Defy or Defend

by Gail Carriger

  DEFY

  OR

  DEFEND

  A DELIGHTFULLY DEADLY NOVEL

  Gail Carriger

  Wait, what am I reading?

  New York Times bestselling author Gail Carriger brings you a charming story of love, espionage, and Gothic makeovers set in her popular Parasolverse.

  A vampire hive descending into madness. A beautiful spy with a sparkly plan. And the man who must keep them from killing each other. In a battle for survival (and wallpaper), Dimity must learn that not all that sparkles is good, while Sir Crispin discovers he likes Dimity a lot more than he thought.

  Gail has a fun, silly newsletter full of gossip, sneak peeks, and giveaways. Join The Chirrup

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you so much to my wonderful team. My patient beta readers (Rachel, Marie, Amber, Tanya, and Chanie, who did this over the holidays!), my awesome developmental editor Sue Brown-Moore (who terrified me with many pages of edits but it turned out to be all okay), my lovely copy editors Shelley Bates and Flo Selfman (both of whom make time for me and tell me they love my work, even though they really don't have to), and my formatter Nina Pierce.

  CONTENTS

  About Defy or Defend

  Acknowledgments

  1: In Which There May, or May Not, Be Sparkles

  2: Wedded Bliss & Other Complications

  3: In Which There Are Pointy Bits

  4: Why Not Be Tidy?

  5: In Which Sir Crispin Critiques Tennyson

  6: Dangerous Buttons

  7: The Tragedy of the Colors

  8: The Vampires Are Convinced to Throw a Party, Despite Themselves

  9: On the Transcendent Nature of Interpretive Dance

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from How to Marry a Werewolf

  Author’s Note

  Author Afterthoughts

  More Gail Carriger?

  About the Writerbeast

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  In Which There May, or May Not, Be Sparkles

  March 1869

  (Just prior to the introduction of the bustle. No, really, it’s important to know this.)

  Sir Crispin Bontwee chivvied up to an impressively large chartreuse front door with a sense of overwhelming relief. Not because of the color of the door, mind you (which was a touch assertive, frankly, for a door – what did it think it was playing at?) but because of the possibilities that lay behind it.

  The door opened, and the possibilities proved themselves to be a female of biblical proportions and eccentric dress. She was that particular style of solid British womanhood that held firm against both military invasion and recalcitrant pie crusts, rolling pin wielded with consummate skill in either case.

  Sir Crispin knew her of old.

  He bowed slightly and hid his grin, because both woman and door demanded respect. “My dear Madame, what a pleasure to see you again.”

  “It’s you, is it?” Mrs Bagley pursed her lips to hide her delight and threw the door wide.

  “At your service.” He strode inside, fairly vibrating with suppressed excitement. It had been ages since his last mission. He was restless with a need to fix something, or rescue someone, or perhaps both.

  Today Mrs Bagley was dressed like a butler. She looked rather dashing, truth be told. Her cravat was chartreuse to match the door and her striped waistcoat was cut to perfection. Cris was mildly perturbed by the fact that trousers suited her demeanor better than they did most men of his acquaintance. It could have been worse – Mrs Bagley had once answered the door dressed as a yellow butterfly. Or was it a moth? Regardless, a winged cape had been involved. One was never certain what exactly Bertie’s housekeeper would be wearing on any given evening. It was one of the most exciting things about Bertie’s household.

  “I’ve been summoned, Madame.” Cris always referred to Mrs Bagley as Madame. Mrs Bagley suited her ill, and anything more informal from Cris would cause a one-woman riot. Mrs Bagley took meticulous handling. He didn’t envy Bertie.

  Mrs Bagley widened her eyes at him in pretend shock. “Summoned, were you indeed? Wipe your feet, young man.”

  Cris was already wiping them. Mrs Bagley’s favorite thing was to give orders she knew were already being obeyed. She didn’t even pause for breath. “A new mission, is it?”

  “Now, Madame, I can’t discuss such things with you, even if I had an inkling.” Cris drew himself up, but only a little – wouldn’t do to loom over a woman like Mrs Bagley.

