Waistcoats & Weaponry (3 page)

The girls crowded around, fascinated.

Captain Niall switched from instruction to commentary.

“Now Miss Temminnick has taken up the Valkyrie flip. Note the curves of her movements? And a very nice snap of the wrist there from Miss Buss.”

Sophronia caught the flicker of the werewolf’s hands as he gestured for the other students to collectively do something, but her attention was taken up with Preshea.

The ground beneath her feet became uneven and squishy. Captain Niall was using the crowd to herd the two fighters onto the bank of the stream.

Sophronia had barely a moment to realize this, for several things happened in quick succession.

Preshea stripped the leather guard off her fan. With a yell of triumph she cut in, slicing at Sophronia’s unprotected face.

Sophronia reeled, raising her free hand in defense. Her pagoda sleeve fell away, exposing the undersleeve. Preshea’s fan sliced easily through the muslin and into the flesh below Sophronia’s left elbow. A few of the younger girls shrieked. There was a thump and skirts rustled. Dimity had fainted.

Captain Niall cried halt, but Preshea was out for more blood. A look came into her beautiful eyes that was more common during poison class. Captain Niall would have intervened, but Sophronia met his eyes briefly and shook her head. She did not strip the guard off her own fan, but she did switch from defense to attack. Also, she began to employ not only the slashing letter-opener technique Captain Niall had taught her but some of the dirty fighting she’d learned from Soap.

She commenced a flurry of quick nips and twists, half-
fleur
attacks designed to alarm but not injure. Preshea was forced
to guard, not realizing that Sophronia’s real intent was to edge about so that she was uphill from her opponent. Soon Sophronia was pressing Preshea back, closer to the stream.

With her injured arm, Sophronia reached for her chatelaine and the small bottle of perfume dangling there, the one they were instructed to carry at all times. She used to stock rose oil, but an incident during her debut had left her with a marked preference for lemon-infused tinctures in a metal flask with snap-top lid.

With Preshea distracted by the wickedly darting fan, Sophronia poured out a quantity of the perfumed alcohol with, and into, her free hand. Then she flicked the liquid into Preshea’s eyes.

The girl squealed and stumbled back, straight into the stream, landing on her bottom with a splash. Her beautiful skirts poufed out around her before sagging as they absorbed the muddy water. The skirts—a rich purple color, in a modern petal cut—looked remarkably like a water lily before they deflated. Afterward, the dress looked more like a wrinkled old prune.

There was a round of giggles and some gloved applause from their fellow students.

Being a true gentleman, Captain Niall went into the stream to offer Preshea a hand up.

“Now, Miss Buss, bloodthirstiness is all well and good, but you ought to have stopped the moment you bloodied Miss Temminnick. First blood always ends a duel.”

Preshea pouted prettily and offered no excuse, although she eagerly accepted his assistance.

The werewolf turned to Sophronia. “Miss Temminnick, commendable defense. You are to be applauded for not buckling under the pain. Now let Lady Kingair see to your injury. Lady Kingair?”

Of course, Captain Niall would suppose that Sidheag had knowledge of wounds, being the child of a werewolf pack. But Sidheag was not there.

Captain Niall’s boyish face looked older when he frowned. “Where is Lady Kingair? It’s not like her to miss my class. Miss Woosmoss?”

Agatha looked panicked by the direct attention of the teacher.

“Called away by Professor Lefoux,” said Sophronia, gritting her teeth at the pain, which, now that she’d stopped running about with a fan, was quite intense. “She had a pigeon.”

Captain Niall continued to frown. “
A pigeon?
We shall see about that. Miss Woosmoss, perhaps you would wrap Miss Temminnick’s arm? I think you are not the type to faint.”

Agatha nodded, colored, and shook her head, trying to respond to both statements without actually saying anything.

“Good girl.”

Sophronia, feeling weak, sat down abruptly on the mossy bank, despite the inevitable damage to her own skirts. Oh, well, her dress was probably ruined anyway; blood was near to impossible to get out of silk.

Agatha squeaked and ran over to her.

Rather callously, Captain Niall continued with class. “Ladies! What did we learn from Miss Temminnick’s tactics?”

“She used the terrain to her advantage,” said one.

“Exactly so, obstacles are not always a detriment. What else?”

“Uh, sir,” came a timid voice. “It’s Dimity, sir. She’s fainted.”

Captain Niall, well used to Dimity, since his classes were the ones most likely to produce blood, said only, “Apply the smelling salts to the silly chit, do.”

He turned back to Sophronia. “The arm?”

