Manners & Mutiny

by Gail Carriger

  “Mostly trained for humans, remember? You’re a werewolf. I’ve only got about three ways to kill you in my repertoire. They’re good ones, though, so take care.”

  He tugged her in so she was flush against him again. He was warm, which surprised her. She had thought an undead creature would be cold.

  “So I can court you?”

  “What did I just say?” Sophronia was terrified by the inevitable end of any romance between them. Her parents were not so progressive as to permit their daughter an alliance with a werewolf, even a landed Alpha, let alone one who was lowborn, newly made, and black. Safer not to start. Then she might get to keep a small part of him.

  Soap was not so easy to put off. “Blast the future.”

  “So says he who has too much of one.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Sophronia winced. Her shoulders sagged.

  Soap clearly regretted this accusation. “I don’t blame you.”

  Which was part of the problem. You should. My plan put you in danger. Then I took all your choices away from you because I was too much of a coward to let you go. And now everything is confusing and messy and impossible.

  “I know.” Sophronia turned to leave.

  “I’m going to change your mind about us, Sophronia.” Unusual statement, for Soap never said her name, and he now had twice. Things really had changed.

  Sophronia shot back, tartly, “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Done.”

  Annoyed that her addlepated heart had allowed her mouth to give him an opening, she snapped, “What do you want, Soap?”

  “Now, why would you think I wanted something more than this?” He grabbed her hand and raised it to kiss. Even through her gloves, she swore she could feel the softness of his lips.

  She gave him a long-suffering look.

  Soap let her go, tipped off his top hat, and dug about in the inside band, producing an embossed card. He flourished it. “He would very much like you to see you. Saturday evening.”

  It was an invitation to attend a dinner party and theatrical production. Sophronia glanced at it quickly before tucking it down the side of her décolletage. “I’m not out yet. It may be difficult to convince Petunia.”

  “I think she’ll make an exception in this case. The invitation is directed at you and your chosen guests. If your sister wishes to attend, she cannot come without you.”

  “Will you be there?”

  Soap’s smile was somewhat sly, with a hint of canine to the sides. “I, too, am not yet out.”

  Sophronia nibbled her lower lip. Steeling herself. “Soap, I think we should establish a safe place to meet. If for any reason either of us goes missing. If our communication is compromised.”

  “Are you planning on disappearing?”

  “No, but I like to keep my options open. You are the only real friend I have stationed in London.”

  “You are such an intelligencer.” Soap sounded almost exasperated. “Very well. Regent Square, an hour before dawn.” His dark eyes flicked once behind Sophronia’s shoulder at the curtain, and then he was gone, out a window at the back. Supernatural speed put to secrecy was impressive.

  Sophronia grimaced. He had asked to court her, but hadn’t kissed her properly. She wasn’t sure if she should be upset or grateful for the reprieve. She hated herself for the confusion.

  She emerged from the back room just as Petunia went to stick her head inside.

  Agatha and Dimity trailed behind, looking worried.

  “Oomph! There you are, sister, what are you doing back here?”

  Sophronia gestured at a table covered in trim. “I thought I saw a finished hat that wasn’t on display.”

  “Did you? Where?”

  “Turns out it wasn’t finished. What was in the box from Paris?”

  “Oh, the most divine shawls! Come see.” Petunia swept toward the front of the shop.

  Agatha and Dimity swirled alongside Sophronia, one to each arm, and hustled after. Three abreast was challenging given the displays, but necessary for private conversation.

  “What is going on?” Dimity demanded.

  “Soap,” replied Sophronia.

  “I was wondering when he’d turn up.” Dimity’s tone was cautious. “What did he want?”

  “We have an invitation to dine and view a short play.”

  Dimity bounced, clapping her hands. “Oh, goody, who with?” Her face fell. “Not with Soap? That would be awkward.” She brightened. “The dewan?”

  “That would be boring and political.” Agatha was thinking about the dewan’s position in Queen Victoria’s government.

  “No, not the dewan.” Sophronia did enjoy torturing her friends.

  “Who, then? Don’t keep us in suspense!” Dimity’s eyes were wild.

