It was a little too easy. Lord Pritchard was awfully susceptible to wiles. She’d have to warn Bertie of that. The boss ought to keep an eye on this man. Pritchard was weak in the face of womanhood, and if he was susceptible to her, he was susceptible to other ladies outside the War Office.
Unlike some of the other muscle they assigned to guard her back. Unlike Sir Crispin.
Sir Crispin would not be manipulated. She’d never managed to extract a single cup of tea out of that man, let alone a pair of gloves. It was extremely vexing, and highly attractive, of course. When she lowered her lashes at Sir Crispin, the bally fellow simply gave her one of his swarthy glowers and reminded her that he had sisters and anything she tried would be held against her.
Dimity wished he would hold himself against her. But if his response to the merest smile was a sardonic arched brow or a sniff of disgust, what was a young lady of tricky inclinations to do? How was Dimity to net the man of her dreams when he was as highly trained as she, and apparently capable of total resistance?
A quandary.
Plus, he kept getting other missions. Going off and looking after other intelligencers, when he ought to be looking after her, and only her.
It was extremely aggravating.
Dimity sighed into her tea. She hated it when men got complicated. They were so very bad at it.
CHAPTER TWO
Wedded Bliss & Other Complications
Crispin and Bertie rose to their feet as one.
The entirely fabulous fellow sashayed into the conservatory with a flourish designed to encourage awe, if not outright applause. He was dressed in a manner decades, perhaps even centuries, out of date, and yet he managed to look entirely à jour. The man sported tight satin britches and a long brocade jacket in matched purple hues, a queue of silky blond hair tied back with a ribbon, and shoes with buckles on them. It was as if he were starring in a play, something scandalous yet much admired behind closed doors.
Cris had never met him, but he knew at once who he was. And more importantly, he knew what he was.
The vampire’s voice was a musical tenor and rather loud for such a small person. “Bertie, darling, you repainted your door! I might have worn something different had I known. This outfit clashes horribly. Why did you not warn me? The very act of my walking inside surely seared the eyeballs of all who observed. Send a card ’round next time you redecorate, do, sweetling. What are you collecting now? Still cactuses? I suppose we all must have hobbies.” He swept the room with a piercing gaze and (for lack of any additional seating) moved to perch on the edge of the table next to the tea tray, at which he glanced with mild distaste.
Cris and Bertie resumed their seats.
“Lord Akeldama, thank you so much for joining us.”
“A pleasure, a pleasure, Bertie-my-peach. And you must be Sir Crispin?” The vampire had a way of moving his hands, fluttery and distracting, like baby birds.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lord Akeldama. I’ve heard nothing but good things. Wicked, but good.” Cris opted to be as dashing and diplomatic as possible, in order to make a good impression and put the man at ease. Vampires were finicky creatures, but rumor had it that, as a rule, they favored flattery.
“All the best things are, of course, both wicked and good. Are you?” The vampire gave Cris a fanged smile.
Cris inclined his head. “Perhaps, but one ought to preserve some air of mystery upon first acquaintance. Don’t you think?”
The vampire tittered and subjected him to careful scrutiny. He seemed to approve of what he saw because a gleam entered his eyes and Cris felt as if he were one level above an extremely appealing platter of cheese.
“My, but aren’t you simply delicious.” Lord Akeldama leaned forward. “Bertie, dearest, you’ve been holding out on me. He works for you. Thus, he’s clearly innately secretive. His apparel is all grace and subtlety. Plus, he’s a knight. And he looks like a minor Greek god. Dionysus, perhaps? He should be mine.”
The vampire leaned even more towards Cris. “When you let that lovely dark hair grow, Sir Crispin, please tell me it curls?”
Cris was a little afraid the vampire might actually go for his neck. He fingered the ejection button on the deadly wooden spike that lived up his left sleeve. “Into ringlets, no less, hence my reason for keeping it short. A man of my age can’t have ringlets bouncing about. Lacks gravitas.”
“Ringlets, you say?” The vampire jerked towards him, eyes dilated.