“I’ll do,” said Sophronia, although the pain was, if possible, more intense under Agatha’s ministrations. The redhead had dipped her handkerchief into the creek and was patting clumsily at the gash.

Sophronia realized why the werewolf was keeping his distance and acting so uncaring. She explained in a low voice to Agatha, “He won’t come check. My blood probably smells too tasty.”

Agatha blanched and looked with wide eyes at their teacher, whose general attitude and demeanor were not significantly different from normal. He was very good at putting on a front. They had learned from Sidheag that this was also a sign of age in werewolves.

Sophronia said to Agatha, “Why not apply some of my lemon tincture? Sister Mattie always says alcohol helps clean cuts, and the lemon scent will hide the smell of my blood.”

Agatha reached for the little bottle hanging from Sophronia’s waist. Since she hadn’t recapped it during the fight, most of it had sloshed out, but there was enough left to pour over the wound. Agatha then wrapped Sophronia’s arm with her handkerchief.

“All good, Captain Niall,” said Sophronia as Agatha helped her to stand.

The werewolf sniffed and then raised both eyebrows. “Goodness, I can’t even smell… Miss Woosmoss, what did you do?”

Agatha said tremulously, “Sophronia’s idea, sir. We used her perfume to clean the wound and modify the scent.”

Captain Niall came over. “Remarkable.” He turned back to the other girls. “Now, who would like to duel next? Keeping the leather guards on this time, please.”

Sophronia retreated up the bank to sit next to Dimity, who was coming ’round.

“What did I miss?” Dimity sat up, patting at her bonnet to check the straw for injury.

“Oh, nothing much, I dumped Preshea in the river.” Sophronia gestured to where Preshea stood, bedraggled and shivering in a shawl, surrounded by solicitous girls.

“Oh, bother. That’s your best so far.”

Sophronia grinned. “You know, I might agree with you there.” She looked down at the fan she still held in her good hand. “I believe I may have to get myself one of these. Do you think they are available on Bond Street or will I have to special order?”

“You will have to order several in different colors to match all your outfits,” said Dimity with conviction. She was always serious about the fashionable side of matters deadly.

Sophronia groaned. “How will I get Mumsy to outlay? There’s Ephraim’s engagement ball coming up. She’s bound to hold that against me for funding reasons. You’ve no idea how lucky you are to have only one sibling. Being an intelligencer is rather an expensive undertaking.”

Dimity smiled. “How about getting a patron? Lady Linette did just instruct us to start considering our options.”

Sophronia grimaced; there were no good options. Everything meant lack of independence. “Quality marriage or patronage.”

“You have to pay back the school somehow.”

“I’m not ready to marry yet.”

That, Dimity didn’t understand. “Not even Felix Mersey—rich and handsome?”

Sophronia replied, her tone wistful, “Oh, no, Dimity, you know I couldn’t. Sidheag would never forgive me.”

“Why? Oh, because his father is a Pickleman?”

“Sidheag has a supernatural’s mistrust of Picklemen.”

Dimity said, “I’m not deeply keen on them myself.”

Sophronia arched an eyebrow in agreement.

Dimity sighed. “So no marriage; then what are your plans for patronage after we leave?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. Lord Akeldama seems nice enough—I’m not sure I want to be a vampire’s drone, though. Do you think he’d take me on under indenture without a feeding plan?”

Dimity returned to the immediate necessity. “Regardless, he wants you, so ask him for a fan.”

“What a shocking suggestion.”

“You’re keeping what he’s sent so far. How is a fan any worse?”

Sophronia paused to consider the odd Lord Akeldama. During a Westminster Hive infiltration, when she and Sidheag had rescued Dimity, Sophronia had met and formulated a strange
friendship with the dandy vampire. Seemingly without the ordinary formalities, he had taken her under his wing. He occasionally sent her small goodies of a fashionable, deadly, or silly persuasion—often all three. If Sophronia wasn’t convinced of the vampire’s romantic disinterest, she might have thought them courting gifts. The presents were so lovely she couldn’t help but keep them, even though by all standards of decency she ought to have sent them right back to London. Sophronia suspected that actually requesting something specific, like a bladed fan, might be considered presumptuous, or worse, open her up to indenture and contractual obligation. Patronage was a sticky business, especially for a female intelligencer. If only Professor Braithwope were more mentally present. He was the one to ask.

Perhaps she would work on Mumsy first for the necessary, or see if she could get a message to Vieve at Bunson’s. Vieve was Professor Lefoux’s niece, now under cover of mustache at the local boys’ school. A great inventor and friend, she might choose to make a bladed fan as a challenge, or take umbrage with the request, as it had been made before.