  “Lord Akeldama.”

  “The vampire? Oh, dear.” Dimity was crestfallen. “You don’t think he wants to eat us, do you?”

  Sophronia managed to discover the invitation waiting for them in the hallway when they got home. She presented it to her sister. It was met with paroxysms of joy. This was the kind of event Petunia had craved since first entering society. This was the dinner party to end all dinner parties. The fact that there was a slim chance they might be the dinner at said party was a small price to pay for the honor of being invited.

  “Oh, this is too exciting. This Saturday, it says. Hardly enough time. We must go out first thing tomorrow in pursuit of dresses. Oh, dear, we will have to settle for something ready-made.”

  Sophronia was feeling cheeky. “But sister dear, we aren’t yet out. Do you think it wise to expose yourself to ridicule and us to social faux pas?”

  “At a small private gathering with such an illustrious host? I think we can make an exception. You must trust in my judgment. After all, I have spent these last few days in your company. You are all well polished. That school of yours has much to recommend it.”

  “You don’t know the half,” muttered Sophronia.

  Petunia talked over her. “Perhaps I shall send my daughters there.” She patted her tummy smugly.

  Dimity didn’t even crack a smile. “How thoughtful. I shall tell Mademoiselle Geraldine. She will be charmed, I’m sure.”

  Petunia patted Dimity’s hand in a condescending way. “Oh, but why did I think we would have more need of visiting gowns than evening wear? We have wasted two shopping days already. Miss Woosmoss, of course, I know you are well set up. And Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott?”

  “I brought my best from last season. It’ll do.”

  Petunia shook her head, forehead creased. “For anyone but Lord Akeldama. He is a leader of fashion. The Beau Brummel of our times, and many times in the past, before Mr. Brummel, for that matter. Oh, dear, I am all aflutter. Sophronia, do you have anything appropriate at all?”

  Sophronia shook her head. “Could I borrow something of yours, perhaps?”

  “Now, there is a notion. I might have something from my trousseau. How lucky that we are the same height and complexion.”

  Petunia sashayed off and returned with a pretty satin dress, simpler than expected given her taste. Sophronia liked it instantly. It was pale blue brocade with royal-blue flowers appliquéd on top and matching ribbon for trim. Copious quantities of some quality cream lace peeked out at the cuffs, enough to hide both obstructor and hurlie should she wear them. Her favorite part was the neckline, a deep but narrow V with lace collar. In a world peopled with scoop necklines, it was unique and flattering. It would make her appear tall and elegant.

  “I adore it!”

  Everyone stopped and stared at her. It wasn’t like Sophronia to go into ecstasies over a dress.

  “Are you feeling quite well?” Dimity hissed.

  Sophronia was eager for distraction. Perhaps a bit too eager. It might have had something to do with Soap. She gave her friend the hand signal of discretion.

  Dimity subsided.

  “You’re sure? We could try shopping tomorrow mornin
g?” Petunia was not one to be waylaid where spending money was possible.

  “I’d only want to find one exactly like this.”

  Petunia pinked with delight. “Very well, then. You may have it. By the time it fits me again, it will be sadly out of date.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Sophronia actually hugged her sister.

  Petunia allowed it and then brushed her away. “Really, Sophronia, I’m not accustomed to such emotional displays. It’s quite exhausting. Now I must nap. Off with you three, go try things on. I know you want to more than anything. See about accessories.”

  The girls did as instructed. Although it must be admitted they spent some time also discussing how to hide deadly little knives in their hair, whether Sophronia’s favorite carnet de bal garrote was too much at a dinner party, and if Bumbersnoot could be decorated to match the dress. They did not talk of Soap, although Sophronia could tell Dimity dearly wanted to.

  The blue gown turned out to be exactly the correct choice. For while Lord Akeldama was a vampire who pursued excess in all things himself, he appreciated refinement in others. Although he appeared welcoming as he ushered them into his well-appointed home near Regent’s Park, his eyes were critical. The vampire uttered not one negative word, but Dimity suddenly knew herself to be wearing too much jewelry. Petunia realized that her condition was no secret to the discerning eye. And Agatha, poor Agatha, was convinced she was a failure in all things fashionable, although her dress was à la mode and her hair had taken three hours.

