf teacher moving so quickly among the students he was difficult to see. He yelled instructions and called out rabbits as dead. It soon became clear why Captain Niall had chosen this particular hill. It was littered with obstacles—shrubs, long grasses, the copse of trees, and an occasional boulder.

&nb
sp; The game went on for some half an hour until all the rabbits had died and only Sophronia was left. When she was finally found, the wolves refused on principle to climb after her.

  “Rabbits can’t climb trees,” objected Monique.

  Captain Niall ignored this and gestured Sophronia down. “Ladies, what did Miss Temminnick do correctly?”

  “There she goes again,” sniffed Preshea.

  Everyone was silent.

  Sophronia jumped down. Monique instantly whacked her with her spoon. A great gob of gooseberry stained the front of Sophronia’s dress, and her collarbone stung.

  “Ouch,” she objected.

  Finally, one of the older girls answered Captain Niall. “She hid?”

  “Exactly! If one is hidden, one does not need to run. However, Miss Temminnick, that was not part of the lesson. So, let’s see you try again in a five-minute fray.” He pointed to three older girls Sophronia knew only by sight. “You’re the wolves. Begin!”

  All three charged Sophronia, holding out their jelly-covered spoons. Sophronia dove to one side and broke sharply outside of spoon range. She hiked up her skirts, leapt over a shrub, and made for the high ground. One of the wolves got her dress caught in the shrub and tripped, falling to the side. The two others followed. Sophronia dashed to a boulder, scrabbling for the top.

  The wolves did not coordinate, or they would have had her easily. Instead, they each came after her alone. Sophronia kicked, which was considered quite shocking in a gentlewoman, but with her skirts hiked it gave her enough reach to stay out of spoon range. It was so unexpected the first wolf fell backward down the hill, her gooseberry jelly never even touching Sophronia’s leg.

  Sophronia managed to push the last wolf away as the older girl went for her bodice. The wolf almost managed, but Sophronia twisted at the last minute and then, with a tremendous heave, leapt forward over her fallen opponent to land down the hill on the opposite side. She skidded around and took refuge behind a very spiky bush.

  Sophronia was panting from the exertion, but still alive. She had a brief moment of elation, and then a wolf came to flush her out. Should have named this game fox and hound, thought Sophronia, bending double to avoid the jelly-covered spoon and charging her enemy headfirst. Surprised by a frontal attack, the other girl fell backward into a prickly briar.