The dewan looked her up and down. “Should I take that as a compliment, coming from you, Miss Temminnick?”
“What if that’s their plan, too? What if they are not intending an outright attack, but instead are trying to discredit you, the Shadow Council, and the entire supernatural set?”
“Queen Victoria would never allow it.”
“And right now the general populace would never allow you to take their mechanicals away. But if the Picklemen cause one major nationwide malfunction, and blame it on a vampire vendetta, and then a Pickleman-backed manufacturer steps in and fixes everything? Then the supernatural are the villains and political power sways with popular opinion. So long as the papers spin it right.”
“You think that is their game?” The dewan was intrigued.
“I think it’s possible.”
Soap said, “I told you her brain worked in mysterious ways.”
Sophronia couldn’t suppress a rush of pleasure. He’s been bragging about me to the dewan. How sweet.
At least the dewan was considering her theory. Perhaps being indentured to him wouldn’t be so bad, if he gave her opinions weight despite her age and sex.
Nevertheless, he disagreed. “I think it must be something less subtle. They have gone to a great deal of expense installing the new valves, which allow them to control every mechanical in the nation. They only need the right command center.”
Sophronia got excited. “So Lord Akeldama’s exploding mechanical was a pilot designed to seize control of military dirigibles?”
The dewan continued as if she hadn’t interrupted, “That’s a lot of pawns in place for a supernatural character assassination, even if the end result would be a shift in political power. What you suggest requires delicate maneuvering and hinges on controlling popular opinion and the press, both notoriously difficult to influence. I think it more likely that their planned assault is more violent.”
Sophronia saw his reasoning. Of course, she liked her theory even if it didn’t explain the exploding pilot. She must remain open-minded enough not to ignore evidence that came up to discredit her. It was best not to have an agenda in espionage.
“I will keep my ears and eyes open, my lord. I have never been able to predict the duke’s actions.”
“The duke? You mean Golborne?”
Sophronia nodded.
“Ah, yes.” The dewan looked at Soap, as if he had momentarily forgotten that the duke had been responsible for that fateful shot. “If I recall correctly, you had some doings with young Lord Mersey at one time.”
Sophronia refused to blush. “Some, as you say, doings.”
Soap tensed.
“Word is the duke’s been elevated to Grand Gherkin. It is a significant position of power for such a disturbingly petty individual. There’s only one Pickleman higher—the Chutney himself.”
“As you say, my lord.” Sophronia wanted to inquire further, but the dewan was speaking to her as if she should know all the details of Pickleman infrastructure. She didn’t want to display ignorance when he was treating her so fairly.
“Perhaps young Mersey would be useful in this matter. Do you think he might be privy to his father’s plans?”
Sophronia thought back to the recent ball. “I’m afraid that bridge may have been burned, my lord.”
“Now, now. Pretty young thing like you? I highly doubt it.”
Soap’s arm left her waist. Sophronia felt the cold of its absence. She could see the dewan’s reasoning. And, frankly, it would be a good test of her seduction ability. Could she win Felix back, on her own terms, knowing her affections lay elsewhere? A challenge. She did love a challenge. “I want it clear that I’m doing it because I’m curious—not because you’ve instructed me. You don’t hold my indenture yet. But I will try Lord Mersey for information.”
Soap growled. Actually growled!
Before Sophronia could get huffy about possessiveness, the dewan interceded. “Now, now, pup, remember what we discussed earlier. Controlling the wolf’s emotions for civilized discourse is a requirement. Miss Temminnick here is planning on employing her intelligencer training in response to a specific target. It has no bearing on your”—his lip curled—“ relationship with the chit. Whatever that may be.”
Sophronia felt compelled to say something. “Really, my lord, why do you think we—?”
His snort cut her off. Strangely, Sophronia got the impression he was on Soap’s side, that he, of all people, might support affection between a clandestine black werewolf and a young lady of quality.
She turned to Soap for understanding. Only to find that she’d momentarily forgotten how tall he was and how satiny his skin. She shifted in close against him. Employing affection was also part of her training.
Soap winced. “Don’t.”
Sophronia felt a pang of guilt, pulling away. What kind of person have I become, that I chase information even though it may hurt those I adore? I’ve become so guarded, even with people I love. She shook herself internally. “And while I do that, what exactly is your plan, my lord?”
“To stop them. Whatever it is they are going to do with those valves, I’m putting an end to it before it happens.”
“And if you can’t? What’s your contingency plan?”
The dewan looked militant. “They will be stopped. That is all you need know.”
Perhaps I have to be the one to develop a contingency plan. Sophronia wondered if Madame Spetuna was heading back to nest once more among the Picklemen and flywaymen.
“It’s getting late.” The dewan did not want to talk further. “I’d best get this one home before dawn. Make your good-byes, younglings.”
Soap turned swiftly and kissed her, before she could protest.
His lips were soft and warm. He tasted different. Richer, like brown-butter sauce. More threatening, also. She probably liked that fact too much. Although she found herself grateful that it was the new moon—the safest time for a girl to be kissed by a werewolf.
Soap broke it off before she was ready, leaving her dissatisfied and annoyed with her own weakness. She had to remind herself again how impossible such a relationship would be—they’d be mocked and ostracized by everyone.
The look in Soap’s eye said he, too, wanted more, but that was the point. If Sophronia were ever fully satisfied, she’d be bored, or dead. Soap was inclined to use that character trait to his advantage.
Because they both knew it, Sophronia headed back into the house without another word.
“Wait.”
She turned at the door, and the dewan tossed something at her. Training kicked in and she suppressed the instinct to dive out of danger, catching it instead. It was a large velvet sack, well padded, and it thunked into her, heavy with the weight of something metal. She loosened the drawstring.
Tick-tock, tick-tock! went the sack.
“Bumbersnoot!”
“You shouldn’t leave your mechanimal lying about all willy-nilly like that, young lady. Any werewolf could have tripped over him,” said the dewan.
Soap chuckled.
And they were gone.
Sophronia envied them their speed and silence. The right werewolf, she thought, could make for a very accomplished spy.
RECORDS AND REGRETS