Sophronia switched topics. “Whatever else is the case, I need to pay closer attention to Soap’s lessons in dirty fighting. Flicking perfume in the face was his idea.”

“What?”

“Oh, you missed that bit. I slung scent in Preshea’s eyes.”

“Jolly good.”

“Soap taught me the technique.”

“Your sootie beau? Of course he would teach you such a thing.”

“He’s not my beau!”

“Whatever you say.”

Agatha came wandering over. “What’s going on now?”

“Sophronia’s muttering about visiting her sootie beau for more lessons in ungentlewomanly conduct.”

“Oh, dear me, no. Sophronia, I don’t think it wise to encourage him.” Agatha paled, making her freckles pop out under the moonlight.

Sophronia blushed. “Not that kind of thing. I mean dirty fighting.”

Agatha pursed her lips. “Of course you do.”

Sophronia turned away to watch the other girls fight. She had no way to defend herself on this particular subject. Sometimes she was horribly afraid her friends knew more than she did about her relationship with Soap. Ask her to learn a new weapon and she was ready and able, but learning how to cope with boys and affection still seemed elusive.

Mercifully, Captain Niall left them to recover while the rest of the class practiced fanning. An hour or so later, he shuffled them all back up the staircase. Sophronia, Agatha, and Dimity were the last up, only to find that Sidheag was waiting patiently at the top.

She was wearing an expression of such unhappiness, they all knew instantly that something was horribly wrong.

A
gatha ran the last few steps to the Scottish girl and placed an arm about her waist, squeezing her close. The redhead’s round face was puckered in concern.

Sidheag certainly looked in need of that supporting arm. For the first time, Sophronia thought of her friend as willowy and frail, rather than tall and gawky.

“My dear, what has happened?” Dimity demanded, bracing herself as if against a physical blow, her tiny fists clenched.

“Who needs to be killed?” Sophronia asked, trying to lighten the mood but also feeling quite murderous at the very idea that anyone might cause her unflappable friend such pain.

Sidheag dismissed both their offers of support and Agatha’s arm. “I can’t… it’s not… I just…” Her amber eyes caught the moonlight as she looked past them. “Captain Niall, please wait! Could you spare a moment to talk? Please?”

The werewolf was preparing to retreat behind a whortleberry bush to change forms and dash off into the night hunting rabbits, or something equally small and fuzzy.

Instead, he approached the base of the staircase, shading his eyes against the glare of the well-lit ship. He sniffed, not in hauteur, but like an animal tasting the air.

“Lady Kingair, what’s wrong?” He sniffed again. His voice changed, becoming rough and gravelly. “What has happened?”

Sidheag moved away from her friends. “I must talk to the captain. Only he can help.”

They let her go, reluctantly.

Sidheag stumbled as she climbed down, falling the last few steps.

Captain Niall caught her easily, supernatural strength barely troubled by her weight.

Once in his arms, she folded in on herself, broken.

The werewolf said something to her, so low the girls watching could not hear. Then he set her back on her feet. They were matched in height. Lady Linette would say that they’d dance well together. Except that Sidheag was a terrible dancer.

Sidheag raised her head, saying something soft in reply. Captain Niall responded with a gentle squeeze to the arm. Overcome once more, Sidheag crumpled, shoulders heaving. The werewolf whisked her off, his supernatural speed used in sympathy for once, into the darkness of the moor and away from prying eyes.

Sophronia, Dimity, and Agatha were left once again without their friend, alone at the top of the stairs. At least Sidheag’s
behavior had not been observed. The shame of it, to show weakness and then affection, with a teacher!

Dimity’s hand was pressed to her mouth, her eyes widened against sympathetic tears. Agatha looked almost as shaky as Sidheag, so that Sophronia slipped an arm about her waist. They stood like that for a long time until a polite cough caught Sophronia’s attention.

“Miss, we need to crank up the stair.”

Sophronia turned to find Soap, standing shipside.

He looked about to crack one of his customary cheeky smiles. But the moment he saw her expression, he schooled his own and flitted over to join them. “What in all aether’s happened? Sophronia, are you hurt?” Usually he was punctiliously formal. They must look truly upset for him to call Sophronia by name.

“We don’t know.” A great deal of frustration colored Sophronia’s voice.

Soap’s eyes bored into hers, as if they were alone. “Not you?” His gaze flicked to her bandaged arm.

Sophronia shook her head. “No, I’m well. Just a little scrape with a fan. It’s Sidheag.”

