Countess Nadasdy hissed in displeasure.
Lady Maccon said promptly, “My word on this.”
Imogene replied timidly, “And mine.”
“Bond observed,” said Lord Maccon and Major Channing at the same time.
“Good.” Lady Maccon’s tone turned pitiful. “May we please eat now? I’m starving.”
Madame Lefoux did not let go Imogene’s hand, instead using it to lead her from the room.
Safely out in the hallway, the inventor let out a long, shaky breath. Her eyes, focused on Imogene, were almost hungry with worry.
Imogene rubbed her aching chin with her free hand.
“Oh, your poor face. And that limp earlier. You’ve had a rough time of it, choupinette. I am so very sorry. My attention has done you more harm than good, and it was misinterpreted. And now this.”
Imogene tried to smile, but it hurt too much. “Best possible outcome. I much prefer to be your assistant than a parlourmaid.”
“It is your own fault. Too beautiful by half. They were bound to make a centerpiece of you.”
“I didn’t do anything for it. For this.” Imogene, frustrated, waved at her own body with one hand. Madame Lefoux still held the other. (Which was just about the best thing ever! And she thinks I’m beautiful.) “It’s caused me nothing but grief.”
“This is true. You do not seem to use beauty as a weapon, in the way of some I have known. It is… refreshing.” Madame Lefoux’s face fell, and, horribly, she dropped Imogene’s hand and looked away.
She would become distant again now.
Imogene came over tense and sad, frustrated at having been set as a display, and a lesson, and a pawn, with no one caring for her feelings in the slightest. And frustrated that this sweet, courageous woman blew hot and then cold with such frequency.
Madame Lefoux was so close.
Imogene wanted so badly to feel embodied, to feel the sting of a reality where she wasn’t cast adrift on the whims of those more powerful than herself. Perhaps that was what drove her out of her sleepwalking daze into motion. Or was it gratitude for the rescue? Or was she merely responding to the squeeze of that hand in hers, a reassurance when she needed it most? Or maybe it was simply those hungry green eyes.
Whatever drove Imogene, it pushed her hard enough to overcome the stuffed-down fear of discovery, the up-tilted arrogance of protection. Imogene leaned forward and kissed the inventor. Another woman. For the very first time. Full on the mouth.
Madame Lefoux tasted of the wine she’d been sipping at supper. She smelled of vanilla, warm and buttery. And she leaned in towards Imogene, responding.
Her lips parted on a light breath of shock. They were so very, very soft.
Imogene wondered where to put her hands, and settled on the small of the other woman’s back.
Then the inventor was no longer responding. And then she was gone, stepping back and out of reach.
“Imogene no, you do not have to express gratitude in such a way. I know it is not your…” She trailed off and ran a hand though her hair. It stuck a bit. She grimaced. “I hate pomade.”
Imogene hung her head. “But I thought…” You liked me. You fought for me because of something more than just arithmetic. Stupid Imogene. Foolish girl. To think yourself in any way worthy of such a woman as this. Her passion for her work. It is only the sums you do that appeal.
“I would never want you to twist yourself to my desire. I need hardly say now that the rumors are true. But I have never taken an unwilling woman to my bed and I never shall.”
But I’m willing! How else do I show you how willing?
“That’s not it a’tall!” Imogene protested.
The inventor wouldn’t listen. “This has been a horrid evening. You are hurt, embarrassed, and inappropriately dressed. You are grateful to me for saving you from worse, but I do not want you to offer yourself out of a sense of obligation.”
She’s being all noble. How very annoying. “But it’s not…”
The dining room door opened and Lady Maccon’s well-coiffed head stuck out. “Come back, Genevieve. It’s perishing dull without you. Oh, send the poor girl to rest, do. She looks like death warmed over.”
Madame Lefoux nodded. “Collect your things, Miss Hale. I’ll have a cot arranged in my dressing room. You can sleep there.”
Like a proper lady’s maid, thought Imogene, thrilled and delighted by the implication. “Shall I be helping you dress, then?”