  Sophronia’s subtle gown and understated pearls, however, met with approval. The ghost of a smile twitched at Lord Akeldama’s perfectly pouty lips as he evaluated her attire.

  “How lovely to see such beautiful butterflies. My, but I do adore groups of ladies. They always balance out my table so very decorously. I blush to admit it, but my assemblies are too often weighted in the gentlemanly direction. Speaking of which, drones! Oh, where are my drones? You butterflies simply must have matched escort flowers.”

  Lord Akeldama was dressed in emerald satin with a cream-and-gold striped waistcoat, and a cream silk cravat tied over with an emerald ribbon. He wore a gold-and-emerald tie pin that gave Dimity a small case of the vapors.

  “Now, that,” she whispered to Sophronia, “is most certainly not paste!”

  At Lord Akeldama’s summons, a group of stunning young men trooped down the stairs from their private chambers above. They were all dressed as impeccably as their master, if perhaps not quite so flash. Sophronia felt a pang of loss at having been forced to turn down Lord Akeldama’s offer of patronage. Only think, at one time I might have lived among all this beauty. The drones stood, untroubled, as the vampire evaluated them carefully and then paired each with one of the young women—based on color, of course.

  Sophronia privately suspected that character was also taken into account. Lord Akeldama was shallow—or he liked to be thought that way—but not so shallow as to sacrifice conversational flow on the altar of fashion. Not for an entire evening, at least.

  “Mrs. Hisselpenny, such a lovely rose pink, you would go well with Peanut here.” Peanut proved to be tall, with a shock of thick caramel-colored hair and a long, friendly face. He wore apple green, which paired with Petunia’s pink to look very like a rosebush.

  “Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, such sparkles go well with Bolo. Good evening, Bolo, my pearl.” Dimity was in a froth of layered cream muslin, demure except that the sleeves were transparent and the hem had a band of lavender embroidery. Of course, she was also wearing a great deal of—supposedly—amethyst jewelry. Bolo, a shorter, stouter individual with an angelic round face and the most stunning dark eyes, wore black velvet and gray and no jewelry at all, not even a pin.

  “You are the moon to his night sky.” Lord Akeldama ushered them off together.

  Sophronia swallowed down a smile.

  “Now, for Miss Woosmoss, perhaps Dingle?” Dingle stepped forward. If being matched with Agatha was an insult, his expression showed nothing but pleasure at her company. He was blond with blue eyes, his evening suit of chocolate brown. Sophronia had to admit that if anything were to go with Agatha’s unfortunate ruffled orange gown, that was it. Together they looked like a pumpkin patch.

  While the others were led away, the vampire turned on Sophronia. “Which leaves you, my dearest kitten.”

  “Lord Akeldama, it is such a pleasure to see you again.” Sophronia attempted to retain some of the conversational territory, which the vampire, in a remarkable imitation of a military invasion, had taken into his possession from the moment they pulled the bell rope.

  He smiled, showing fang.

  Sophronia took it like a girl who had been educated by a vampire. She gave him her best wolfish grin back, showing all her teeth and making certain it did not reach her eyes.

  “Like that, is it? More lioness than kitten now.” Lord Akeldama inclined his head.

  He had given her an opening. “So unexpectedly kind of you to extend an invitation to three lowly schoolgirls.”

  “’Twas all for you, my little posy of teeth.”

  “You may find I also have claws.”

  The vampire laughed and extended her his arm to lead her in himself—quite the honor. “I shall take the risk, my vicious pet. I find you terribly intriguing.” He waved away the rest of his drones and they vanished about other tasks.

  “You find me intriguing? I should have thought that impulse passed by now, my lord.”

  “Now, now, no one, kitten, has ever called me impulsive. Many things, but never that. Time has so little meaning for me, I can afford to take it slowly. Carefully research any subject of interest.”

  Sophronia wasn’t certain how she felt about being a subject of interest, but she wished to make her situation clear—for everyone’s safety. “My lord, you did receive my letter?”

