Romancing the Inventor

by Gail Carriger

  “Enough!” In one of those movements that the human eye could barely follow, the vampire was on her feet. She had Imogene grasped tight, hard cold hands wrapped about her upper arms, holding her stiff and straight. Then Imogene found herself lifted up, so that her feet dangled in the air.

  Countess Nadasdy might look smallish and roundish, and more akin to a barmaid than anything else, but she was unbelievably strong.

  Then Imogene found herself flying through the air. The queen had tossed her, casually as a discarded muffin, onto the bed. She landed and bounced, scrabbling to get off as quickly as she could.

  “No!” she said, loudly and firmly as the queen moved to follow her. And then, for good measure, “I do not want you.”

  Countess Nadasdy cocked her head, bird-like. “Who are you to reject me? Human insect. If I cannot bleed you, I shall bed you instead.” The queen was on her and over her then, those cool hard hands wrapped about Imogene’s hips, holding her down. If the vampire squeezed any more, she would surely shatter bone.

  Somehow, Imogene remembered what had been said earlier. She remembered the fear in the vampires’ eyes when they looked on the muhjah at that fateful supper party.

  “I shall go to my patron.” Imogene said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “I shall tell Lady Maccon that you’ve abused me. I’m certain she is not the kind of woman to overlook such a thing. I may be a mere insect, but I’m her insect now. I’m not obligated to feed any of your hungers, ma’am, not even this one.”

  At that, the countess was off her and Imogene was up and running to the door.

  “Do not visit me again in my chamber, girl,” the queen called after her. “I will consider it evidence that you’ve changed your mind.”

  Imogene fled to Genevieve’s room, closing the door firmly behind her. It too didn’t have a lock, but the vampires respected Genevieve’s territory. They had very strict protocols about such things. Imogene was pretty certain that, outside of a killing rage, none of them would come into Genevieve’s room uninvited.

  Hopefully, the countess was not in a killing rage.

  Instinctively, Imogene dove not for her own bed, but for Genevieve’s. She huddled there, under the heavy blankets, fully dressed, shaking as if in a bitter cold.

  The pillow smelled of vanilla.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In Which We Learn the Source of Vanilla

  A hand stroking her face woke Imogene.

  The smell of vanilla was all around and she curled into the touch, responding to the calluses on those fingers, familiar friends, although she was not yet fully awake.

  An amused voice said, “So, this is what you get up to when I am away? Staking a claim to the bigger bed, hum?”

  Imogene sat up at once. Memory swept over her in a rush.

  Genevieve Lefoux was sitting on the counterpane next to her, dressed for travel. A large hatbox and worn old carpetbag rested against the closed door behind her. She was smiling, but with Imogene upright, the dimples vanished.

  “Why are you fully dressed?”

  Gentle fingers coaxed Imogene’s chin to move, tilting her head into a beam of bright morning light.

  The inventor’s tone went icy. “Why is your eye black and your face bruised? What has happened, Imogene?”

  Imogene, rather ridiculously, could only be thrilled by the use of her given name. Genevieve had never spoken it before with such intent. It was almost beautiful when colored with a French accent. An accent that was noticeably stronger at the moment.

  “You’re home early.” Thank heavens.

  “Imogene.” The tone was very firm.

  “It’s a long story.”

  Genevieve’s unbelievably gentle hand returned to sweep tangled hair out of Imogene’s face.

  I must look a fright. I never braided it to sleep. It’s surely a bird’s nest.

  “I will not be angry. Well, not with you. Unless you slapped yourself in the face?”

  Imogene bit her lip.

  The inventor’s hand didn’t stop petting, capable fingers smoothing through Imogene’s hair. “I find it best to begin at the beginning, choupinette.”

  So, Imogene relayed the bare truth of what had happened. Henry and his hitting her, “Although that’s not of real concern,” she insisted. “What you must know is that he stole your notes. I haven’t concrete proof, but two sets went missing. Each after one of Henry’s visits. And I think he also lifted the inductive coupler.”

