Waistcoats & Weaponry (8 page)

Felix’s father, Duke Golborne, was something terribly high up in the Picklemen as well as a peer. The Picklemen were, so far as Sophronia could tell, evil. Not that there was anything especially
wrong
with being evil. But this evil seemed particularly centered on monopolizing political control and undermining everyone else’s power but their own, and that Sophronia didn’t like. She was finding, as she grew older, that she was rather fond of balance… in all things. “Oh, indeed. And what has been
distracting
the duke of late?”

“Now, now, Ria, you think I don’t remember that look of yours?”

“What look?”

“Not unlike a hound on a scent. A very pretty hound, of course.”

Sophronia sighed. “I know, it’s my worst giveaway. I’m mostly good at schooling my features for anger and love and suchlike emotions, but curiosity gets the better of me.”

Felix, clearly thinking of Sophronia and Sidheag’s spectacular rescue infiltration of the Westminster Hive, added sarcastically, “I should say that it does so in more ways than one.”

“Now, now, my lord, you know it’s part of my charm.”

Felix looked as if he doubted it. “You do wear breeches well.”

“They are comfortable and mobile. Why should you boys have all the fun?”

“Next thing you’ll have me in stays.”

Sophronia was surprised to find she rather liked that idea. She thought Felix would look well in a corset, perhaps a black-and-blue one to match his eyes and hair. “Would you like to try? You might fit one of Sidheag’s.”

Felix actually blushed. “Oh, now, I say!”

“It was only an offer.”

Their conversation remained a great deal livelier after that, ranging on topics of interest both evil genius and finishing related. Sophronia even successfully teased him about Pickleman politics, and he looked as if he might have been second-guessing the Picklemen’s interests. Or at least actually thinking about the implications. Eventually, they moved toward the front of the cart to include Dimity and even Pillover in their conversation. The boys managed to put any animosity aside for the duration of the trip. It helped that tea and sandwiches plus hard-boiled eggs and winter apples were consumed. It was hard to be antagonistic over the comfort of food on a rainy day.

I
t was a pleasant trip, in the end, despite the weather and the conveyance. They arrived at Sophronia’s family estate early that evening. It was too late for tea, although Frowbritcher, the mechanical butler, laid out a reserve for the weary travelers.

The engagement party was Mrs. Temminnick’s opportunity to exhibit her hostess technique. With eight children, thrift was a matter of course, but this was her
eldest son
and no expense was to be spared. There were floating lanterns ready to launch as soon as the sun set. There were freight carriers full of goods and errand boys on donkeys arriving at an alarming rate. Sophronia was relieved to see that there were no cheese pies. Mumsy had borrowed extra mechanical staff from the neighbors as well. Sophronia spotted six clangermaids and two buttlinger models of the latest design, certainly not belonging to her family. Frowbritcher, who ordinarily had the most regal of
bearings, as it were, seemed shabby next to the shiny new technology. Extra tracks had been laid down in the public areas of the house, crisscrossing the sitting room and card parlor and bordering the ballroom in artful waving patterns.

After tea, the girls and boys separated to change for the main event. Pillover and Felix were bound to be quicker and so were instructed to attend the other gentlemen in the billiard room once their toilette was complete. The young ladies were put in with Sophronia’s sisters, a milling, giggling throng of primping and gossip.

All attention instantly turned to Sophronia and Dimity, much to Petunia’s annoyance. Petunia was Sophronia’s nearest older sister and, in consequence, a trial.

“Oh, Sophronia, is it true?” asked one of Petunia’s silly friends.

“Of course it’s true, isn’t it always,” replied Sophronia, depositing her shawl and sundry unnecessary luggage in a pile on a settee. Bumbersnoot, lost under the mounds, seemed content to stay quiet. Dimity put her assorted garments on top.

Petunia bustled over, clucking. “What on earth has happened to your hair, sister?”

“I traveled all day in an open cart in the rain!” Sophronia snapped.

Petunia always treated Sophronia as if she were still ten. At Dimity’s startled look, Sophronia realized she was usually better at holding her temper, and took a deep breath, reaching for her training. She would outclass her sister if it killed her.

Petunia continued to cluck and fuss. Soon a gaggle of girls joined her, attacking Sophronia’s flattened locks with curlers
and rags, pins and puffs, falls and flowers. Sophronia stood composed under their siege. Of course, she knew what they wanted of her, but she was not going to make it easy. She allowed them to guide her to a chair in front of a looking glass without offer of information.