The spike snapped out and down and Cris raised his arm fast, so the sharp piece of wood pointed at Lord Akeldama’s chin.
The vampire’s smile widened. “Oh, he definitely should be mine. You haven’t any artistic ability, have you, succulent boy? A secret penchant for the harpsichord, perhaps? A sketchbook full of salacious nudes?” His eyebrows waggled.
Crispin knew the creature was after creative talent, a sign of excess soul and the ability to survive a vampire’s bite. So, of course, Cris decided not to admit to having any artistic ability. He shook his head.
Bertie was sipping his tea and looking very bored. “Really, Lord A, you’re becoming predictable.”
The vampire reared back, seeming genuinely hurt. “Never. How cruel you are, Bertie-my-pearl.”
Bertie rolled his eyes. “Cris is nothing if not practical. He rowed and bowled for New College. He’s a sportsman, my dear sir. Outdoorsy. He’s even been known to gallivant about on horseback, even do a little bird watching on the side. Goes ambling through the woods voluntarily, breathing cold air and getting his boots muddy. He likes the countryside, Lord A. The countryside! Hopeless. Definitely not drone material.”
“Pity,” said Lord Akeldama, still looking at Crispin’s neck hungrily. “Explains why he’s so delightfully robust and rugged.” The covetous gaze moved over the rest of Crispin’s torso. Cris resisted a mad inclination to flex. It was nice to be appreciated, even if it was mostly as food.
“You box at White’s?”
“Of course.” Cris arched his brows, trying for coy. He still had the spike pointed at the vampire, though.
“Oh, put your little wooden toy away, do, stripling. I’m civilized. I’d always ask first. And clearly, you are not for me.”
Cris kept his weapon at the ready. The vampire was still tense about the eyes, and his hands were overly still. Cris never trusted a still predator.
But it took Bertie to put the nail in the proverbial coffin. “He likes women, Lord A. You know how they say – of the female inclination?”
Lord Akeldama sighed very loudly and pursed his lips. “Now that really is a pity. Can’t be influenced into experimenting?”
Now it was Crispin’s turn to roll his eyes. “I went to Eton, so clearly not.” He didn’t want to be impolite to the man, but he had no intention of being either meal or lover, and certainly not both. Sometimes even Cris had to be a touch rude to get his point across.
“Ah, well then. What a profound tragedy. So, it’s evident that you, gentlemen, can do nothing for me. What is it I can do for you? Or should I say, for the War Office?”
“For the queen!” crowed Bertie, full of pride.
“Yes, that woman.” Lord Akeldama tapped his cheek with one fine, bone-white finger.
Mrs Bagley appeared at that juncture. She had a solid looking, and appropriately dressed, young parlormaid with her.
The girl stepped forward, towards the vampire. Cris watched her demeanor carefully. He would not want her to be coerced. But she seemed genuinely eager.
“Bloody Mary, my lord?” offered Mrs Bagley.
The maid tilted her head to one side and pulled down her ruffled collar to show off her white neck.
“Are you sure, Mary?” Cris asked, even though it wasn’t his place as a guest in the house.
The maid glanced at him, not lifting her head, startled. “Oh yes, sir, it would be an honor.”
Cris nodded. So long as it really was her decision
.
The vampire recoiled only slightly before recovering his equanimity. “No, thank you, dearest madame, I just ate.”
The maid looked disappointed. Mrs Bagley looked like Mrs Bagley.
Cris sheathed his spike, a little embarrassed now to have brought it out at all. Had that been too rude?
The two ladies left.
Lord Akeldama and Cris turned expectantly to Bertie.
Bertie showed his hand at last. “Baroness Ermondy, queen of the Nottingham Hive, has sequestered herself alone in—” He paused and cleared his throat. “A, erm, damp limestone cave.”
“A limestone cave, you say? How extraordinary of her. Do go on.” The vampire seemed genuinely enthralled.
Cris watched their visitor’s reactions with interest while Bertie continued.
“Her vampires are unsupervised, her household is in disarray, her servants have fled.”
“Going to Goth, is she?” Lord Akeldama’s eyes had narrowed slightly and he was very, very still. Cris suppressed the mad desire to twitch like a frightened rabbit in response.