  “Hang the inductive coupler! I will see that little fils de pute drawn and quartered. I will guillotine his cock, I will…”

  “I think he must be a spy,” confessed Imogene, shaky. Hoping beyond hope that Genevieve, at least, would believe her.

  “Of course he is a bloody spy! I only let him stay to keep an eye on him. And because he is so very bad at it. Stupid of me. I had no idea he would take it out on you. Merde. Why did you not tell me?” She paused, clearly putting a few mysteries to rest in her head. “That limp! He has been picking on you for a while. No?”

  Much to Imogene’s regret, the inventor stopped her caresses at that point.

  Imogene ached with the lack. “Men don’t like to be told no. But that isn’t important. Didn’t you hear, he took your notes? He could do real damage to your reputation.”

  “Blast my reputation!”

  Imogene couldn’t fail but be impressed by the dexterity with which Genevieve switched between swearing in French and English.

  “How else has he hurt you, choupinette?”

  Imogene couldn’t hide the wince as she tried to get out of the bed. Her hips ached from the vampire queen’s grip, as did her upper arms.

  “No, don’t move. You’re better in my bed.”

  Imogene blinked at her, delighted.

  “Oh, curses, you know what I mean.”

  Imogene felt she ought to confess all; Genevieve was bound to find out about her other injuries once she tried to move. “I went to the queen with my concerns.”

  Genevieve said something in French that was likely very rude indeed; it was too fast for Imogene to follow.

  “I didn’t know you would be back so soon, or I would’ve waited for you. I could think of no other way to stop Henry. The butler didn’t believe me.”

  The inventor let out a tiny sigh and seemed to be trying to force herself to relax. “What happened?”

  Imogene looked at her hands. Unable to speak. So embarrassed and humiliated and ashamed and hurt. But she must say something. Her hips were bad, bone bruised by the queen’s grip. She wouldn’t be able to work today.

  Genevieve’s hand covered her clasped ones. Comfort again. She really wasn’t angry with her.

  “She also didn’t believe me.”

  “And?”

  “She tried to…” Imogene couldn’t say it out loud.

  The hand left hers and came up to the collar of her best dress. A dress now likely ruined for having been slept in. Besides which, Imogene couldn’t stand the memory of what had happened while she wore it. Or what had almost happened.

  “May I? Please?”

  Imogene was powerless against the begging in Genevieve’s voice. “I should love to be out of this dress,” she admitted.

  The inventor released the top few buttons and with shaking fingers explored Imogene’s neck under the heavy fall of her hair. She let out a long sigh.

  Imogene forced herself to go on. “Not that. She didn’t try that.” She waved a hand down at her aching hips. “She wanted… you know.”

  “Oh, you poor thing.” Genevieve instantly stopped touching her. “How could she? And you innocent of all that. Disgusting! Imogene, I am so very sorry.”

  Imogene tried to lighten the mood. “She didn’t get very far. I threatened her with your friend, Lady Maccon.”

  Genevieve let out a bark of surprised laughter.

  “She let me go. Nothing really happened. I’m a little frightened, and rather
bruised, but not sullied in any way.” She didn’t want to lose all vestige of respect in Genevieve’s eyes.

  “But to torture you with something so alien to your nature.”

  Imogene wanted to protest that was not the problem at all, it was simply that she was not interested in the countess that way. Surely, the inventor wouldn’t toss her on the bed and hold her down? Then again, Imogene likely outweighed Genevieve; if anyone was going to be tossed…

  “So, what would make you feel better? Tea? Toast? A bath?” The inventor turned practical.

  “A bath sounds heavenly, but you don’t have to fuss.”

  “Of course I have to fuss, choupinette. And I will contact Alexia immediately.”

  Genevieve went and yanked on the bell rope.

  The new daytime parlourmaid appeared.

  “Have a bath sent up immediately.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy and vanished.

  “Why contact Lady Maccon?” Imogene wondered, trying to figure out how to move without aches.

