Imogene envied her. Not the bites, or the bruises, or the sweets, or even the shawl for that matter. Although it was very pretty. No, she envied her the experience, and the attention.
Not that the queen remained constant. She kept mostly male drones, and they received the lion’s share of her attention. She would drop quickly any member of staff in favor of a new toy. For drones were vastly superior to maids – famous sculptors and portrait artists, even one renowned classical composer. They filled Woolsey Castle with music and art, drifting about in a fog of intellectualism, and like any fog, they were unpredictable and occasionally quite damp.
Imogene was never summoned. Forgotten in the daylight, going about her duties with a quiet competence and a particularly fluffy feather duster, she felt as if she were sleepwalking. Apparently, even here there is something wrong with me. Some reason the queen ignores me. Thankfully, the male vampires also seemed to have forgotten her. She was not so foolish as to think they, like her long-ago werewolf suitor, would honor her preferences. Vampires were not werewolves. Everyone knew the truth – werewolves were the real gentlemen, vampires only acted like gentlemen.
Rejected though she might feel and sometimes quite lonely, the hive was still better than the village. No one had asked for her hand in months. Much as she loved her brothers and sisters, it was nice to share a room with only one other person. And the pay was good. When she made it home, Ma looked a little less tired and the littles a little less hungry.
* * *
“Take this out to the lab, Imogene, do.” Henry, the daytime first footman, pressed a tray into her hands and gestured at the back door.
“Pardon me?” Imogene was a member of the upper household, and upstairs staff did not go outside during working hours!
“The potting shed, down the path there? You must know it.”
“Leave the house?” Imogene remained dumbfounded.
“Well, yes, technically. Although I believe they consider the shed a part of the hive – rather an important part. Drone Lefoux is back. The bell just went, demanding tea.”
Imogene blinked. “Who?”
Henry slapped his forehead. “Of course, you were taken on after the young master left for university. Drone Lefoux, you know? Not technically a true drone but belongs to the hive, one of our queen’s most valued indentures. Best one, if you ask me. Punishment from the crown and our considerable gain. Lefoux, the famous inventor? Come, come, you must know the name.”
Imogene only blinked. “No.”
“Haven’t you read a paper in the last few years?” Henry was an educated man, lucky sod.
Imogene gave a wide-eyed look of utter confusion. “I can’t read. What do you take me for, gentry?”
“You’re so good with numbers, I forgot.” Henry had put Imogene to work counting the silver the moment he learned of her odd talent with sums.
Imogene smiled at him. “Born with that, I’m afraid. No schooling.”
Henry blinked at the smile, dazed, then shook it off. “Four years ago, the gossip was all over town. An monstrous metal octopus on the rampage?”
Imogene only continued to shake her head, feeling ever more confused. As if London gossip held any sway in village life.
“Well, Drone Lefoux is famous. Possibly a little evil and definitely resentful of being forced into exile in the countryside, but always doing something interesting in that laboratory. That laboratory being the potting shed, if you take my meaning. You should be thrilled to take out the tea. Now go on, do, before it gets cold.”
Intrigued, Imogene did as ordered.
* * *
Imogene knocked, several times, getting progressively louder. There was a considerable racket coming from the other side of the door, and whoever was inside couldn’t possibly have heard her. So, she pushed it open herself, balancing the tray on one hip.
Inside, the shed seemed bigger than Imogene initially thought. And louder, full of hisses and bangs and the scent of hot oil and smoke. It was lined with shelves that were stuffed to bursting. There were stacks of engines and engine parts, some of which seemed to be moving. The air was thick with steam and smoke. There were coils and tubes, bottles of odd-colored liquids and any number of tools, some quite rude-looking. That one looks like a… never mind. Every available surface was littered with curiosities; larger implements were propped up against walls or hanging from the ceiling. A coil of glass tubing snaked around the crown molding, filled with a bubbling orange gas that lit the interior with an eerie artificial glow. Perched in one corner, like some sort of ship’s figurehead, was an oddly sinister wicker chicken. It frowned down upon her with an air of chubby disdain.