“We believe there is a danger of Goth state, yes.” Bertie’s face was grave.
“Are they at the black velvet stage yet? I hadn’t heard of this! How have I not heard of this? Vampires going to Goth, within England proper!” Lord Akeldama rose to his feet, his hands resumed their fluttering. His outfit, Cris realized, did go very nicely with the vegetation and window arrangements of the conservatory. It might not match the door, but the vampire had dressed very well for the rest of the house.
Bertie explained, “We only learned of it recently and BUR has been keeping it under wraps. So to speak. But it appears that she has isolated herself. The hive is down to one drone and three vampires. Most, if not all, of the servants have fled. You know Lord Rashwallop died last year?”
“Terrible tragedy. What was it again?” No doubt Lord Akeldama knew, but was testing them. Crispin watched him slow blink, like a cat, and wondered if vampires had to remember to blink or if they still did it naturally, even though they were undead.
“Exploding wicker-work Aves Galliformes of some kind. Woven willow twigs can be so very dangerous, don’t you feel? Never countenance the stuff, myself.” Bertie was deadpan. The vampire wasn’t going to get one up on him.
“Nor I, dear boy, nor I. Although it has its place. Outside, on lawns and such, in my humble opinion. Was Lord Rashwallop going mad? That was the rumor. He was by far the oldest vampire in that hive.”
Bertie tilted his head. “Yes. I heard that too. War Office can neither confirm nor deny. After all, that’s decidedly BUR’s jurisdiction.”
“I didn’t know BUR dealt in wicker.”
“They don’t. But the Dewan has been known to dabble.”
“Interesting.” The vampire paused his fluttering. His sharp eyes turned to Crispin, suddenly, as if he’d only just remembered he was there. Crispin gave him a head tilt. Lord Akeldama returned a small smile. “Very interesting.”
Bertie pressed on. “Yes, but beside the point.”
“Oh, Bertie-blossom, never say you have a point!”
Cris had to admit he was warming to the vampire, now that the man wasn’t trying to actively recruit him.
Bertie seemed to feel the need to be very clear. “So the baroness has sequestered herself, the hive is diminished, and everyone is worried. They are fully funded. They are not known as vampires, but as local and eccentric aristocracy. They had fully integrated into the local upper classes and we had thought the hive quite stable. Now this.”
Cris presumed this explanation was mostly for his benefit. As the supernatural set rarely impacted his missions, Cris paid very little attention to vampire society.
The vampire looked thoughtful. “BUR believes she might actually be headed towards the final Goth state of depressive insanity?”
Bertie nodded.
“Blood will flow,” intoned Lord Akeldama.
“Yes, it usually does when vampires lose their willies.”
Lord Akeldama gave a tiny little frown. “She’s not very old. It seems precipitous for her to take the velvet path of colorless doom so soon.”
“But with a hive that small and weak? How frayed are her tethers?” Bertie respectfully countered.
“I see your point, sweetness. And a very sharp point it is.”
Cris felt it was time he asserted himself. “How long has it been since she successfully conducted a metamorphosis?”
Bertie frowned. “I don’t have the hive paperwork to hand. I’ve collected it in the study to pass along to you, of course, to read on your way up. But I believe that would be Justice Wignall. He was turned just before the first Napoleonic War.”
Crispin looked at their visiting vampire. “That’s not too bad for a queen.” He was guessing. Fortunately Lord Akeldama concurred, so Cris didn’t feel like a complete idiot.
“No, it’s not. She’s clearly not that weak. Something dire must have set her off. Could be the death, could be something more decorative. You’re right to be worried, my sweet-Bertie-boy. Is that what you had me ’round to ask?”
Bertie nodded. “I’d like your assessment. You’re the only vampire I know capable of an honest assessment.”
“Because I have no hive of my own.”
Lord Akeldama didn’t look as sad as Crispin would have thought when he said it. He’d thought being a vampire rove was something akin to being a werewolf loner. Such a man was packless and lonely – without family. Lord Akeldama didn’t seem to see it that way. If anything, he looked almost pleased by the recognition that rove status gave him a certain objectivity and autonomy, at least so far as the government was concerned.
