“The Honey Bee is good at fixing things. BUR is better at ending them.” Cris nodded and tried not to worry.
“Exactly so.” Bertie made a face, as though he’d smelled something unpleasant. “Lord Maccon leans in favor of direct and fatal. You know werewolves. Such can be useful, but this particular infiltration requires subtlety.”
“And your first thought was, of course, Sparkles?”
“Don’t be mean, Crispy. She can be subtle, in the right way. In the necessary way and when the situation demands it. You’ve seen her work. She’s good.”
Cris sighed, defeated. “Very good, actually. Go on.” She was flirtatious and conniving and heart-stopping. He adored her, of course.
“The Bureau of Unnatural Registry has recently had word of trouble at a vampire hive up in Nottingham. It seems to be going a touch off – not to put too fine a point on it. The queen has come over loopy, holed herself up in a limestone cave or some such nonsense, communicating solely by means of homemade Valentine’s cards.”
Cris frowned. Not that he was sentimental, but— “It’s April, Bertie.”
“Precisely! And I mean to say, the kind of cards with gold and lace and bits of ribbon stuck to them. She seems to have been doing this for months, if not years. There’s not a confident timeline. BUR only recently noticed. At last report, a decade ago, it was a small, staid, stable hive – nothing to fret about. Now limestone caves and Valentine’s cards out of season. You see the source of the distress? The rest of her hive is unresponsive to BUR’s inquiries as to why she’s retreated. But they are essentially without a queen. However, as they’ve done nothing supernaturally wrong, the Bureau’s agents are stymied. No apparent crimes against humanity either, no rash of murders or disappearances in the area, so they can’t send in the constabulary to get all constabby-stabby. They have lost most of their drones to abandonment, not death. So there’s a chance the vampires are starving themselves out of pure stubbornness. It’s all rather a mess. Wants sorting. BUR came to us and I’m sending in the Honey Bee. You know how she gets when things want tidying. You’re to go along to keep everything under control.”
“You want to fix a vampire hive using Sparkles?”
“That’s the general idea. Usually works. Vampires like shiny things. The Honey Bee is awfully shiny.”
Cris pressed his hand to his own leg to stop its vibrating, not liking the idea of Dimity Plumleigh-Teignmott loose in some bally vampire hive. “I’ve read her file. I thought she fainted at the sight of blood.”
Bertie waved his hand. “Only very large amounts and under particularly stressful circumstances. Minor impediment. I’m sure you’ll manage to control for triggering variables.”
“It’s a vampire hive, Bertie, you wiffin.”
“You’ll be all right.”
“I hate it when you say that.” Sir Crispin gave up trying to be still, stood, and began to wander about. Not quite pacing, but nearly there.
“Yes, but see how distracted you are now? All your dead-father troubles forgotten.”
“To be supplanted with sparkling new troubles.”
“Exactly. Speaking of, where is he?”
“Where’s who?” Cris whirled to look at the closed conservatory door.
“He would be late. I asked a friend ’round, in case you had vampire-related questions. This not being your field of study, nor mine either, quite frankly, and BUR being mostly run by werewolves these days, I thought we might consult with an outside expert.”
The double doors to the conservatory burst open in a dramatic way, displaying an enthusiasm they’d not shown when Cris walked through. An impossibly glorious person swept into the room, his steps small and his arm gestures prodigious.
It was harder than one might think, to flirt a gentleman inventor into submission. Any given inventor might be susceptible, but was usually so confused at getting feminine attention it took extra effort (on the part of said femininity) to get the blighter up and running.
Miss Dimity Plumleigh-Teignmott would never admit she was struggling with this particular inventor. Yet... she struggled.
Honestly, sometimes setting a lady of Dimity’s caliber at an inventor was unfair to all parties concerned.