Dimity, ignored, drifted to a corner and popped open her carpetbag to extract her costume. It was a modification of her favorite gold ball gown. She’d ordered a new evening bodice for it and added crystals about the neckline in a gearlike pattern. The shape of the skirt, paired with copious gold jewelry, including an ornate tiara, made her look like the queen of mechanicals. It was a lovely effect with her pale complexion and riotous curls—Dimity did not need the benefit of curling tongs. Having donned a smooth mechanical-like mask, she looked enchanting, entirely guileless, and completely trustworthy. She had learned well how to manipulate with clothing. There was something so unthreatening about household mechanicals. Dimity had managed to trade on that fact and still look regal. Sophronia wished she could carry off such a costume.

Sophronia let her sister’s friends fuss. Only she knew that her hair was destined to be scraped back into a severe bun. Best let them have their fun. Behind the group, on the settee, Bumbersnoot awakened. Their pile of garments was weaving erratically. Sophronia drew attention away from him by answering questions.

“Sophronia, what we want to know is, is it true that you’ve brought two eligible members of the peerage with you?” Petunia had no subtlety.

“Dear sister, that should entirely depend on what you mean by eligible.”

“Stop being coy, young lady.”

There was a vast difference between coy and evasive, and Sophronia dearly wanted to instruct but said instead, “I have brought Viscount Mersey and Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott. So far as I know, neither is affianced. For Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott’s part, you might ask his sister. Although he is still young. Even Lord Mersey has not gained his majority.”

The ladies sighed in disappointment.

Sophronia took that as an opportunity to extract herself from their clutches and rummage through her own carpetbag. She also reached under the mackintosh pile and pulled out Bumbersnoot the reticule.

“Be still, you,” she hissed at him.

“What is that hideous thing?” demanded Petunia.

“Oh, dear sister, don’t you know? This is the very latest in animal-shaped reticules out of Italy. You don’t mean to tell me you are
that
out of touch with the current modes? How sad for you to be trapped in the countryside.”

Petunia said, through her teeth, “Of course I heard of the craze, but I should not think myself so lacking in individuality as to adopt an accessory simply because it is the latest thing in some backwater foreign country!”

“It is the latest thing in London as well, or didn’t you know even that much?” Sophronia was going to run with it. Bumbersnoot, for his part, remained perfectly still, like a good little dog. Although she thought she saw a twinkle of mischief in
his jet eyes. She put him carefully under the settee, and then draped a shawl over the edge, as if protecting him from the avarice in the eyes of those around her. It would give Bumbersnoot a chance to explore discreetly.

Sophronia would have wagered her best
robe à transformation
that Petunia wanted nothing so much at that moment as to go to finishing school herself.

The girls around her murmured in distress as Sophronia began to dress.

“You don’t have to wear that, do you?” said one.

Sophronia had begged an old dress from Sister Mattie. It was black and severe and could be thought a mourning gown, it was so plain. Over the last few weeks she had tailored it into a narrow silhouette, most unfashionable.

“Sophronia, dear, it’s so ugly!” remonstrated Petunia.

Sophronia pulled it on. She looked well in black, and as a young lady with no deaths in the family, she rarely had the opportunity to wear it. It went on easily. Sister Mattie did not employ a lady’s maid, so all of her dresses fastened up the front. But what Sophronia, Dimity, Agatha, and Sidheag had spent their free time doing to that dress was ingenious.

They had cut it in and down at the collar so that Sophronia wore it over a white blouse. Both were low enough, however, to show a goodly amount of cleavage. Sophronia had very nice cleavage and was under orders from Mademoiselle Geraldine to take advantage of it.
One never knows when one might need to hide or distract; décolletage is good for both
. Hers were nothing on Mademoiselle Geraldine’s own considerable assets, but then, whose were? The bodice was tailored all the way to her waist,
nipped in further with a wide, stiff leather belt. The effect was almost like a blacksmith’s apron, giving Sophronia a utilitarian, masculine look. The white underskirt was full enough to disguise the fact that it was actually divided down the middle and could act as trousers if necessary. Over this was draped the skirt of the black gown, split up each side so it looked even more apronlike. To it they had sewn multiple pockets in shades of black and gray, in variable sizes, largest and lightest at the bottom, smallest and darkest near the waist, forming a pattern. In those pockets Sophronia had stashed useful objects. Not that she expected trouble, but she had the pockets so she might as well use them.

“Sophronia, what
are
you meant to be?” Petunia was disgusted.

Sophronia pulled out her mask; it was an asymmetrical slash of black lace, like a large smudge. “I’m a sootie, of course.”

The young ladies all gasped. Imagine going to a masquerade as something lower class! There was some muttering about the fact that at least Sophronia wouldn’t be competing for masculine attention.

“Well,” sniffed Petunia, “I suppose we should be glad you didn’t actually don masculine attire.”

