Waistcoats & Weaponry (Page 22)

“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.

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.”