Sophronia got excited. “So Lord Akeldama’s exploding mechanical was a pilot designed to seize control of military dirigibles?”
The dewan continued as if she hadn’t interrupted, “That’s a lot of pawns in place for a supernatural character assassination, even if the end result would be a shift in political power. What you suggest requires delicate maneuvering and hinges on controlling popular opinion and the press, both notoriously difficult to influence. I think it more likely that their planned assault is more violent.”
Sophronia saw his reasoning. Of course, she liked her theory even if it didn’t explain the exploding pilot. She must remain open-minded enough not to ignore evidence that came up to discredit her. It was best not to have an agenda in espionage.
“I will keep my ears and eyes open, my lord. I have never been able to predict the duke’s actions.”
“The duke? You mean Golborne?”
Sophronia nodded.
“Ah, yes.” The dewan looked at Soap, as if he had momentarily forgotten that the duke had been responsible for that fateful shot. “If I recall correctly, you had some doings with young Lord Mersey at one time.”
Sophronia refused to blush. “Some, as you say, doings.”
Soap tensed.
“Word is the duke’s been elevated to Grand Gherkin. It is a significant position of power for such a disturbingly petty individual. There’s only one Pickleman higher—the Chutney himself.”
“As you say, my lord.” Sophronia wanted to inquire further, but the dewan was speaking to her as if she should know all the details of Pickleman infrastructure. She didn’t want to display ignorance when he was treating her so fairly.
“Perhaps young Mersey would be useful in this matter. Do you think he might be privy to his father’s plans?”
Sophronia thought back to the recent ball. “I’m afraid that bridge may have been burned, my lord.”
“Now, now. Pretty young thing like you? I highly doubt it.”
Soap’s arm left her waist. Sophronia felt the cold of its absence. She could see the dewan’s reasoning. And, frankly, it would be a good test of her seduction ability. Could she win Felix back, on her own terms, knowing her affections lay elsewhere? A challenge. She did love a challenge. “I want it clear that I’m doing it because I’m curious—not because you’ve instructed me. You don’t hold my indenture yet. But I will try Lord Mersey for information.”
Soap growled. Actually growled!
Before Sophronia could get huffy about possessiveness, the dewan interceded. “Now, now, pup, remember what we discussed earlier. Controlling the wolf’s emotions for civilized discourse is a requirement. Miss Temminnick here is planning on employing her intelligencer training in response to a specific target. It has no bearing on your”—his lip curled—“ relationship with the chit. Whatever that may be.”
Sophronia felt compelled to say something. “Really, my lord, why do you think we—?”
His snort cut her off. Strangely, Sophronia got the impression he was on Soap’s side, that he, of all people, might support affection between a clandestine black werewolf and a young lady of quality.
She turned to Soap for understanding. Only to find that she’d momentarily forgotten how tall he was and how satiny his skin. She shifted in close against him. Employing affection was also part of her training.
Soap winced. “Don’t.”
Sophronia felt a pang of guilt, pulling away. What kind of person have I become, that I chase information even though it may hurt those I adore? I’ve become so guarded, even with people I love. She shook herself internally. “And while I do that, what exactly is your plan, my lord?”
“To stop them. Whatever it is they are going to do with those valves, I’m putting an end to it before it happens.”
“And if you can’t? What’s your contingency plan?”
The dewan looked militant. “They will be stopped. That is all you need know.”
Perhaps I have to be the one to develop a contingency plan. Sophronia wondered if Madame Spetuna was heading back to nest once more among the Picklemen and flywaymen.
“It’s getting late.” The dewan did not want to talk further. “I’d best get this one home before dawn. Make your good-byes, younglings.”
Soap turned swiftly and kissed her, before she could protest.
His lips were soft and warm. He tasted different. Richer, like brown-butter sauce. More threatening, also. She probably liked that fact too much. Although she found herself grateful that it was the new moon—the safest time for a girl to be kissed by a werewolf.