Imogene wasn’t sure she liked being judged by a chicken.
The only focal point in the chaos was a desk in the far corner, strewn with stacks of papers which turned out (to Imogene’s delight) to be sketches and annotated schematics (rather than lines of incomprehensible script). Concepts for more machines! She would have loved to page through them, but her hands were full, and that would certainly be considered prying.
Next to the desk was a massive piece of flat river slate, mounted on the wall; someone was using it to make calculations with chalk. Imogene might not have her letters, but she could read numbers and do complex sums. Or she’d thought they were complex, multiplication and division and all sorts that left her ma in awe and the littles confused. But the sums written on that slate also included letters, making them more mysterious and more intriguing than anything she’d ever seen before.
Imogene was studying it with her head cocked, holding the tea, and wondering where to put the tray, when a figure emerged out of the chaos.
A slender man straightened up from where he’d been crouched under one of the larger contraptions. He wore protective goggles, some kind of helmet, and large leather gloves. Good thing too, for sparks were flying from a heating tube he held in one hand. An arc of blue shot up from beneath his ministrations, casting purple sparks everywhere.
Imogene nearly dropped the tea tray.
The man swore loudly, either because of the sparks or because one cuff was on fire. He slapped at his sleeve absently, so it wasn’t that.
Finally, the man put down the tube, muttering in a slippery sort of foreign language.
Imogene took the momentary lull as an opportunity to say, “Sir? I’ve brought your tea.”
The man jumped and dropped the tube, which began hissing. He cursed roundly, then jerked back as an arc of purple flew up to the ceiling.
He whirled, charging at Imogene in a sudden sprint. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her (still balancing the tray) behind a large metal something that, if pressed, Imogene would have called a fish tank.
Behind them came a loud bang and an even louder crash.
The man yanked off his goggles and helmet in a smooth movement and cast them carelessly to one side. This revealed a sweet pixie face framed by short, dark, wavy hair.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Imogene could only stare.
He, as it turned out, was a she.
CHAPTER TWO
In Which Inventors Have Powerful Dimples
Imogene swallowed, throat dry, and wished the tea was hers. She needed fortification. The shed was hotter and more cramped than she’d initially thought. The woman’s face was smudged by a thin line of soot across one sharp cheekbone.
The woman, without a doubt that’s what the inventor actually was. She contented herself with pulling off her large leather gloves and ranting. “You have ruined days of work. I nearly had it calibrated perfectly. Now I shall have to start over. And there is a good chance the explosion took out my notes.”
There was a hint of a foreign accent to her words. It made them sound silky. The inventor was wearing men’s clothing under a workman’s leather apron, and as Imogene watched she actually unbuttoned the cuffs (one burnt) and began rolling up her sleeves!
“Well, don’t just stand there, girl. You can speak, can you not?” At which juncture the inventor – What had Henry said her name was? Oh yes, Lefoux – finally turned from the carnage in her laboratory to look Imogene full in the face.
“I was told to bring your tea,” said Imogene, inanely, feeling all at once self-conscious and guilty and frustrated. I didn’t mean to mess up the experiment. I was only doing as ordered.
She tried a hesitant smile.
Drone Lefoux stared at her for a long moment, blinking in a sort of trance. Perhaps she’d caught some of the blast? Her eye color was hard to see in the dingy interior, but Imogene thought they might be green.
Then the inventor smiled back.
She has dimples. I love dimples. Oh, dear.
“I did ask for tea, didn’t I? Where’s Henry? He knows my foibles, and not to come inside at a delicate time. I’d sooner cold tea than a failed experiment.”
“He gave me the tray.” A statement, if possible, even more inane.
“Did he? Well, you should put it down, no?”