Madame Lefoux’s mouth twitched. “Stop that.”
Lady Maccon was listening, a broad grin on her face. “I can see why you like this one. She’s more plucky than the quiet exterior would imply, isn’t she?”
“And good with sums,” insisted Madame Lefoux, holding the party line.
Lady Maccon’s eyebrows went back up. “Is she, now? Well, I’m sure that is the entire basis of her appeal. Now come along, do.”
Madame Lefoux shook her head in mock exasperation and obeyed.
Imogene went to get her things and move into the dressing room.
* * *
Imogene settled into her new abode quickly (the dressing room was remarkably spacious – for a dressing room) and might have gone to sleep, but she was struck by the fact that she’d been discourteous to Lady Maccon.
I forgot to thank her! And I must tell her that I cannot sign the articles. Imogene couldn’t write her own name, so she needed to make certain there was a way to still codify the indenture. She didn’t want anything to stop her from taking this new path. To be tied to Madame Lefoux for six whole years. To work with numbers and engines. No dusting at all. Well, maybe a little dusting. And possibly some tidying. Would Madame Lefoux let her organize the laboratory? Imogene liked organization.
Regardless, it would be glorious. And she owed Lady Maccon everything.
I misjudged her horribly.
So, Imogene retrieved her parlourmaid’s outfit from Miss Venable’s room and dressed in it one final time. She still had her favorite duster, the brown-and-white, overly fluffy one that looked like Skoot (and had caused him to go barking mad with apparent jealousy the one time she waved it at him). She wondered if Skoot could come visit the potting shed regularly. And if she might keep the duster.
Thus disguised as her former self, Imogene made her way partly down the main stairs. She found a nice hiding spot on the landing, in a shadowed corner, behind one of the more modern statues. (The one she thought looked like a concerned bipedal potato with stomach troubles.) She could watch the dining room door from there and maybe catch the muhjah before she departed.
How not to make a scene of it? That was the real question.
As it happened, Imogene was presented with an excellent opportunity directly after supper, although not quite in the way she’d expected.
Vampires still observed segregation once a meal concluded (although this was considered horribly old-fashioned by most). Thus Imogene witnessed the ladies heading for the drawing room.
Countess Nadasdy led the way, still vibrating in annoyance. Or perhaps this was a new annoyance that had nothing to do with Imogene. Miss Venables followed close on her heels. Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux, the only other ladies present, brought up the rear. They held back at the base of the stairs, directly below Imogene’s hiding spot, clearly eager for a private word.
Imogene couldn’t help herself. She cupped her ear to listen.
“A parlourmaid who does sums. Extraordinary.”
Imogene blushed to realize that they were talking about her!
Lady Maccon’s bosom heaved in mock annoyance. “What is it with you and maids, Genevieve? I mean to say, really.”
“It is those little black dresses, darling.” The inventor was back to flirting.
Imogene was back to being upset by their evident affection. Lady Maccon was nice and all, but did she have to be so overt about it? Imogene pursed her lips. She tried to believe that while flirting was clearl
y a cornerstone of their relationship, there didn’t seem to be any follow-through. Unless Lord Maccon was a great deal less possessive than any other werewolf ever.
Madame Lefoux continued, “But seriously now, she is not for me.”
Lady Maccon was having none of it. “And how do you know that?”
“Look at her. So young and innocent, so beautiful. So ripe for some man to pluck.”
“Don’t be crude, dear. How do you know she doesn’t want a more delicate sort of plucking?”
“You never did.”
“I never knew to ask. It was too late, anyway.”
“You could run away with me now.” The inventor made a dramatic flail in the direction of the front door.
Lady Maccon rolled her eyes so hard, Imogene swore she could hear it from her hiding spot. “Do be serious for one moment. I like her.”
“How could you possibly form an opinion? She barely strings six words together.”
“Exactly. My world could use a few more strong, silent people.”
“Alexia…”
“Well, I do like her! She watches you. She looks at you the way Conall looks at me.”
“Does she indeed?”
“You never noticed?”