Soap broke it off before she was ready, leaving her dissatisfied and annoyed with her own weakness. She had to remind herself again how impossible such a relationship would be—they’d be mocked and ostracized by everyone.
The look in Soap’s eye said he, too, wanted more, but that was the point. If Sophronia were ever fully satisfied, she’d be bored, or dead. Soap was inclined to use that character trait to his advantage.
Because they both knew it, Sophronia headed back into the house without another word.
“Wait.”
She turned at the door, and the dewan tossed something at her. Training kicked in and she suppressed the instinct to dive out of danger, catching it instead. It was a large velvet sack, well padded, and it thunked into her, heavy with the weight of something metal. She loosened the drawstring.
Tick-tock, tick-tock! went the sack.
“Bumbersnoot!”
“You shouldn’t leave your mechanimal lying about all willy-nilly like that, young lady. Any werewolf could have tripped over him,” said the dewan.
Soap chuckled.
And they were gone.
Sophronia envied them their speed and silence. The right werewolf, she thought, could make for a very accomplished spy.
RECORDS AND REGRETS
The remainder of their London visit was uneventful. There were other dinner parties and shopping trips but no explosions and no revelations, if one discounted Agatha’s realizing, finally, that orange was not a good color for her. This, Dimity and Sophronia felt, was an epiphany of epic proportions but of little consequence to the fate of the Empire at large.
They made their good-byes with the utmost gravity. Dimity and Agatha thanked Petunia profusely for her hospitality. Dimity presented her with a bunch of hothouse blooms entirely to Petunia’s taste. Agatha pressed Petunia’s hand and assured her that Mr. Woosmoss would call upon Mr. Hisselpenny on a matter of business come the New Year. Everyone parted ways feeling the better for the visitation.
The young ladies repaired to their respective families for the holidays, declaring their London jaunt an unparalleled success. They each had several new dresses, not to mention hats, gloves, shawls, and boots. Petunia was in raptures over their pleasant company, pleasing manners, and polite talk. A delusion which they considered a profound victory for espionage.
Sophronia enjoyed life back home with her family, grown only larger with married siblings now producing families of their own. But hers was a modest enjoyment. Conversation seemed provincial and limited in scope. Three days was more than enough mundanities. She was delighted when Agatha rolled up in her father’s landau, having arranged to be their transport back to school.
Sophronia was permitted to give Agatha tea in the front parlor while the luggage was loaded. Presumably Petunia had told Mrs. Temminnick of Agatha’s wealth and station. Such a privilege as being accorded privacy in the Temminnick household was unprecedented.
“Was your Christmas perfectly ghastly?” asked Sophronia, all sympathy after the niceties had been dispensed with and the first cups quaffed.
“Tolerably so. I envy you your massive family, Sophronia. I should dearly love to be out of the spotlight and forgotten on occasion.”
“I don’t know. My mother thinks more on her cats these days than me. When we were called in for Christmas dinner, she forgot to yell my name entirely. Not that I mind as such—before Mademoiselle
Geraldine’s my name was all too often yelled.”
“Better to be forgotten than the focus of all your father’s hopes and dreams.”
“You have a point. It is a valuable thing for an intelligencer to be forgotten.”
“Oh, I do wish I had a brother. Or had been born a man.”
Sophronia reached across the sofa to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Oh, Agatha, I’m sorry. Is he still making demands?”
“He wants to know why my marks aren’t better. Why I don’t speak fluent French. Why I can’t kill a fully grown man with a nutcracker.”
Their privacy was not to last, for the twins clattered in, yodeling excitedly and heralding the arrival of another coach.
Sophronia and Agatha finished the dregs of their tea, kidnapped the crumpets for the journey ahead, collected the last of their belongings, and rushed out to the courtyard.
It proved to be Dimity and Pillover in a hired hack. The Plumleigh-Teignmotts tumbled out with all appearances of having argued vociferously most of the way.