  “Why, to arrange your relocation, of course. You cannot possibly wish to stay. Alexia runs an excellent household. I am sure she can find something for a girl of your skills. Biffy, at the very least, could put you to work in the hat shop – with your head for mathematics you would be running the place inside a week.”

  “But I don’t want to move to London and work in a hat shop!” I want to stay here, with you. “No one will trouble me now that you’re home. Henry can’t…”

  “Henry will be sacked, and possibly castrated if I have my way. But even I cannot entirely control the countess. If she has serious designs on you, I am not confident in my ability to protect you.”

  “Don’t those cravat-pin darts of yours work on vampires?”

  Genevieve laughed. “Well, yes, and you should begin wearing one immediately. But to be truly safe, I must remove you from the hive entirely.”

  “I don’t want to leave. I knew the dangers when I first came to work here.” At one time I embraced the dangers, because I wanted any attention in that arena. Although I didn’t know the queen’s perversions were also violent. The drones always seemed so happy to be summoned to her chambers. Perhaps she is only violent with me because I have defied her.

  A knock on the door heralded two footmen with the bathtub.

  “Which one of you is Henry?” Genevieve demanded, standing up from the bed and marching over to the tall young men.

  The chambermaids came in with pitchers of hot water and began to fill the tub. Suddenly, there were a great many people in the room.

  Henry stepped forward and bowed, looking cocky and not scared at all. Although Imogene had never before heard such a cold tone in her dear inventor’s voice.

  Madame Lefoux stepped in towards him, reached down to the crotch of his britches, grabbed, squeezed, and then twisted. Henry howled in surprised misery.

  The second footman took a step forward.

  Genevieve looked at him. “Don’t you dare interfere.”

  He stepped back again quickly.

  “Like to prey on women, do you? Like to bruise in places that won’t be noticed? Like to lord your miniscule bit of power over those weaker than yourself?” Madame Lefoux’s teeth were clenched and she squeezed all the tighter. Henry was clawing at her wrists in a desperate attempt to get her to let go.

  She did so and Henry crumpled.

  The inventor crouched over him. Some sort of avenging pixie dressed as a dandy. “I am not a violent woman, as a rule. It is uncivilized. However, in your case, I make an exception.” She then crashed the palm of her hand into Henry’s eye.

  “Stop, please,” said Imogene. One might have thought she would enjoy revenge. Seeing her nemesis brought low. But she didn’t wish to see Genevieve do it. Didn’t like seeing her idol descend to Henry’s level.

  “Quite right, my dear.” The inventor stood, looming over the cowering footman. “You are dismissed. I shall inform the hive that they must search anew for a matched set of footmen. You may tell whomever you are really working for that those notes you stole are intentionally flawed. I knew, you see, all along. You will get nowhere with them. Now get up, and get out.”

  Henry got.

  “You” – Madame Lefoux pointed at the second footman – “tell the butler that Henry has been discharged for spying on my experiments and stealing my research. He should be escorted off the grounds and given neither reference nor character.”

  * * *

  The bath full, Henry gone, and the other servants fled, Imogene hauled herself slowly out of bed.

  She couldn’t raise her arms and with hips aching, she had to shuffle instead of walk. She didn’t know quite how to manage it, but she would bathe!

  “I had best step out. Should I call one of the maids to help you?” Genevieve’s voice had lost its authority and was oddly hesitant.

  Imogene was horrified by the idea of one of her former colleagues being obliged to tend to her bruises. “I know it’s a terrible imposition, but would you mind? I feel safer with you.”

  The inventor let out a shaky breath. “Of course.”

  Then Genevieve began to unbutton Imogene’s gown.

  In Imogene’s fantasies, such a thing had often occurred but never under such circumstances. Genevieve was as solicitous as any nurse, stripping her out of the dress with infinite care.

  “Give it away, please?” Imogene would have liked to burn it, but she couldn’t accept such waste.

  Madame Lefoux tossed it aside. She took a breath as though fortifying herself for some unpleasant task.

  Am I repulsive now? “I think I can manage,” said Imogene at that, “if you’d rather not.”