“You are willfully misinterpreting hero worship, I fear. She has a brilliant mind. Untrained, of course. Not schooling the peasant stock is truly a sin against science.”
“Oh, I see. Your interest in the girl is purely intellectual.” Any more sarcasm and Lady Maccon’s voice would strip wallpaper.
“She is half my age!”
“Not quite.”
“How would you know?”
Lady Maccon planted her hands on her generous hips. “What are you so afraid of, Genevieve?”
The inventor’s voice became tired and muted. “Of it happening all over again. Of losing again. As I lost Angelique. As I lost you.”
“You never lost me.”
“Yes. I did.”
“Don’t be silly, you never had me to begin with.”
“Fair point.”
Imogene peeked around her gastric-potato-guardian statue. The gaslights in the hallway were low and sputtering. Under the shifting shadows, the inventor’s face was sharp and drawn, almost haggard.
“I cannot go through it all again, Alexia.”
Lady Maccon nodded, equally serious. Her face was almost handsomely grave in the low light. “I know, dear. I know. But it would be worse, don’t you think, to never try at all? Aren’t you lonely? Especially now Quesnel is at university.”
The inventor bit her lip and winced. “Horribly. You stranded me in the middle of nowhere. Essex, for goodness’ sake! It is not civilized. I barely even have my inventions.”
“Yes, and I am sorry for it, and for you. Although that is not an apology! You deserved worse and we both know it. You destroyed half of London. And you’re French. That simply cannot be ignored or glossed over. What else was I to do?”
“I loathe it when you are reasonable.”
“Everyone says that.” Lady Maccon put a hand to her friend’s arm, drawing her close.
Imogene tensed.
“See here, Genevieve, I shouldn’t have to tell you this. But you rendered me a great service once.” At some nonverbal cue, Lady Maccon added, “Very well, more than once, and I shall now attempt to return the favor with good advice.” She paused dramatically. “Try to make it better for yourself. You are stuck here for six more years. And if you cannot do it for yourself, make it better for that poor pining girl. I’ve given you the means.”
Imogene straightened, embarrassed that her yearning had shown so clearly to a stranger.
Madame Lefoux was frustrated. “Miss Hale is suffering under a warped sense of obligation. I do not believe she is inclined, not really.”
“Tempting her into a ladies’ pew, are you? Well, that’s not my area of expertise. I will bow to your experience in identifying…” Lady Maccon floundered. “Other ladies’ ladies, as it were. But, Genevieve, and I mean this seriously—”
“Yes, Alexia?”
“Don’t botch it.”
“Yes, Alexia.”
“No octopuses.”
“Yes, Alexia. I mean, no, Alexia. I mean, whatever you say, Alexia.”
“Good, now let’s suffer through the last of this ghastly evening together and then you can go see to your girl.”
“She is not my girl!”
“Whatever you say, Genevieve.”
CHAPTER SIX
In Which Imogene Contemplates Rodger
Imogene never got her chance to thank Lady Maccon.
Fortunately, when the articles of indenture arrived by aetherogram, Madame Lefoux said an X would do for a signature. Thus everything became legally binding seamlessly. The vampires couldn’t complain; they had written the law to make it easy in the first place.
It heralded a glorious new life for Imogene, that of laboratory assistant and, Madame Lefoux insisted on adding, chief finder of the elusive x.
Imogene took to the equations with renewed vigor and learned the names of all Madame Lefoux’s tools, and those of the engines and engine parts. She took over shoveling coal and keeping the burners at exactly the correct temperature.
Lady Maccon sent along a half-dozen durable working dresses (from London!) and Madame Lefoux found Imogene a spare leather apron. Imogene need never again dress as a parlourmaid. (Unless Madame Lefoux really did have a thing for little black dresses?) She kept one service outfit, just in case, and passed the rest on to her family, whose circumstances were also improved by her new position. Lady Maccon was more than generous with Imogene’s salary, and with the inventor providing meals, she needed very little. Madame Lefoux even tentatively offered to order Imogene some trousers, but Imogene felt that would be taking things too far.
