Waistcoats & Weaponry (9 page)

After a year and a half of ghosting about a finishing school for intelligencers, a place riddled with tracks and malevolent mechanicals of all kinds, she found her own house easy by comparison. Most of the human staff were already downstairs attending to early guests and dressed gentlemen. A few mechanicals trundled along, under orders, none of them equipped with proximity alarms or remotely interested in Sophronia. She belonged here; why should it matter that she was out and about?

Her parents and sundry older siblings were already at the ball. Petunia was upstairs screaming at Bumbersnoot, so there was only the twins to worry about. They must be off causing mischief for her mother, as Sophronia made it through the house and out into the garden without attracting attention. Or perhaps she had learned more than she thought at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s.

“I have a message from Lady Kingair,” said Pillover, without the courtesy of a greeting. He was slouching on a rail of the gazebo, plucking dolefully at a camellia bush.

Sophronia respected brevity. “I was hoping someone might.”

“I’m the best and most trustworthy option of a bad lot, I suppose.”

Sophronia held out her hand.

Pillover shook his head. “Naw, it came via Vieve, verbal only. Too dangerous to keep written, scamp said.”

Sophronia flipped up her hand, looking about to make
absolutely certain they were enjoying complete privacy. A few stable hands walked toward the front of the house from the barn. Carriages were beginning to arrive. They were out of earshot. Above them the basket of Sophronia’s misappropriated airdinghy nested comfortably. Someone could hide in there, she supposed. Quickly she pulled out her letter opener and jabbed through the wicker of the gondola. No one screamed and there was no blood, although Pillover watched her do this with mild disgust.

Sophronia jumped back down and nodded at him to continue. She stashed her letter opener.

Pillover said, “Sidheag says her werewolves are in trouble. Kingair Pack has been disgraced.” Pillover looked as if he had swallowed something unpleasant. “They were caught planning to murder Queen Victoria. Lord Maccon has abandoned them and is contemplating challenging Lord Woolsey to take over the pack near London.”

“Oh, my goodness!” said Sophronia. “Treason?”

“Attempted treason.”

“
And
Alpha abandonment.” Sophronia could understand the Laird of Kingair’s anger, but it put everyone at risk. A werewolf pack without an Alpha could be very dangerous. Quickly, she calculated the next full moon. Right ’round the corner; without an Alpha, the pack’s madness could be particularly brutal. “I hope the clavigers are ready.”

Pillover continued, “Sidheag has gone to London to intercept Lord Maccon, try to turn him back to his duty. He’s needed to keep the Kingair Pack in order, especially now. Seems his
Beta planned it all and Lord Maccon killed him before heading south.”

Kingair had no Alpha
and
no Beta? Sophronia paled. She’d never heard of such a thing in the whole history of openly accepted supernaturals.
Who is controlling the pack? They could run mad
. Every one of those werewolves was an uncle to Sidheag; this would account for her upset. Her one and only family was fractured beyond all possible repair. This was the werewolf version of those unspeakable divorces so popular on the Continent! “Poor Sidheag! What are we to do?”

Pillover shrugged, sublimely unconcerned. Or perhaps he always expected bad news and thus was never surprised by it. “I’m only the messenger.”

Further discussion was stopped by a whip crack of a cry. “Ho there, young man!”

Pillover jumped away from Sophronia, barking his elbow on the gazebo railing. “Ouch!”

Sophronia turned to face the house. “Mumsy!”

“Sophronia Angelina Temminnick, what are you doing alone in the garden with a
boy
!”

“Um,” said Sophronia.

Pillover rubbed his elbow.

Mrs. Temminnick turned her wrath on the unfortunate young man. “Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott, this is too bad! I am shocked, shocked, I say. After we welcomed you into our home last winter! I trust you will make an honest woman of my daughter?”

“Mother! Pillover is
only
fourteen!”

“Oh ho,
Pillover
, is it? What have they been teaching you at
finishing school? To meet a young man in the gardens, alone and unchaperoned…”

“Really, Mother! He is a veritable hobbledehoy. Don’t be silly.”

“Oh, thank you for that,” muttered Pillover, utterly dejected. Which fortunately made him seem less threatening.

