Manners & Mutiny

“You find me intriguing? I should have thought that impulse passed by now, my lord.”

“Now, now, no one, kitten, has ever called me impulsive. Many things, but never that. Time has so little meaning for me, I can afford to take it slowly. Carefully research any subject of interest.”

Sophronia wasn’t certain how she felt about being a subject of interest, but she wished to make her situation clear—for everyone’s safety. “My lord, you did receive my letter?”

Lord Akeldama allowed his face to fall. “Crushed, my dearest moggie. It’s not often I offer for a female drone, you do realize?”

“I am aware of the honor. Circumstances, my lord, forced another choice upon me.”

Lord Akeldama’s perfect forehead crinkled. “Coercion? My dear, I do not like to hear that at all.”

Sophronia hastened to prevent disaster. “It is not an unwelcome position. I am satisfied with my future and my bargain.” With the Picklemen on the move, the last thing she wanted was Lord Akeldama, powerful vampire rove, and the dewan, powerful werewolf loner, at each other’s proverbial throats.

Her letter had declined Lord Akeldama’s offer of indenture without specifying who had won her instead. So far as she knew, the vampire remained ignorant of the fact that, when she left school, she would work for the werewolves. Sophronia was hoarding that story as ammunition. Lord Akeldama desired information above all things. There might come a time when she could use gossip about herself to bargain for his help. No sense in giving anything away. Lord Akeldama was no charity case. Even this dinner was no doubt in pursuit of some end to which her presence was a means. She was not so foolish as to believe it was actually an honor.

The vampire watched her closely. She hoped none of her thoughts showed on her face. Lady Linette had schooled them in impassive expressions, but she knew her eyes were hard to control. And Lord Akeldama was very good at perceiving without showing that he did. I wonder if that is a product of his age or if he, too, once had training.

Without further private communication, they followed the others into a large back parlor. The house was decorated in a baroque style, but what intrigued Sophronia was how many of the gilt frames, decorative lamps, and pretty vases were also deadly. They’d studied some of the makers. The gas lamp that detached and exploded on impact was from a Swiss clockmaker. The frames with the leaf corners that became knives were from a private dealer in Manchester. Lord Akeldama was a vampire after her own heart. Although, to be frank, her taste was less ornate. Dimity, however, was in raptures.

The back parlor was arranged like a music room, with couches and armchairs all facing a small performing area.

“This play, my lord, what is it called?” asked Sophronia, aware that they were now easily overheard by the others.

“It is a witty little invention of Bolo’s. Currently, he is calling it The Importance of Wearing Ermine, but the title may change. Shall we sit?”

The play was indeed a witty little invention. Although clearly designed to appeal to ladies and poodle fakers, it was, nevertheless, replete with enough verbal skirmishing to delight even Sophronia, who customarily had more serious dramatic preferences. In Shakespearean fashion, all the roles were played by men. This only added comedic effect.

Dimity was heard to squeak with delight at more than one exchange of repartee. Petunia laughed several times. Even Agatha tittered. The result being that praise was heaped upon an ebullient Bolo as soon as the bowing commenced.

There was enough fodder in the play to engage them all in conversation over aperitifs until other guests, invited only for the meal, began to arrive.

At each announcement, Lord and Lady So-and-so, Mr. Such-and-such, Petunia became increasingly agitated. At one point, she dragged Sophronia into a corner to chatter about it before she exploded. “Everyone who is anyone is here tonight. And not only the known elements from the daylight society papers, but the real important types written of in the Evening Cupboard! Oh, Sophronia, please behave yourself. I know finishing school saw you turn over a new leaf, and you have been golden this past week, but don’t hurl any food at anyone? Please?”

Sophronia, of course, knew everyone there. Before he went mad, Professor Braithwope drilled them on the ton—humans and supernaturals. Lord Akeldama was hosting a representative sample—four landed gentry, two active members of the Staking Constabulary, the chief field operative for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry, an overseer of the Vault of England, and a proper Ghost Wrangler. Sophronia even recognized those at whose import Petunia could only guess. The nondescript Mr. Thermopopple was, in fact, official inventor to the queen. And the mild-mannered sandy-haired professor was actually Beta to the local werewolf pack.

She was not surprised, therefore, when the dewan turned up. He sent a curt nod in her general direction. She understood that this meant their arrangement was to continue a secret and found it no challenge to ignore him. As expected, he had not brought Soap. She let out the puff of breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

The other member of the Shadow Council, the potentate, was absent. Adviser to the queen, and the patron of Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, he was no doubt important. But, with few exceptions, a vampire was not able to safely visit another’s home. That said, Sophronia suspected at least one person come to dine was in the potentate’s pay, possibly several.

They were called into dinner by a butler-type human. This was not so odd, as vampires refused to employ mechanicals. He was of middling years and so ordinary that Sophronia would have passed him by, except that he moved like he could kill someone and would be good at it. All three of Geraldine’s girls looked at the butler with interest from under lowered lashes. He blinked impassively, holding the door. He does not like to be noticed, thought Sophronia. And he doesn’t like Lord Akeldama.