Already she must avoid all contact with Henry and the other members of staff. Most of them felt she had betrayed them. The rest felt she was reaching above her station. Trousers might tip everyone into madness. Trousers were a powerful weapon of chaos, if Madame Lefoux was anything to go by.
Imogene took tea and luncheon via tray in the shed alongside her inventor, but for the evening meal, she still must join the servants, butler presiding. The butler clearly believed she was getting above herself. Thus, he overlooked any pettiness at table with regards to food dropped on Imogene’s new dress, or not passing the butter, or what have you.
But that was only one of two blights on Imogene’s otherwise idyllic new life as laboratory assistant (and chief finder of the elusive x). The other blight was Madame Lefoux herself.
Imogene tried several more times to encourage the inventor’s physical interest, but her tentative touches and expressions of affection were rebuffed. She garnered the occasional dimpled smile and sometimes (perhaps it was wishful thinking) a quick, hungry green-eyed glance, but nothing more. She was at a loss how to convince Madame Lefoux that her affection was genuine without it being misconstrued as gratitude. Not that she wasn’t grateful. She loved the assistant job. She always found the x no matter how elusive. She was far better at it than she ever had been as a parlourmaid. (And frankly, she’d been a good parlourmaid, which made her an excellent laboratory assistant. And the x? The x is mine!)
How to tell the inventor that it wasn’t gratitude leaving Imogene aching and restless each night? (Nor was it coal shoveling – not that kind of ache.) It wasn’t gratitude turning her cold and lonely in her cot, although it was more generous a bed than she’d ever had before. Madame Lefoux had provided soft quilts and a down mattress. Imogene could hardly believe it. Down!
Imogene spent her nights wishing beyond anything that she might leave that feathered luxury and lie next to her new mistress instead. They would not even have to do anything. Not unless Madame Lefoux wanted to. It would be magic simply to curl up with her.
Imogene lacked the vocabulary to say anything. Her few stuttering tries wer
e dismissed out of hand. The inventor was remarkably stubborn. She was determined to believe Imogene incapable of genuine interest. And Imogene was at a loss as to why. Who on earth wouldn’t be interested in Genevieve Lefoux?
Curses.
How could Madame Lefoux still think that Imogene preferred men? Or was it something else? Perhaps she genuinely believed Imogene too innocent. And whose fault is that? I have tried. No one seems to want to make me less so.
The inventor had responded to their kiss so it couldn’t be dislike. Could it? Maybe she hadn’t really responded. Maybe she’d simply been kind, trying not to react in horror or disgust to Imogene’s bumbling advances. Maybe I’m not the kind of girl she desires.
There was the conversation in the hallway with Lady Maccon to consider. Madame Lefoux, who seemed so fearless, was frightened of something. Lady Maccon said so. So, maybe it wasn’t Imogene at all but despair holding the inventor in check.
Perhaps I should just strip bare and climb under her counterpane.
“Dear Genevieve,” she imagined herself saying (she was far more direct and confident in her fantasies). Genevieve was what Lady Maccon called Madame Lefoux, and it was such a perfect name. Imogene called her Genevieve a lot – in her head.
“Dear Genevieve,” she would say, “I love that you are full of finer feelings and insist upon protecting me from myself, but if you do not rodger me this instant, I may perish away for the lack.”
Although, did two ladies together call it rodgering? Or was there a proper, more feminine word? Gertruding, perhaps?
You see! Not only do I need her physically, I need her to teach me how to even talk about such things. Let alone do them. For surely Genevieve was experienced in such matters.
I certainly hope so. One of us should know what she is about.
Overly optimistic, that. For while Imogene lay awake and aching, hungry for something she couldn’t name, the inventor continued blithely on about her inventing as if nothing had altered. And while Madame Lefoux did indeed insist that Imogene get an education, that education didn’t extend beyond the realm of laboratory sciences, mathematics, reading, and writing.
More’s the bloody pity, thought Imogene, frustrated beyond measure. They were together all the time now.
Romancing the Inventor Page 8
