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 duty.”
“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.”
“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 throat.
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 resolved 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.
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.