  “As you’re very well aware, I’ll hear about it later.”

  “Of course you will, although I’m not supposed to know that. I must say, it’s a good thing you’re on our side.” He twitched towards the hallway, needing to move past niceties into useful activity.

  “Are you sure about that?” She pretended a wicked glare.

  “I live in fear, dear Madame. We all do. No doubt the fate of the War Office rests upon your discretion. Now, where is he?”

  “In the conservatory, of course. Is he ever anywhere else?” Mrs Bagley marched off. Cris strode eagerly after, careful not to overtake her. It was pleasing to trail behind a woman who walked like she had places to be and people to kill.

  The hallway was scrupulously clean and well maintained, despite the fact that the walls were lined with hundreds of tiny drawers topped by glass-fronted curio cases. There might, just possibly, have been wallpaper behind it all, but no one would ever know.

  Bertie was a dedicated dilettante who picked up and put down interests obsessively. They walked past a beautifully mounted collection of wooden ladles (not spoons, ladles) and a display of Bertie’s own taxidermic caterpillars. It was a little like the natural history museum, only more eclectic, and with no apparent curation or connection between one case and the next.

  Cris was so accustomed to the spectacle he barely glanced at the curiosities.

  Mrs Bagley paused mid-hallway (much to his frustration) and turned on Cris, contorting her face into one of concern. It didn’t work well, as she was not a particularly sympathetic person, so her face went a little twitchy with the effort.

  “Most distressing to hear about your father, Sir Crispin. I am sorry for your loss.”

  What Cris wanted to say was, Hang my father, everyone I know is delighted that he’s dead, but one didn’t do that to a housekeeper, especially not Mrs Bagley. Plus, as an Englishman, Crispin didn’t like making others uncomfortable with real feelings.

  So he drew his own face into an expression of sorrow and said politely, “Thank you kindly, Madame.”

  Niceties observed, the housekeeper marched on, eventually opening the double doors to the conservatory with a jerk. Then, because it would take too long to find him amongst all the plants, she raised her voice in the manner of a governess, and yelled into the teeming verdancy, “Bertie, you blighter! Sir Crispin is here to see you.”

  Bertie was undergoing a cactus stage. Had been for near on a year now. It was getting increasingly prickly at his house, particularly in the conservatory.

  Accordingly, Bertie appeared from behind a large, fluffy bit of shrubbery clutching a pot from which protruded a small round cactus with a single bright pink flower. It so closely resembled a hedgehog wearing a hat that Cris was mildly startled not to see it sprout little legs and waddle off.

  “Crispy, my dear fellow! What a lovely surprise to see you.”

  “You summoned me, Bertie.” Cris spread his hands wide in supplication.

  “Did I? How very peculiar of me. Have you met an Echinocereus engelmannii before? Isn’t it remarkable? This one just flowered. I think it’s rather jolly, don’t you?”

  “Looks like a hedgehog in a hat.” Cris was one
for honesty when it didn’t matter or hurt anyone’s feelings. He then took off his own hat and looked for a place to put it. There wasn’t one. So he put it back on his head. He’d never dare give it to Mrs Bagley.

  “Fantastic, I say. I shall name it Wobesmere. Note the shortness of the internode? Just there? No, don’t touch! Nasty things, cacti. Now, let me tell you, one of the most remarkable things about them is the areoles. You see this bit here—”

  Mrs Bagley interrupted him, crimson-faced. “Really, Bertie, Sir Crispin is suffering a great loss at the moment. Do stop prattling on at the poor fellow.”

  “Really? What’s he lost?” Bertie had a large straight nose, beady dark eyes, and a wide smiling mouth. He had unfortunately fine hair, close cut, that had gone gray when they were at university together and begun a brave retreat some years later, so that he now resembled a surprised but cuddly mongoose. He mostly acted like one too, chattering and familiar, unless a snake was about. Then he proved quite deadly.

  “His father, you nubbin.” Mrs Bagley indicated Crispin’s mourning attire with a flick of two fingers.

  Cris would have preferred Bertie continue on in ignorance and get to the mission, but Mrs Bagley was clearly having none of that.