Dimity tugged at her sleeve. “I’m sure this is a private matter! Hush.”

“Soap is her friend, too.”

Dimity bit her lip, uncomfortable with sharing anything that had so traumatized Sidheag with an underling, or a boy, or an outsider. Despite Soap’s ongoing friendship with Sophronia, Dimity was too much a lady not to see him as all three, all the time.

Dimity hissed, “Sidheag is
Lady Kingair
. I know that mostly
we forget she’s all over titled, being Scottish and such, but still, should Lady Kingair
be
friends with a sootie?”

“Oh, Dimity, don’t be so snobbish. Sidheag can choose her own friends. And he might know something.”

Soap was clearly chuffed at Sophronia’s ready defense. Still, he responded to the meat of the matter. “Know something? About Lady Kingair? Not recently. Why, is she unwell?”

Sophronia shook her head helplessly. “Something has gone pear shaped. She received a pigeon and now she’s gone off into the moor with Captain Niall.”

“And she was crying. Sidheag. I shouldn’t have thought it possible,” whispered Agatha.

Soap considered. “Pigeon, huh? I’ll see what I can dig up. And now, before we all get into trouble, would you mind backing away from the stair, please? We have orders.”

Much sobered, the three made their way at a run to their next lesson. They had Lady Linette, and even with an emotional crisis of epic proportions, it wasn’t done to be late to a lesson with Lady Linette. They couldn’t even claim fashion as an excuse—Lady Linette forgave tardiness on account of style. But all three of them had grass stains on their gowns, and Sophronia’s sleeve was ripped and bloody. They were certain to get into trouble.

“Girls, why are you so very late?” Lady Linette’s blonde curls were perfectly arranged to spill over one shoulder in a style ill suited to a woman of her years. She wore too much face paint and a dress overly poufy and of that exact shade of pale green that became no one. But Lady Linette overdressed
with purpose
. She was actually prettier and younger underneath, and would
be quite the thing if she actually dressed her age, gave up rinsing her hair, and forayed into jewel-toned fabrics. For a reason Sophronia had yet to fathom, Lady Linette did not. She kept up the facade, and the girls, who had now mostly figured out that it was one, kept it with her. This, too, was part of their training.

Lady Linette’s anger, however, was not faked. She turned it on Sophronia. “Explain yourself, young lady.”

“Stairway wasn’t working well. It started to go up while we were still on it, caused quite a ruckus. You might want to have it checked next time you have a mechanic in.”

“Oh, indeed?”

Sophronia knew that the sooties would back her up in her fib, so long as she could get to them first.
I guess I’m visiting the sooties this evening.

Lady Linette probably knew it, too, for she didn’t pursue the reprimand. “I suppose that explains your abysmal attire as well?”

All three girls nodded.

“Well, don’t let it happen again. You should have allowed time to change. You’re old enough not to be overset by misbehaving stairways.”

They all bobbed simultaneous perfect curtsies and chorused in unison, “Yes, Lady Linette.”

“Or misbehaving vampires?” muttered Sophronia, under her breath.

Lady Linette flicked a curl at her. “Now that you have reminded me, Miss Temminnick, please stay after class. I must have a chat with you about that thing on your wrist.”

In the time it took Lady Linette to say it, Sophronia had
unbuckled the hurlie behind her back and passed it surreptitiously to Dimity.

“Of course, Lady Linette.”

Lady Linette gestured for them to sit. In her classroom, seats were made up of plush ottomans and sofas. They resided alongside velvet curtains and tables covered in gold brocade. The room had a definite boudoir-of-ill-repute feeling.

As it turned out, this was well suited to their lesson.

Sophronia and Dimity took a vacant love seat at the front, Sophronia dislodging a large, fluffy cat with a scrunched-up face. The cat gave her a disgusted look. Or seemed to; it was hard to tell with that face.

Agatha scuttled to the back, sitting alone on a hassock, as if she were truly in trouble. She slouched and stared at her feet, until Lady Linette reprimanded her and then began the lesson.

“Ladies, it has been decided that you are now old enough for lessons in the fine art of seduction. And so we will begin with multidirectional flirting. Few of you will have the opportunity to practice on boys for a good while yet, since we are no longer keeping company with Bunson’s.” She turned suddenly to Sophronia and Dimity. “Except you ladies, of course. I understand Miss Temminnick’s brother has recently acquired a fiancée? And that you two have leave to attend his engagement masquerade?”

They nodded.

“Well, pay close attention, then, masquerade balls are ideal practice grounds.” She turned back and began instruction.

“She’s still angry about it,” hissed Dimity to Sophronia.