Sophronia blinked at her.
Yes, yes you should
. She said, “Oh, dear, do you think this too plain?”

“Of course it’s too plain!”

“I was thinking of your finer feelings, sister dear. I wouldn’t want to distract the gentlemen. After all, I’m not officially out yet. You’re on the market; you should have first crack.”

“Oh, well, that’s very thoughtful, Sophronia.” Petunia fluffed
the skirts of her shepherdess outfit, trying not to look pleased by the consideration.

Dimity grinned from behind her mechanical mask.

Sophronia winked at her.

They both knew the truth. The very plainness of Sophronia’s dress would make it stand out in a sea of color. Besides, Sophronia had the figure to carry it off. After a stint at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, she also had the bearing. Also, the simplicity would make others underestimate her, never a bad thing. Sophronia loved the gown for its practicality and for its nod to her friends belowdecks. Soap would have thought it a great joke. After all, it looked like a feminine version of the apron he wore to shovel coal.

The ball had started, but there was still an hour or more before they could safely go down without being thought desperate. Sophronia and Dimity made their way to the settee corner. Sophronia occupied herself checking the sharpness of her scissors and letter opener and wishing for a bladed fan while relaying softly some of her conversation with Felix in the cart.

Suddenly an excited twittering emanated from the door, opened by a very uncomfortable-looking Pillover. He cleared his throat.

Before he could say anything, Dimity pushed through the crowd to face him. “Pill, you aren’t supposed to
be
here. We’re dressing!”

Pillover grumbled something unintelligible. Dimity nodded. She replied sharply and then shut the door in his face.

The hubbub died down and the young ladies returned to fixing masks and fussing with hair, now accompanied by discussion
of Pillover’s finer points. This startled Sophronia and Dimity—who would have thought he had any? Apparently his complexion was considered lovely, and he was a nice height for dancing, and the sullen glumness came off as deliciously mysterious.

“Don’t you want to cuddle and console him? Poor darling, he looks so unhappy,” said one, pulling on long white gloves.

“I wager he’s had his heart broken,” suggested another. She wore the costume of a Greek goddess—swathes of white silk draped over a turquoise ball gown and large crinoline. She was one of many who had opted for the classics. “I should love to be the one to repair his tortured soul.”

Dimity made her way back to Sophronia, not bothering to advocate for or against her sibling. Pillover would suffer the slings and arrows of willing young ladies without her help. “Pillover needs to talk. Alone. He’s been trying to all along, apparently, but Felix has always been there. I told him to wait in the gazebo. I knew he’d remember it from before.”

The gazebo had been the location of all the fuss with the prototype and Monique the first time Dimity and Pillover had attended a party at the Temminnicks’. It burned down as a result, but Sophronia’s mother had had it rebuilt bigger and better. Sophronia had used the reconstruction to hide her stolen airdinghy. The small aircraft seemed a part of the roof structure, hidden in plain sight like a basket figurehead on top.

Sophronia looked around at the excited young ladies. “We’ll never escape unseen. Too many people at too close quarters.”

Dimity nodded. “I think he mainly needs to talk to you. I’ll create a distraction. If the message was meant for both of us,
he’d have told me himself while you were flirting with Felix. It’ll be easier for you to get around with all the borrowed mechanicals. In that outfit you might be taken as staff, so long as you avoid family.”

Sophronia reached below the settee, grabbed Bumbersnoot, and shoved him under the throw rug in one corner of the room with an encouraging “Go ahead.”

Bumbersnoot began to explore, a moving lump under the carpet.

“There’s your distraction. You can keep him safe?”

Dimity smiled. “In this crowd? Of course. Most of them will faint, and the others are silly.”

It was a fair assessment. “Yet you still want to be one of them?”

“It’s not the deceit I object to, Sophronia dear, it’s the danger.”

With which Dimity made her way to the settee. For a short moment she stared fixedly at the rug where the Bumbersnoot lump moved. Then she threw her head back and shrieked at the top of her lungs. “Rat! Eeeeeek!” With which she hopped up onto the settee, upending the mound of discarded clothing onto the floor and on top of poor Bumbersnoot once more. “Eeek! There it goes, get it! Eeeeeee!”

Without even seeing the alleged rat themselves, the girls in that corner of the room all fainted. Those near to a couch or chair got up on top of it, screaming themselves. This proved challenging on the cushier furniture and with longer skirts. One or two fell over; a few pushed others off in order to gain the high ground. This caused more shrieks. Still others cried out in
sympathy, for the sake of exacerbating the hysteria. The chaos was instant and intense. With all attention on Dimity, Sophronia slid out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.