  Bertie, a true friend, instantly forgot about the cactus and its areoles and dashed forward to clutch one of Crispin’s hands in his own, waving the cactus about dangerously with the other. “My dear Crispy, forgive me. I entirely forgot. Do come in. Sit down, sit down. Oh, there isn’t anywhere to sit, is there? Wait a moment. Eudora, would you be a dove and move those whatever-they-ares off that bench-seat-thingame there? Yes, I know, this is business. We ought to go to the study, but I don’t feel right leaving the engelmannii alone right now, not when it’s in the midst of flowering for the first time. Might put it off. You understand, don’t you, Eudora? No, you don’t, do you. Well, Crispy understands, don’t you, old chap? There, see? Sit down, do.”

  Cris sat, minding his posture and trying desperately to sit still, while Mrs Bagley scowled affectionately and made room for them both.

  Bertie plonked down next to Cris, cactus on his lap.

  “Crispy, my dear fellow, you do look peaky. You must be terribly worn down. The funeral was ghastly, I suspect?”

  “Utterly. All of my sisters were there. All of them.” Cris shuddered to recall his trying morning. “They enjoyed themselves tremendously, of course. Wept a great deal, even wailed once in a while. London now has a decided surfeit of damp handkerchiefs.” He’d not seen the like since his brother’s funeral, when they’d all been much younger, with more excuses for pejorative histrionics. One might hope sisters would have grown out of such things. Or at least cry less for a lesser man. Apparently not.

  Bertie looked imploringly at his housekeeper. “Might we have tea, please, Eudora my dove? I ask not for me, of course, but for my dear bereaved friend.”

  Mrs Bagley rolled her eyes and left the conservatory without comment.

  Bertie turned back to Cris. “Are the sisters still trying to marry you off?”

  “Desperately. They even brought prospects to the funeral.” Cris rolled his shoulders back and assumed a falsetto voice. “Oh Crispin, darling, have you met my husband’s second cousin Patricia? She’s doing very interesting things with cross-stitching these days. Or Eugenia – have you met Eugenia? Eugenia collects pen nibs, I’ll have you know.”

  Bertie grimaced. “You poor fellow. It’s one of my great joys in life that I was never saddled with sisters.”

  “Count those blessings, Bertie, do.”

  Bertie’s expression turned suddenly serious. Certainly more serious than a funeral warranted. “You don’t owe the world for what he was, old fellow. You know that, don’t you? You can’t fix the sins of your father. None of us can. ’Specially when the bounder’s dead.”

  But Crispin did owe the world and he would try. Because his father had been a rat bastard, squeezing and taking and abusing, and Crispin had built his whole life around being something that wasn’t that. It was part of the reason he worked for the War Office.

  He fiddled with a sherd of flowerpot. “Best thing the blighter’s ever done, die. Now, if we might get on? What exactly am I doing here? Not that I don’t enjoy a visit. But even you can’t have simply invited me ’round to show off your latest prickly acquisition. Well, I mean you can have, but even you rarely stoop so low on the day of a family funeral. Please tell me you have some useful employment for me? How may I serve my country today?”

  “Actually, I do have something for you, Crispy.” There was a set to Bertie’s eyebrows that suggested Cris wasn’t going to like the next bit. He wracked his brain to think who might be back from a mission and ready to go out into the fray again.

  “Oh no. Not Sparkles.” He pointed the bit of broken flowerpot at Bertie, accusingly.

  Bertie coughed. “I’m afraid so, old chap. We’ve activated the Honey Bee Initiative.”

  “Oh no, Bertie, please say you didn’t. Not after I just spent all day with my sisters.” Cris hopped up and started pacing. The Honey Bee called for pacing.

  “She’s really very good. I don’t know why she frustrates you so.”

  “You wouldn’t. You get along with everyone. That’s why you’re so good at your job. But honestly, she’s so much work for whoever is assigned to be safety. She’s always wandering off.”

  “That’s your complaint?”

  Cris thumped back on the bench and slouched, tilting his head to look up and out the vaulted glass ceiling of Bertie’s conservatory. He intended this to show Bertie the depths of his frustration. He could see the occasional dirigible bobbing by. He knew there were stars beyond, but London was so bright at night in these times of ready gaslight, it was near impossible to see them. Cris missed the stars.