They had gone behind Lady Linette’s back to the headmistress
with their absence request. Mademoiselle Geraldine would grant permission purely on the grounds of marriage prospects, despite the fact that neither girl was officially
out
. Lady Linette would have thwarted the whole thing; it wasn’t done to take off in the middle of session. But Mademoiselle Geraldine agreed with Sophronia that engagement balls were mandatory when one was related to the groom—it was the family’s only opportunity for ostentatious show. Dimity had taken more effort. Finally, they had hit upon the fact that Dimity’s birthday was around the same time. Mademoiselle Geraldine had proved amenable, and Lady Linette had been forced to make a show of following the headmistress’s orders.

“Seduction in its purest form is a never-ending acquisition of knowledge about another individual. Every male is a new challenge, every occasion warrants a different approach. Take the greatest of care when applying these techniques, for they can be more dangerous than actual weaponry.”

The girls all straightened. Lady Linette’s lessons were always interesting, but seduction was supposed to be the best. What young lady didn’t want to know how to manipulate a man? This was what finishing school was all about!

“You already have eyelash fluttering and flirting with fan and parasol, now let us consider holding a man’s gaze with intent and purpose. This can be perceived as a bold stance, an outright challenge, or an unspoken offer. Let me demonstrate.” Lady Linette came before each of them and with a few micromovements of lashes and lids demonstrated the differences among the three gazes. Each girl tried each gaze in return, feeling awkward, and then practiced on a partner for several
minutes, feeling even more awkward. Periodically, fits of giggles interrupted the concentrated staring.

Eventually Dimity said, “Lady Linette, I don’t mean to be ignorant, but what, exactly, is the
unspoken offer
? I mean to say, how do I know if I don’t know, as it were?”

“Ah, yes, seduction. Have you read some of those horrid Gothics floating about? Oh, now, don’t be coy, I’ve seen copies of
The Monk
passing from hand to hand. It’s not forbidden, not at
this
school. Such an offer can encompass all things that men, as a general rule, require of women—from a kiss on the hand to one on the neck to the lips and beyond.”

Dimity’s eyes went owlish. “There’s a
beyond
?”

“Don’t interrupt, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott. Where was I? Oh, yes. Then there is touching. A man may try to put his hands anywhere upon you, if you let him. A gentleman, of course, will ask first, but he will still try.”

“Anywhere?” squeaked Dimity.

“Anywhere,” said Lady Linette darkly.

“Oh, my.”

Sophronia giggled at Dimity’s awe. She herself was equipped with older brothers, several of whom attended university. Even before finishing school she had enjoyed eavesdropping on her family. As a result of indiscreet conversations between said brothers, she was rather more familiar with the intentions of young gentlemen than she ought to be. Apparently, gentlemen not only liked to kiss and touch women everywhere, they did that and more, on a regular basis, and mostly not with ladies at all, but with women of less genteel breeding. Some gentlemen, her brothers had whispered, even did it with each other.
Although this was considered quite uncouth, Sophronia gathered, once one left Eton.

“Is that what the longing look is offering?” Dimity wanted to know.

“Generally speaking, yes. It is an invitation.”

“Oh, dear, rather powerful, isn’t it?”

Sophronia suspected Dimity would never look a man in the face again, for fear of issuing invitations.

“This is why you must master the differences among the three, not to mention the nature and length of the look itself. Facial expressions, my dears, can be thought of as part of one’s toilette. In fact, clothing can also transmit messages. Tight stays, for example, offer up to the gentleman the slenderness of one’s waist. Wouldn’t he like to put his hands about it? A low décolletage suggests that he might like to touch, just there.”

All the girls gasped. A few who were wearing dresses with low necklines surreptitiously tried to tug them up.

Sophronia found herself thinking of Felix Mersey. The young viscount had taken rather a shine to her, almost a year ago now, and they maintained a cautiously civil correspondence. The kind of correspondence no parent would sniff at. Although Sophronia’s mother might have had the vapors if she’d known her daughter was receiving missives from a duke’s son. Vapors of joy, mind you. Once or twice Sophronia had, rather desperately, searched between Felix’s brief lines of courteous discourse for something more. But Lord Mersey either hadn’t it in him to pen words of love, or had lost his taste for Sophronia after her Westminster Hive infiltration. In which case, his letters were mere formality from a gentleman who
would not be so rude as to break off a courtship via the written word. Sophronia suspected the latter. After all, it would shake any gentleman’s regard to find the object of his affection dressed as a male dandy and cavorting about with a chimney sweep.