Imogene looked about, helpless. This part of the laboratory was a little cleaner than the rest, but there was still no free spot on any flat surface large enough to set a teacup, let alone a tea tray.
The inventor snorted. “Ah, I see. The desk will do. Don’t mind the papers. A few drips will not hurt them – they have been through worse.”
Imogene did as instructed, feeling awed and tongue-tied and clumsy. How does such a glorious woman look so good as a man?
She mustered up some courage. “I apologize. I shan’t make the mistake again. If I’m allowed back, what should I know to do better?”
The inventor was regarding her with newly focused interest, and sipping tea. She was still smiling.
Oh, please stop with the dimples. They burn.
Fortunately, Drone Lefoux couldn’t smile and explain at the same time. “Knock as loudly as possible. If I do not answer, open the door and yell. Do not come in, wait a bit and yell again. It may take me a few moments to realize someone is here. And if the yelling does not work, the fresh air and sunlight often catches my attention.”
Imogene regarded the pert face before her. The cheek smudge was, frankly, adorable, but the skin underneath was almost as pale as a vampire’s. And those (maybe) green eyes looked tired. Did she take proper care of herself?
Before she could stop herself, Imogene said, “You don’t need a break for a bit of air, do you? It can’t be healthy to stay trapped indoors breathing this all of the time.” Her gesture indicated the general aura of smoke and steam.
The dimples reappeared.
Imogene wondered if she could develop an immunity. Since she was now fantasizing about kissing them, probably not.
At least the inventor didn’t find her concern officious.
“What a good idea! Let me finish my tea and we shall take a walk in the garden together.”
Imogene blinked at her. “We shall?”
The inventor tilted her head. Her movements seemed always to be quick but not birdlike, more fluid. “You object to my company?”
“I do have other duties, ma’am.”
“Madame, if you would.”
Imogene felt a wave of crushing disappointment. She wasn’t so ignorant of other cultures. She knew what the word madame meant in French. She’s married.
“Madame. I should get back.”
“Nonsense. Henry knows my ways. Tell him I needed your assistance with some task. I like to get to know new staff.” The inventor finished her tea and stripped off her leather apron.
Underneath she had on grey trousers and a grey vest over a shirt that might once have been white. She wore no cravat or points, and the top button was open to show her throat. Imogene stared too long at that spot. Henry had said Lefoux was an indenture, not a real drone. That only meant she wasn’t a regular food source. Imogene tried to see if there were any bite marks. She could still be lover to one of the vampires. But married?
Hanging the apron over a steam pipe, the inventor gave a little bow and offered Imogene her arm, as though she were a gentleman and Imogene a lady of quality.
Imogene took it, hands trembling slightly. She must look so very silly, in her servant’s garb on the arm of such an important person.
“You are a dour little thing, no?” The inventor escorted her out into the back garden. She was taller than Imogene and leaner. Imogene relished the differences, collecting each new detail, adding them together into the perfect sum of temptation. Madame Lefoux was all angles, but graceful with them, confident in her movements and her address. Her nearness was exhilarating in a way Imogene had never felt before. And her eyes were indeed green, which, combined with the dimples, was entirely unfair of the universe.
Imogene said, pleased her voice remained steady, “This is an unexpected turn for my day, you must understand, Madame. I’m honored but confused.”
The inventor gave her a sidelong look. “Yet you tolerate it with equanimity.”
Imogene didn’t know what the word equanimity meant, but she took it as a compliment. “There are often peculiar things at this house, Madame. I have learned to keep my own counsel.” Although, of course, that was a skill she’d developed long before taking service.
“So, a Frenchwoman dressed as a man and taking you for a walk is not so out of the ordinary in a vampire house?”
Imogene inclined her head, looking up through long lashes.
The inventor said, as though the words were torn from her without will, “You are remarkably beautiful. I can see why the countess collected you.” Then she winced. She paused their walk, arm tense under Imogene’s sweaty hand. “May I?”