  Honey Bee. Of course it would be.

  She was one of the best the War Office had on retainer, for the gentler jobs. Trained at the greatest Finishing School ever to float. Exactly the right combination of pretty, charming, and evasive. (Although not particularly bloodthirsty, thank heavens. He got the impression that the Honey Bee didn’t enjoy actually hurting people. This was regarded as a minor failing by the uppity-ups, which is why they so often paired her with a soldier like Cris. Soldiers could kill if necessary.)

  Sir Crispin found her sweet enough to be difficult, chattery enough to be annoying, and jolly enough to affect even his unflappable demeanor. Even knowing she was capable, Cris worried about her constantly when they were on a mission together. This was, of course, one of her skills – convincing others that she needed looking after.

  Silence had stretched while Bertie stared at him.

  “There is also her hair to consider.” Cris tried to defend his position. He’d lost sleep over that hair.

  “Her hair? What on earth’s wrong with it?”

  Cris shrugged, realizing he’d made a gaffe. “There’s a lot of it, that’s all.” It was sort of buttery and curly and a little wild. He wanted to run his fingers through it, press his cheek into it. He was going to add something about her skin too, which was creamy and probably petal soft, but that would surely put him in danger of discovery. The Honey Bee was prone to driving his fancies into places only his bounder of a father would understand. Cris didn’t want to take advantage of Sparkles, never that.

  Except that of course he did want, wanted so very much to corrupt her in the worst way, and therein lay a massive, creamy-skinned, honey-haired mess of a problem.

  Bertie was looking at him oddly, but fortunately, Mrs Bagley came in carrying a generous tea tray, which she set down with a clatter.

  Cris stood to help her settle it – it looked a bit heavy.

  Bertie’s expression was all excitement. “Are those roly-poly puddings? Delightful! Thank you, Eudora.”

  Mrs Bagley glared at her employer. “You aren’t abusing poor Sir Crispin, are you, Mr Luckinbill?”

  “Only in the line of d
uty.”

  “No more roly-poly for you then. Savor these, for they will be your last.” At which she whirled and departed.

  Bertie looked after her with soft eyes. “Hard-hearted female.”

  “Nice to know she’s on my side,” said Cris, shifting forwards and trying to show a little enthusiasm for the kindness in the offer of tea, if not for the tea itself.

  “Women usually are.” Bertie gave him the same look he’d been giving him since Eton.

  “All except Sparkles,” replied Cris. Because she was remarkably resistant to his charms.

  “All except her.” Bertie, clearly pleased about this, poured them both tea, adding sugar to his and milk to Crispin’s without having to ask. “Why is that, do you feel?”

  Cris took the teacup, but set it down without drinking any. He was already sloshing from a day spent commiserating with the bereaved – no need to exacerbate the situation. “She took me in instant dislike, apparently. And she reminds me of my sisters. It allows us to eschew any formality of manner, not to mention prospective affection.”

  Bertie nibbled his roly-poly pud. “Well, you carry on as her safety however you see fit. It would be better if you two had a decent working relationship, however, for queen and country and all that rot.”

  “I’ll do my best to behave.”

  “It’s not your behavior I worry about, old chap. Never is.”

  “So you see what I mean? She’s difficult, prone to trouble.”

  Bertie looked noncommittal. “Mmm. Speaking of – your mission.”

  “Speak on, do. I’m at your disposal.”

  “It’s not mine you have to be at, it’s BUR’s.”

  Crispin’s leg began to jiggle at that. “Crickets, what’s the bureau want with me and the Honey Bee, for goodness’ sake? We’re both well out of their purview. Quite apart from everything else, we’re human. We handle human problems. Not the supernatural.” He suppressed a shudder.

  Bertie grimaced. “That’s the thing, they decided they needed daylight players for this one. They have humans on retainer, of course they do, but none trained in quite the same manner as our Honey Bee. BUR’s tactics are more... last resort. Violent and final, if you follow my meaning.”