Since Mrs. Temminnick was otherwise occupied, Petunia saw them all situated and gave the coachman instructions to Swiffle-on-Exe with no little pride. She didn’t object to Pillover’s presence, although by rights he ought not to be left alone with the girls. They’d formed a wary friendship at Petunia’s coming-out ball, and she still looked upon him with favor.
“Whoever knew I should grow myself a sensible sister, in the end?” Sophronia settled back against the plush cushions of the carriage. “Do you think it has something to do with the fact that she is increasing?”
Agatha gasped, gesturing to Pillover.
Dimity came to Sophronia’s defense. “Oh, Agatha, he knows where children come from.”
“Yes, but…” Agatha squeaked.
Dimity moved them on for Agatha’s sake. “I should have preferred a sister like yours, Sophronia, rather than old Pill.”
Sophronia protested, “He’s not so bad. Petunia took a long time to grow a brain. Pillover has had one all along.”
“Thank you for that,” muttered Pillover from under his hat. He was slouched in the corner next to his sister. His chin was sunk into his cravat and his attention fixed on a small book of Latin verse. Occasionally, he popped a lemon fizzy sweet into his mouth.
“He’s a dead codfish.” Dimity wrinkled her nose at the fish in question.
At which Pillover gave every outward appearance of intending to ignore them all for the duration of the journey, although he did sneak a few glances in Agatha’s direction.
Bumbersnoot, who had some minor appreciation for Latin verse, sat on one of Pillover’s feet. Pillover fed him bits of brown paper from the sweets wrapper.
“The ladies seem to like him.” Sophronia spoke simply to see whether Pillover would react.
Pillover flinched.
“One of the great mysteries of the universe. Like why anyone would eat cucumber.” Dimity had firm opinions on cucumber, which she felt was nothing more than slimy, embarrassingly shaped water and should never, under any circumstances, be presented at table.
Sophronia moved the conversation on to young men of Dimity’s acquaintance, and which of them might prove a suitable beau. Lord Dingleproops having been long since discarded, there were other prospects to discuss.
Pillover muttered translations down at Bumbersnoot. The mechanimal paid rapt attention.
Sophronia did not mention Soap. She kept silent about his kisses, even knowing the others might benefit from her experience, but she was both mortified and exhilarated by the memory. She did not want her friends to know, fearing their disgust or worse, pity. Her own feelings were conflicted enough—no need to add theirs to the mix. I have a secret lover, she thought. She experienced no little relish over the secrecy part, it must be admitted. It made her feel wise and bold, and better able to advise Dimity on her romantic choices.
Fortunately, Dimity could talk about her beaux, or lack thereof, for the entirety of a carriage ride. The Picklemen and the flywaymen and their valves were only briefly addressed. Pillover bestirred himself to participate in that part of the conversation. But even an insider from Bunson’s couldn’t add to their knowledge. Perhaps because it was Pillover—as insiders went, he never got very far in, as it were.
“We really must wait for the Picklemen to move first.” Sophronia was not happy about this.
Dimity steered them quickly back to boys, for who could be bothered trying to save the nation from an amorphous threat when flirting was on the line?
A Christmas card addressed to Miss Temminnick, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, and Miss Woosmoss was waiting in their shared parlor at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s. In and of itself that was rather charming, as so few people thought—or even knew—of them as a collective. However, this particular card was from Sidheag, which made it all the more delightful. Not that Sidheag was a great wit, or a particularly talented correspondent, but it was nice to hear from her. Once the staunch fourth member of their little band, Lady Kingair was home in Scotland, with her pack and her affianced, preparing to leave the country on what looked to be a protracted campaign in the Crimea. The card said nothing of consequence—mainly pleasant banalities. It also had little of import encoded. After all, Sidheag knew the teachers read their mail, the same teachers who had taught them how to code. But it was nice to know she was well, and her acerbic nature translated into an aggressive script, for all her prose stuck to the strictures of politeness. Sidheag hadn’t stayed long at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, but she had taken some lessons to heart, in the arena of letter writing at least.