This particular inventor, one Professor Meeld-Forrison, had responded to Dimity’s initial foray with the rapidity of an allergic reaction, and had retreated into almost complete silence at the merest hint of a fluttered eyelash. When she fiddled with the massive sapphire brooch at her collar (to draw attention to the whiteness of her throat, of course), he nearly fainted.
Have you any idea how hard it is to flirt with someone who won’t even talk back, let alone flirt back?
They had not covered this particular level of resistance at Finishing School.
Dimity had been at the endeavor for over half an hour with little conversation, let alone results. She’d exhausted all possible topics of discourse, from books to vehicles to steam technology, from hounds to whiskey to all manner of things that interested any given gentleman, intellectual or otherwise. The man seemed to be composed entirely of monosyllabic murmurs of mild-mannered agreement.
She might recommend blowing up Big Ben and replacing it with a spun sugar poodle and Professor Meeld-Forrison would merely say, “Mum-hum.”
Which, to be fair, made him excellent husband material, but the worst source for information during an espionage operation.
But Dimity was resilient. Dimity was determined. Dimity could handle anything.
Except shy.
And this poor fellow seemed almost paralytically shy.
Dimity nevertheless continued to steer him around his own laboratory and chatter at him. She picked up things, touching them ostentatiously, hoping for some kind of reaction, even anger as he leapt to defend some precious piece of technology from the bumbling female wafting about his domain.
Nothing.
Desperately, Dimity mentioned badminton.
I mean to say, who doesn’t have opinions on badminton? Everyone has opinions on badminton. The latest dirigible-on-dirigible World Puff had been an absolute triumph.
Nothing.
Nothing on badminton from the great Professor Meeld-Forrison. Not the tiniest little puff of interest.
Really, Dimity was beginning to question whether the man was capable of speaking in full sentences, let alone the conversation required in order to sell his technology to the Prussians.
How could any man conduct illegal business with overseas agents when he could barely open his mouth? The War Office must be wrong on this one. This was a waste of her time.
Dimity was well aware that she was an acquired taste – but fortunately, once convinced to try, most people acquired a taste for her rather quickly. She was easy to talk to, for goodness’ sake. Easy!
Not so far as Professor Meeld-Forrison was concerned.
Perhaps it wasn’t verbal language she need use?
In the guise of delicate avoidance of steam emanating from the corner of the lab, Dimity whipped out her fan. She fluttered at the steam ineffectually, and then shadowed her nose and lower face, tilting her chin down and widening her eyes so they were as big and as limpid as possible.
“Oh, my dear sir, such risks you take for your studies. So many devices all running at once. Surely there is no small danger to your person?”
Words not working, Dimity would try bodies. She sidled closer to the man. Increased her breathing a little. Tried to match hers to his, which had caught and was now quite rapid.
She gazed into his face adoringly. “Dear sir, you must be so strong to have to handle such things, feeding in coal and carrying water and so forth.”
Professor Meeld-Forrison cleared his throat and looked like he wanted to flee or faint. Instead, he froze.
The man is completely hopeless, thought Dimity. She angled her body towards him, shifted the shawl away from her white neck, exposing the little divot at the base of her th
roat.
Still nothing.
Her eyelashes fluttered.
The man swallowed. A tiny bead of sweat appeared at his brow.
Aha! “Dear Professor Meeld-Forrison, you don’t speak any other languages, do you? I do so adore a polyglot.”
“I speak a little French,” he admitted, in a whisper.
“No German?”
“Not a single bratwurst of it, I’m afraid.”
Dimity giggled. She wasn’t sure he’d meant to be funny, but at least she’d gotten an entire sentence out of the man.
“Oh, are we talking about sausages? I do love a sausage. Are you a sausage or a bacon connoisseur, as a rule, dear Professor?”
The professor’s eyes widened. “Uh, bacon, I assure you.”
So he liked women in his bed, did he? At least that’s cleared up. Unless he means actual bacon. But the man was only shy, she suspected, not obtuse.
Dimity moved in for the kill. She took his arm.