  “Hush, choupinette, do not be silly.”

  Genevieve unlaced her stays, and came back around to kneel, and pop open the busk of Imogene’s corset, leaving her standing in nothing but thin chemise and stockings.

  Thank heavens, I had the wherewithal to remove my boots before I got into bed last night.

  Genevieve rolled down the stockings and Imogene stepped free. The inventor was looking strangely ill – a sheen of perspiration on her brow, teeth sunk into her lower lip.

  Then she led Imogene to the tub. There she eased the chemise over Imogene’s head and turn away, busying herself with laying it on the vanity. Imogene took that to mean she should climb into the tub.

  It was a laborious process, her hips screamed at her, and it took much longer than she liked.

  The inventor must have turned back too soon, because she heard a sharp hiss of indrawn breath. No doubt the queen’s finger marks were clearly visible, a set of dark bruises on Imogene’s white hips. And on her arms as well.

  She sank into the water.

  Behind her, Genevieve let out a sigh of relief. Then she began bustling about.

  “Now, what else can I get you? I’ve found one of your work dresses and a clean chemise. I think with those bruises, you should forgo the corset. I do not know why you bother, really, you have a splendid figure without the darned thing. Oh, I am sorry, I am nattering. I forgot myself. No insult intended, Miss Hale.”

  Imogene’s thoughts bounded between the fact that Genevieve admired her figure and the fact that she was now once again Miss Hale.

  “That’s all right. You’re right. No stays. My stockings are in the basket next to my cot, and there should be clean drawers there as well.”

  The inventor continued to fuss.

  Imogene relaxed into the warm water. Soaking away both Henry’s touch and that of Countess Nadasdy.

  Genevieve eventually worked up the courage to approach and hand Imogene a bar of vanilla-scented soap (which explained a great deal). Imogene scrubbed what she could with her limited range of motion. The soap was milk soft and finer than anything she’d ever used. From Paris, perhaps?

  Genevieve left the chamber for a quarter of an hour, returning with a tray loaded with tea, fresh bread, two apples, a
nd a wedge of hard cheese.

  Imogene realized that she was starving and the water was beginning to cool. Her hair felt sticky. She didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t see to it herself, and she so rarely got the luxury of a full bath.

  “I wonder if I could trouble you to wash my hair?”

  The inventor shook her head in an unsettled way but said, “Of course,” and came reluctantly over.

  Imogene suppressed an odd desire to cry as she bowed her head under Genevieve’s ministrations. The inventor rubbed the soap-bar through Imogene’s thick dark hair and then worked it to a lather with her fingertips. It was a wonderful feeling. She really had the gentlest hands.

  Although Imogene did wince at one point, when a wayward lock escaped and slapped against the side of her damaged face.

  “Oh, Imogene. Why on earth didn’t you tell me about the footman earlier?”

  “Men have picked on me all my life. You don’t go around looking like me and rejecting them without punishment.”

  “Always rejecting them, then?”

  “I don’t want them!” Imogene couldn’t keep the frustration out of her voice. It was the frustration causing her to cry more than anything else. That Genevieve could be so kind and yet still so far away.

  “Poor little choupinette,” said the object of her frustration. “You have been through too much. Let me get these suds out and put you to bed.”

  Imogene closed her eyes under a pitcher of clean water and then allowed herself to be pulled to standing and helped out of the tub, the inventor supporting a great deal of her weight – she was stronger than she looked.

  Briskly, as if she were a small child, Genevieve wrapped her in a thick, fuzzy towel and rubbed her dry. There were no more comments on her injuries, and she seemed neither repulsed nor attracted by Imogene’s bruised body.

  It was too much, so Imogene let the tears trickle down her face.

  A large silk handkerchief was pressed to her nose. “Blow.”

  Imogene blew.

  “Now, back to bed you go. No, my bed, it is easier.”

  Imogene didn’t protest.

  Genevieve tucked her in, tender hands spreading her hair out over the pillow to dry. Then she handed her a cup of tea, at which juncture Imogene stopped crying.