Sophronia said smoothly, “My school has trained me to recognize when a young man offers no risk. He is my dearest friend’s younger brother. I asked him to see me ’round the garden. I was feeling most unwell after that cart ride, and the rain has abated somewhat.”

“Don’t you dare talk back, young lady!” Mrs. Temminnick looked at Pillover with new eyes. He did seem as if he could barely muster enough energy to hold his own head up, let alone menace her daughter. It obviously took great effort for him to speak to, let alone kiss, a lady. There was clearly no threat to her daughter’s reputation, aside from the fact that they had been caught alone together. Mrs. Temminnick checked to see if anyone else had noticed. No one had. Still, the value of having her youngest daughter trussed up at only sixteen?

Sophronia perfectly followed her mother’s thought process. “Mumsy, the ball is to start soon; everyone must be looking for you. If you leave quickly, Pill and I will return separately, with no one the wiser.”

Mrs. Temminnick wasn’t going to let them get away that easily. “I will be looking into the Plumleigh-Teignmott family. If Mr. Temminnick thinks them suitable, we will arrange the match. I know what is happening here, daughter, even if you
are both too young. I demand an
understanding
. Do you understand, Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott?”

Pillover shrugged, which was his response to everything.

Sophronia blinked. “If you insist.” There was no point in arguing further at the moment.

Shortly thereafter, Sophronia slid back into the dressing room full of primping ladies. No one had noticed her absence.

“Well?” hissed Dimity. “How’d it go?”

“You were right, Sidheag had a message for me. Although I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the information.” She quickly relayed the bulk of Pillover’s communications.

Dimity was suitably appalled. “Treason
and
murder? Lord Maccon’s abandonment is totally understandable, of course. To conspire against the queen is to conspire against the Alpha.”

Sophronia nodded. It was the stitching that kept the fabric of an integrated society together. Supernatural leaders, in their way, were Queen Victoria’s strong arm. To betray her was to betray them. Sidheag was the one who’d taught them that very fact. “Anything else, dare I ask?”

“Yes, unfortunately, I seem to have gotten myself secretly engaged to your brother.”

Dimity raised her eyebrows. “Oh, dear. Although I should like to have you for a sister-in-law, of course.”

Sophronia glared at her.

“Well, yes, Pillover is
perfectly
ghastly. But does that really matter? He’d make an amenable husband. You could do whatever you liked, take any patron you wanted. Secretly run the empire as Her Majesty’s Mistress Intelligencer and he’d never
notice. So long as you kept him well supplied with bacon and books.”

Sophronia smiled. “I suppose we could play with it for a while. But I will have to find a nice way to jilt him, eventually.”

Dimity sighed and twirled her mask. “Of course you will. But it will be fun to torture Pillover in the interim.”

Sophronia’s smile turned into a grin. “Not to mention Felix Mersey.”

Dimity’s eyes sparkled. “My, yes!”

So it was that Sophronia attended her brother’s engagement masquerade secretly engaged herself. Mrs. Temminnick insisted Pillover be Sophronia’s escort and take the first dance. A very surprised Lord Mersey was forced to lead in Dimity. Thus paired, they undertook the opening quadrille with great discomfort on the part of everyone, except perhaps Sophronia, who was starting to view it all as a joke. She flirted shamelessly with Pillover, who told her to stop it in tones of such abject misery she almost pitied him.

The ball was certainly up to snuff. Sophronia felt proudly that it was good enough to impress even a man of Felix’s standing. Preshea would have found flaws, but it was a vast improvement on last year’s ball. The masquerade dresses were divine. The masks were varied, and Ephraim looked ridiculously happy dancing with his fluff of a bride-to-be. She was a pretty, jolly sort. It was impossible to determine her costume, with so many layers of white and pink. Sophronia settled on cupcake.

She recognized most everyone in attendance, even with
masks. After all, the society afforded by the local gentry was not varied. There were a few unknown young ladies, friends of the bride, and a gaggle of older folk of a similar jolly roundness that suggested familial relations. Behind them stood a tall young man who held himself beautifully, if a little stiffly, wearing a full mask of black velvet and a wig of a style popular some hundred years ago among the French nobility. His costume matched the wig, complete with velvet coat and satin breeches of dark silver, and waistcoat and gloves of bloodred. He reminded Sophronia of her vampire friend, Lord Akeldama. Had the vampire sent her a message via drone? The young man did seem intent on watching her movements. This when there were a number of young ladies without partners who might benefit from his attentions.