He did not flinch this time.
She closed her fan, for it was no longer necessary. He was now looking down into her face, his eyes a little dazed.
She leaned subtly against him, as if dying for his manly arms. His support. His attention.
He shuddered and angled his upper body towards her. He sported the kind of frame that had spent too much time indoors examining devices – curled at the shoulders and bent in the spine.
The bacon has it, thought Dimity.
“Shall we continue our tour, my dear sir?” She gave him a slow blink. (Too soon for another eyelash flutter.)
He wobbled slightly and finally came up to bat. “My dear Miss Chitty—”
“Call me Jonquil, do.”
“My dear Miss Jonquil, I should like nothing better.” His eyes were now fixed on hers, his breathing a little shallow. She hoped he wouldn’t faint.
“And shall we talk more about breakfast? Are you a particular fan of the meal?”
“I should like nothing more for the rest of my days,” he said, apparently realizing that she was, in fact, flirting with him. Poor chap, he wasn’t used to such things.
He patted her hand where she clutched his arm, then very daringly left his cold, clammy one atop hers.
Oh dear, thought Dimity, I might have taken this a little far.
“Breakfast first, my dear sir. Now, tell me, have you traveled much? How do you feel about breakfast as served on the Continent? I’ve been given to understand, for example, that the French prefer a bit of puffy bread and some coffee to start their day. Surely not. Surely that is wicked hearsay.”
“Oh no, my dear Miss Jonquil, I understand that’s entirely true.” The gentleman shook his head. His hair was rather messy, sticking up about a pair of yellow-tinted goggles pushed back from his brow. He looked tired, and older than the mission launch papers had stated.
“You understand? You’ve never visited yourself?”
“Sadly, no.” His eyelashes and eyebrows were so pale they disappeared into his face, making him seem perennially surprised.
“And other parts of Europe?” Dimity pressed, but he shook his head. She had to face the truth – this man wasn’t guilty. He hadn’t done it. Or if he had passed along illegal technology to the Prussians, he hadn’t realized what he’d done.
“Oh, my dear sir, I too am woefully under-traveled. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, I assure you. I’ve barely even met anyone from outside the British Isles. A tragedy of my innocence, I suspect.” Now was the time for more eyelash fluttering.
Dimity fluttered.
The man melted right there in the middle of his lab. Metaphorically, of course. No actual melting was involved.
Which made Dimity think fondly of sugar melting into tea. She wondered if she could extract Professor Meeld-Forrison to a tea house. She was famished and this was taking longer than she’d anticipated. “Certainly you’re more worldly than I, Professor.”
The professor cleared his throat and admitted to having met, only recently, at his gentleman’s club, several visitors all the way from Prussia.
And that, as they say, was that.
Dimity did not get him out to tea, but she did get the details of most of the conversation with those Prussians. She learned that the gentlemen in question had visited Professor Meeld-Forrison’s lab. Flattered by their interest in his work, he had given them an extensive tour, much as he was doing with her now. And so, the whole sordid story played out.
The poor chap hadn’t meant to be a traitor. His interests lay entirely in the arena of vacuum technology, what the War Office referred to as fluff and blow. There were projectile military applications, but Professor Meeld-Forrison obviously neither knew nor cared.
In Dimity’s experience, once seduced by her lashes, no man was a good enough actor to play the innocent with such aplomb. Besides, if he’d been conscious of his betrayal (during or after) he would never have admitted to her his meeting the Prussians in the first place. After all, the whole initial encounter had occurred at a gentlemen’s club, and those were notoriously difficult to crack. Gentlemen’s clubs were far better at keeping secrets than the government.
So when Dimity eventually managed to extract herself, still tea-less, it was to report to the War Office that the Prussians had most certainly managed to steal or at least learn something significant from Professor Meeld-Forrison, but that the man himself was unaware of this fact. Her assessment being that the poor man was shy but innocent, and might best be guided into studies with less dangerous applications.