Imogene nodded, not understanding the request. But Madame Lefoux could do anything she wanted, because… dimples.
A tentative touch at Imogene’s neck and the inventor’s fingers pushed the high maid’s collar down. Her green eyes were intent. Imogene’s throat felt stretched and shivery.
“She has not claimed you? Or is it…? One of the males, then, for a different… use?” Madame Lefoux’s lips twisted and she drew back her hand. “How long have you been employed here, Miss… I do not even know your name.”
“Imogene, Madame. I’m only a parlourmaid.” Her neck felt abandoned.
“I have never understood the English convention of disrespecting the working classes.”
Imogene blushed with pleasure. “Miss Hale, then, if you prefer.”
“I prefer it for now. Perhaps we will come back to Imogene eventually. I should have to earn the informality, though. Don’t you feel?”
Imogene had never given it much thought. Servants were called by their given names – it was the way the world worked. “If I may do the same,” she barely had the courage to whisper.
“Naturally.” The inventor turned and they began to walk again.
Imogene was mortified that her hand was damp on the woman’s arm, to be felt even under the rolled shirt at her elbow. The inventor’s exposed wrists were bony, but sinewy and strong.
“And the other?” the inventor pressed her advantage.
Imogene blushed again, only this time with shame. “I must surmise that they do not want me for that.”
“What, none of them? Not even an introductory nibble?”
“Not a one.”
“Are they blind?”
Imogene blushed all the harder. Whatever flaw the vampires saw in her, now this amazing woman would see it too. I should be honored to have had a moment of her regard. Me, a parlourmaid, walking out with an intellectual giant. Not that it means anything. No doubt the inventor was kind to all her subordinates. It would explain Henry’s affection.
She confessed, “They made some comment at the beginning, but then I was given the day shift.”
The inventor frowned. “Why on earth would they rusticate you? Have they forgotten about you or are they saving you for something?”
“Like smoked meat?”
“Your guess is likely better than mine, Madame.”
They paused at the end of the garden before a wide lake that formed a natural barrier to the fields beyond.
The inventor lowered her arm.
Imogene dropped her hand quickly. No doubt Madame Lefoux would now reject her, as the vampires had, for some supposed willfulness in her eyes, seeing under the beauty to something flawed and warped.
Imogene tilted her nose slightly up, stared at the field, and waited to be rendered unworthy.
Callused fingers touched her chin, guiding her to look into green eyes. An unconscious mirroring of her first meeting with Countess Nadasdy, when the vampire queen had looked at Imogene and found her wanting.
The inventor did the same. “Poor lovely girl, you see it as rejection? You fancy yourself in love with one of them, then? Lord Ambrose, perhaps? He always catches the young ladies’ eyes. Count yourself lucky, choupinette, they are not kind masters once they have you in their thrall. That you have survived this long unsullied is a miracle. Or very dangerous indeed.”
Abruptly, she dropped her hand and turned her back on the lake. Offering her other arm. Imogene took it. Her chin tingled with the memory of that brief touch. It hadn’t tingled with Countess Nadasdy, perhaps because the vampire’s hand had been so soft. And so very cold.
Imogene wanted to brush aside the collar of Madame Lefoux’s shirt to look for punctures. Did the inventor speak from personal experience? She scrambled for something to say. She wanted to ask about the husband that made the inventor a madame. But that would be presumptuous.
Henry had called Drone Lefoux the most valuable of the hive’s indentures. Yet she was no real drone to serve every whim of her vampire masters and mistress. This meant the inventor owed the vampires her labor, but not her allegiance. How had that come about? Likely also an intrusive question. One did not ask a superior about business matters.
Her work, perhaps, is a safe topic? Tentatively, Imogene broke the silence. “On your slate, Madame, with the chalk… Why are there letters mixed in with the numbers?”
Romancing the Inventor: A Supernatural Society Novella Page 2