  Lord Akeldama allowed his face to fall. “Crushed, my dearest moggie. It’s not often I offer for a female drone, you do realize?”

  “I am aware of the honor. Circumstances, my lord, forced another choice upon me.”

  Lord Akeldama’s perfect forehead crinkled. “Coercion? My dear, I do not like to hear that at all.”

  Sophronia hastened to prevent disaster. “It is not an unwelcome position. I am satisfied with my future and my bargain.” With the Picklemen on the move, the last thing she wanted was Lord Akeldama, powerful vampire rove, and the dewan, powerful werewolf loner, at each other’s proverbial throats.

  Her letter had declined Lord Akeldama’s offer of indenture without specifying who had won her instead. So far as she knew, the vampire remained ignorant of the fact that, when she left school, she would work for the werewolves. Sophronia was hoarding that story as ammunition. Lord Akeldama desired information above all things. There might come a time when she could use gossip about herself to bargain for his help. No sense in giving anything away. Lord Akeldama was no charity case. Even this dinner was no doubt in pursuit of some end to which her presence was a means. She was not so foolish as to believe it was actually an honor.

  The vampire watched her closely. She hoped none of her thoughts showed on her face. Lady Linette had schooled them in impassive expressions, but she knew her eyes were hard to control. And Lord Akeldama was very good at perceiving without showing that he did. I wonder if that is a product of his age or if he, too, once had training.

  Without further private communication, they followed the others into a large back parlor. The house was decorated in a baroque style, but what intrigued Sophronia was how many of the gilt frames, decorative lamps, and pretty vases were also deadly. They’d studied some of the makers. The gas lamp that detached and exploded on impact was from a Swiss clockmaker. The frames with the leaf corners that became knives were from a private dealer in Manchester. Lord Akeldama was a vampire after her own heart. Although, to be frank, her taste was less ornate. Dimity, however, was in raptures.

  The back parlor was arranged like a music room, with couches and armchairs a
ll facing a small performing area.

  “This play, my lord, what is it called?” asked Sophronia, aware that they were now easily overheard by the others.

  “It is a witty little invention of Bolo’s. Currently, he is calling it The Importance of Wearing Ermine, but the title may change. Shall we sit?”

  The play was indeed a witty little invention. Although clearly designed to appeal to ladies and poodle fakers, it was, nevertheless, replete with enough verbal skirmishing to delight even Sophronia, who customarily had more serious dramatic preferences. In Shakespearean fashion, all the roles were played by men. This only added comedic effect.

  Dimity was heard to squeak with delight at more than one exchange of repartee. Petunia laughed several times. Even Agatha tittered. The result being that praise was heaped upon an ebullient Bolo as soon as the bowing commenced.

  There was enough fodder in the play to engage them all in conversation over aperitifs until other guests, invited only for the meal, began to arrive.

  At each announcement, Lord and Lady So-and-so, Mr. Such-and-such, Petunia became increasingly agitated. At one point, she dragged Sophronia into a corner to chatter about it before she exploded. “Everyone who is anyone is here tonight. And not only the known elements from the daylight society papers, but the real important types written of in the Evening Cupboard! Oh, Sophronia, please behave yourself. I know finishing school saw you turn over a new leaf, and you have been golden this past week, but don’t hurl any food at anyone? Please?”

  Sophronia, of course, knew everyone there. Before he went mad, Professor Braithwope drilled them on the ton—humans and supernaturals. Lord Akeldama was hosting a representative sample—four landed gentry, two active members of the Staking Constabulary, the chief field operative for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry, an overseer of the Vault of England, and a proper Ghost Wrangler. Sophronia even recognized those at whose import Petunia could only guess. The nondescript Mr. Thermopopple was, in fact, official inventor to the queen. And the mild-mannered sandy-haired professor was actually Beta to the local werewolf pack.

  She was not surprised, therefore, when the dewan turned up. He sent a curt nod in her general direction. She understood that this meant their arrangement was to continue a secret and found it no challenge to ignore him. As expected, he had not brought Soap. She let out the puff of breath she hadn’t known she was holding.