“She’s happier there.” Agatha’s tone was sad. Sidheag had been her closest friend.
“How do you think things are with Captain Niall?” Dimity wondered.
“Difficult to tell. It’s not as if she would write that down.” Sophronia and Sidheag shared a dislike of discussing romance.
She gave Dimity a glance of inquiry over Agatha’s bowed head.
Dimity inclined her chin in approval.
“Agatha, would you like to keep the letter?” said Sophronia.
“Oh, may I? You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” Dimity’s smile was warm. Then she glanced down at her necklace timepiece. “Oh, goodness, we have to be in the kitchens in five minutes!”
They had various new lessons, but by far the oddest was, of all things, cooking. Why a respectable female of good standing might need to cook, aside from the occasional poison, was a great mystery. But one did not question Professor Lefoux’s orders. Chopping onions was the worst part, until Dimity discovered one could use floating goggles to good effect. Professor Lefoux was surprised out of her customary dour expression upon finding them attentive to the onions, garbed as if for a flywayman attack.
“Innovative” was her only comment.
With only a week before the New Year’s tea party, the teachers were determined to get the girls back in form quickly. Parties were the best place to practice the art of espionage—holidays, shopping, and Christmas presents notwithstanding. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s young ladies of quality were not allowed to be distracted by anything.
Sophronia tried to deliver Madame Spetuna’s warning to Lady Linette, who was having none of it. “I fail to see why you would make up such a falsehood! How on earth would she be in London? Why reach out to you with such an outlandish story after cutting off contact for all this time? Why send proof to Lord Akeldama and not us? Absurd.”
“But—”
“Silence. Nothing more on the subject!”
After that Lady Linette watched like a hunting hound, and Sophronia could do nothing but apply herself diligently to the routine of classes. She couldn’t shake a feeling of suspension. It was as if she were hanging over an abyss. Any move she made might do more harm than good, and someone might come along at any moment and cut her safety line. She became convinced of, even obsessed with, the fact that Madame Spetuna was their only hope. She was their only contact on the ins
ide.
“It’s so frustrating!” she whinged over tea. “Why won’t Lady Linette even entertain the idea?”
“Why is it you’re good at so many aspects of espionage except the waiting?” Agatha nibbled a bit of orange pound cake.
Dimity answered that. “Because she likes to be in motion. Haven’t you noticed? Our Sophronia is happiest when she is crawling over or swinging around something. Preferably a something that is large and in motion itself.”
“But Lady Linette always says an intelligencer needs patience. And Sophronia is supposed to be one of the best.”
“Maybe because I’ve managed to hide that flaw in my character?” suggested Sophronia. “No, I’ve left it long enough. She hinted at something in the record room that might make Lady Linette believe me. It’s time to break into it.”
“Again?” wailed Dimity. “It destroyed a perfectly lovely dress last time.”
“Come on, it’ll be diverting.” Sophronia’s green eyes lit up with excitement.
“Anyone ever taken you to task for a perfectly horrid idea of diversion?”
“Agatha, you in?” Sophronia turned to the redhead.
Agatha sighed. “I’d rather not. I do prefer sleeping.”
“Dimity?”
“It’s not worth the risk. The New Year’s tea party is too close. You know if we’re caught we’ll be sent down and miss the event. You’ll have to do this one on your own.”
Sophronia grinned. “Tonight, I think, an hour before dawn.”
Agatha was true to her word, but Dimity, of course, ended up coming along. It was too juicy a gossip prospect. While Sophronia was busy looking up Madame Spetuna’s record, Dimity could look up the records of their classmates.
Last time they visited the record room, it had been protected by a soldier mechanical of a viciously viscous inclination. But when they approached the door this time, there was nothing more threatening waiting for them than a folding card table and three small chairs stacked haphazardly against the outside. The furniture looked to have been abandoned. The hallway was eerily empty and free of mechanicals.
Manners & Mutiny Page 11