The vampire stood and inhaled deeply, as if taking to the stage. “I would say it all does sound rather ominous, my sugar plums. And anyone you might send up there is at great risk, especially if Queen Octavine is close to the edge. Although she has a fondness for athletic young men with aggressive jawlines, so you’re in there.” He gave Cris a sly finger wag.
Cris, of course, admitted to nothing.
“It could be something more simple. A swarm might be imminent?” Bertie pressed, hope in his eyes.
Lord Akeldama gave nothing back. “A vampire separating herself from life and sustenance is never a good thing, my lovelies. We are social creatures. Something is gravely wrong. Remember, vampires usually take out their atonement on others, regardless of fault. Nottingham is in danger.”
A dramatic pronouncement from a dramatic vampire. Still, Crispin couldn’t help but shiver. For BUR to be worried was one thing. For the War Office to be activated was another. But for a vampire to confirm that there was cause for concern suddenly made everything feel more pressing and dangerous.
“And now, my darlings, this has been terribly entertaining, but I must be off. There’s this new play I’m simply dying to see.” He tittered. “Well, I would be dying to see it, if I weren’t already dead. Bertie, sweetling, a pleasure, as always. And Sir Crispin, you tasty, tasty thing you, delighted to make your acquaintance. We must meet again sometime soon. Invite me to watch you box sometime, do.”
With which the vampire swept out of the room in grand fashion, presumably intent on seeing himself out.
Cris stood and followed him. Watching to make certain he entirely left the house. Vampire hearing was not to be discounted – at least, that was what he’d always been told.
He returned to Bertie once he’d ensured that the only person likely to eavesdrop on them was Mrs Bagley.
“That was unexpected.”
“Crispy, darling, that was Lord Akeldama. He’s like being suddenly doused with a bucket of warm, delicious gravy.”
Cris could play this game with Bertie if he needed the distraction. “Gravy, hm? Salty, smooth, and tasty, yet profoundly uncomfortable and you’re bound to need a great deal of clean-up afterwards?”
“Exactly.” Bertie was still sitting and had
poured himself a fresh cup of tea.
Cris was never going to be good at being still. Bertie was right to accuse him of being an active, sporty sort of chap. Since he was up already, he began to pace around the seating area of the conservatory in tight concentric circles.
“This is outside my expertise, Bertie. You know that. Send me in to fix a human household and all will be well in a heartbeat. Off to a house party with the gentry, and in a day I’ll return knowing everything about everybody and having set them all to rights. But vampires, Bertie? And crazy ones at that. And Sparkles – you really want to send her into this level of mess?”
“She’s our best option. High society is her bailiwick. Vampires are nothing if not high society driven, even the crazy ones. Plus, we’ve got her an entrée under one of her more established identities.”
“The artist?”
“Exactly. A hive is always courting new drones and has the funds to do it. So we started a correspondence with the praetoriani, Lord Finbar, on Dimity’s behalf. Said she was interested in viewing one of the hive’s paintings, inquired as to whether the hive would consider putting it on loan to a museum collection. Dropped hints that she’s a painter herself. Also showed she had organizational capacities, and might be good as a housekeeper. Finbar was instantly intrigued, suggested she come up to visit, bring some of her artist friends, and see the painting in person. And ta da, we have an invitation!” Bertie’s grin was wide and full of guile, as though he had accomplished something quite profound.
“I don’t like it, Bertie. Did you see Lord Akeldama’s reaction? I mean really see it. He’s not happy about their condition. He thinks they’re doomed. He was only being halfway flippant. I’m sure his normal state is entirely flippant.” Crispin’s heart was doing funny things. This was worse than anyone was letting on and it wasn’t like Bertie to lie to him, not when he was sending him into a sticky situation. And yet there was something here. Something Bertie wasn’t telling him.
“No one is happy about Nottingham, Crispy. That’s why we’re sending her.”
Cris nodded, yet there were still prickles on his spine.
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