In and around the glittering throng, the extra mechanical staff trundled, bearing trays of enticing nibbles. The mechanicals were also dressed for the occasion. These were not the faceless utilitarian creatures of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, but proper household issue, with shiny—if impassive—metal faces. They blended nicely with all the masks. Dimity could be seen posing with one or another as they passed, for her costume was much admired. The mechanicals all wore small black evening cravats or crisp white aprons. Their protocols were simple and they moved smoothly from crowd to dumbwaiter and back, engaged in a dance of their own.

Felix demanded an explanation the moment they began to waltz. He was dressed as a particularly handsome jester, his mask so small as to be a mere nod to the theme. Sophronia contemplated playing coquette but decided that would be
cruel. Felix seemed genuinely enamored, and she didn’t want to hurt him. So she explained that Pillover had needed to deliver a message from a friend and that they had been caught in the garden together.

Felix found the whole thing amusing. “Would you like to walk out into the gardens with me, Ria, my heart? I could arrange to get us caught.”

Sophronia twinkled up at him. Her heart fluttered at the idea of a nighttime stroll with such a handsome boy.
I could practice some other bits of seduction class
. “Oh, now, my dear lord, I think that might be jumping from toast fork into fire. You are far more dangerous a proposition for me, and far more desirable a prospect to my mother. I should think you would wish to be more discreet.”

“For you, my Ria, I would sacrifice my reputation.”

“Now, now, Lord Mersey, you are perfectly aware that you would be sacrificing
mine
.”

He whirled her into an elaborate twist. He danced divinely, his frame always a little too intimate but not enough to shock the chaperones. The hand at her back was warm and supportive; the one clutching hers to lead was direct and assertive. He looked into her eyes in a melting manner, but only long enough to let her know he was interested and not so long as to lose track of the others around them. He could have been a dance instructor had he not been born the son of a duke.

A duke who would see all vampires and werewolves dead. Sophronia tore herself away from his blue eyes to find she was the object of envious glances from nearly every young lady there.

“Felix, my dear, do me a favor after this dance?”

“Anything for you,” he said, rather unguardedly. Then quickly, “You aren’t going to leave me to finish the set alone, are you?” There was real fear in his voice; twice Sophronia had abandoned him in the middle of a dance.

“Not tonight, I hope. No one I know has been kidnapped, and the prototype is beyond my control.”

Felix tilted his head. “Indeed it is, as it should be. It was the Picklemen’s by right. Ours by right. Not something for you to worry that pretty head about.”

Sophronia wanted to argue that point, but midwaltz was not the time; besides, she liked it when Felix underestimated her. More room to maneuver. “Mmmm. No, I was going to ask… My sister Petunia is there, the one dressed as the fluffy shepherdess? Dance with her next, would you? Otherwise she’ll never forgive me.”

Felix looked over, winced a tiny bit, then said gallantly, “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

“Oh, thank you.” Sophronia nearly slipped up and applied another longing glance at that juncture, she was so grateful.

Felix noticed and leaned in. “Careful, my sweet, we are in a public place. All eyes are upon us. And you are affianced to another.”

That made her smile again.

The dance was nearly finished when the tall, stiff young man dressed as a vintage dandy appeared at Felix’s elbow.

“If I may?” he said, insinuating himself between them like oil into a mechanical and dexterously depriving Felix of Sophronia.

Sophronia had never been removed from a dance partner before, although she had been trained for it. Felix certainly had
never had anyone dare to cut in on him! At a loss, he bowed out politely. He was angry, though. There was a good chance that he, like Sophronia, was thinking of Lord Akeldama when he saw this man’s costume. And Felix did not like vampires.

The dandy guided her, clumsily it must be admitted, through the final refrain of the waltz. He relaxed noticeably at the end and whisked her to the punch bowl, taking proprietary control of her dance card so that she could not find her next partner. As it happened, she had no partner. She was, after all, not out, and could really only dance with her escort or her brothers.