Dimity also departed having learned Professor Meeld-Forrison’s opinion on every breakfast item offered unto the great British public, tea notwithstanding, and attained what she thought might be her twenty-second offer of marriage.
Really, being a spy could be too tiresome. She thought, not for the first time recently, that it might be time for her to move on from the work. Perhaps the next mission would be her last. Maybe she should accept one of those marriage offers. Except there was only one man she actually wanted to marry – and he was difficult.
Lord Pritchard was waiting for her just outside the laboratory, in the guise of her uncle and guardian, indulging in his niece’s peculiar interest in science. He was her safety on this mission – not that she needed one, but the War Office always insisted.
Lord Pritchard was an elderly military gentleman with firm opinions on the delicacy of proper feminine behavior and therefore thought Dimity was wonderful. Men of his sort always did. When she expressed her need for sustenance, he took her to Lottapiggle Tea Shop on Cavendish Square, because it was the best in town, and a young lady of her sensibilities must have the very best.
Dimity agreed with him, of course, and then wondered if he might be convinced on the matter of small gifts of jewelry to the most holy paragon-ness of feminine behaviors, viz, herself. Then thought better of it.
One shouldn’t really confidence-trick one’s co-workers, should one?
Sometimes it was difficult to stopper up her training. But then, Lord Pritchard was so very set in such disagreeably old-fashioned ways, and so very rich, and he would keep telling her she ought to give up her wild ways, marry, and become a proper woman, as though she wasn’t perfectly brilliant at her job. To be honest, Dimity resented his instructing her to do something she was already contemplating, because she did want a husband and family and she didn’t think there was anything wrong with that. It was simply his tone and the way he said it, all patronizing. Perhaps she should fleece him for a small diamond bracelet or two, simply for revenge on the universe for having to put up with him.
Dimity had her tea, ignored her dining companion, and fantasized about leaving off the intelligence game. She fully intended to organize a husband for herself eventually. She had always rather admired the simple life – it was only that her dearest friends tended to be active in the world of espionage, someone had to keep an eye on them, and she was made loyal. Still, Dimity was res
olved to settle down in the countryside with a nice gentleman someday. This gentleman had once been rather an amorphous idea. But now, well, now she had her eagle eye set on someone particular. Unfortunately, the chap was under the startling bad impression that he did not like her. He was obviously mistaken, and she would fix his misconception forthwith.
You see, Dimity had always believed that an engagement, especially one’s own, ought to be carefully constructed, especially when the gentleman in question was both unaware and unwilling. It was possible that she might have to kill someone to convince him. But she was hoping she could get away with a mild maiming. Dimity wrinkled her nose in thought. Then again, he was awfully stubborn.
All of which was to say, she certainly didn’t need sainted Lord Pritchard’s advice on the matter.
She sipped her tea. Lottapiggle really did very good things with the sacred leaf.
She looked at Lord Pritchard through thick dark lashes. Dimity had powerful lashes and she always used them to good effect.
“You wouldn’t mind one more tiny stopover before we head back, would you, my dear lord?”
“Not at all, poppet.”
While jewelry might be asking a bit much, there were other accessories to consider. Dimity twinkled at him. “It’s only that there are these charming gloves I’ve had my eye on for ages. Of course, they didn’t have my size. I’ve been waiting for the smaller ones to come in. My hands are so very delicate, you see.” She brushed her white fingers seductively against the handle of her teacup. They were beautiful and creamy, if she did say so herself. Dimity actually had done quite well in her fingersmith and lock-picking classes. A girl had to take care of her hands if she wanted to delve smoothly into pockets. She soaked hers in cream most evenings.
Lord Pritchard gleamed at her. “We must protect such beauties, of course, pretty poppet. I’m sure the War Office can wait for your report.”
Dimity lowered her lashes again, nibbled a biscuit, and smugly wondered if she might get two pairs of gloves out of the man.
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