“Conversation?”
Dimity shook her head at Agatha to indicate they didn’t understand what she wanted. “Why does she desire our acquaintance? She knows us already.”
The two girls linked arms and huddled in, so that anyone observing would think they were undertaking serious rumor-mongering.
“She probably has important information to impart. Wants us to go over,” suggested Sophronia.
“We can’t,” Dimity squeaked. “Sister Mattie is circulating.”
Agatha began winding her handkerchief around her third finger.
“What does that mean?” Sophronia asked Dimity.
“I am married.”
That was even more confusing. Sophronia lowered her fan again and shook her head at Agatha in an accusing way.
Agatha gave an obvious sigh and then said something firm to Pillover.
Pillover grabbed up Agatha’s handkerchief and began gesticulating at them with it.
“I am a… new bride?” Dimity tried.
Imagining Pillover dressed in white lace gave Sophronia a momentary attack of giggles.
Disgusted, Agatha and Pillover rose and moved through the tables. The settings were well conceived—tiered serving ware and low flower arrangements to encourage conversation. At the edge of the dance floor, Pillover took Agatha in his arms and began twirling her around, along with the other brave couples. Eventually, the set brought them close to Dimity and Sophronia. They swirled to a stop.
“Barred from attending, were you, Dim? How upsetting that must be. And how degrading to sneak into your own New Year’s party.” Pillover attacked his sister at her weakest point the moment they landed.
“Shut your cake hole, you revolting young blot,” responded Dimity affably.
Pillover did not look at all put out, but he did clamp his mouth shut.
“Now is not the time to rankle, you two.” Agatha sounded quite grown-up. “Mr. Plumleigh-Teignmott was recently telling me something terribly important. There are strangers among the boys attending our festivities.”
They all turned to peruse the room, trying to spot enemies among them.
“Picklemen or their intelligencers.” Sophronia saw no one notably out of place.
Pillover scrunched up his face, upset that they already knew.
Agatha rolled her eyes. “How did you know? Goodness’ sake, you’ve been nannying a vampire. It’s really too bad. I thought I had the leg up for once.”
“I have been nannying a vampire.” Dimity wanted this to be quite clear. “Sophronia has been sneaking off kissing sooties.”
“Oh!” Pillover was almost cheerful. “Is Soap here? Bang-up chappy, that Soap.”
“No, he jolly well isn’t here. I sent him packing.” Sophronia frowned.
“Not for good, I hope? I rather like the blighter.” Pillover was remarkably egalitarian for a toff. This was possibly because he preferred Greek translations to evil inventions and had suffered under Piston recriminations as a result. Pillover, being disenfranchised, felt that the friendship of a dark-skinned member of the proletariat was solidarity, not stigma.
“Which ones are the infiltrators?” asked Sophronia before they could get distracted by her romantic entanglements.
Pillover turned to point to the far corner of the room, near the head table. “Over there, with Lord Mersey, of course. Oh, hold the horses. They’ve gone!”
“Of course they’ve gone.” Sophronia whirled to find out where.
“Now, wait a moment, young lady.” Dimity sounded like Mademoiselle Geraldine in her frustration. “We only just got here.”
“You stay,” said Sophronia magnanimously. “I’m going after.”
“But you don’t even know where they went!” objected Agatha.
“And you can’t possibly leave without saying good evening to me.” A new voice, warm as honey, joined the conversation.
“Gammon!” said Pillover, and then, “Come along, Miss Woosmoss. This is too rich for my blood.”
Dimity also suddenly seemed to feel she was wanted elsewhere. Face still protected by her lace fan, she wandered into the crowd in a manner guaranteed to make her entirely unremarkable. She really had been paying attention in lessons of late.
“Ah, good evening, Lord Mersey.” Sophronia’s voice was equally honeyed.
“Miss Temminnick. I understood you would not be joining us this evening.”
“Did you? How droll.”
“Of course, silly me. You go wherever you want, don’t you, Ria?” He seemed to be enjoying the fact that, this time, Sophronia was acting like Sophronia. Even if that meant she was sharp with him, or possibly because she was sharp with him.
“Not everywhere.”
“They trained you too well, didn’t they?”
Sophronia cocked her head. He was acting particularly combative. She shivered her fan slightly to expose something more of her neckline.
Felix paused, arrested, but it didn’t seem to lighten his mood. If anything, it made him glower. “Seen any nice werewolves lately?”
“There was a lovely dinner party while I was in London last week. You should have been there.”
“I probably should. But I was thinking, perhaps somewhat more recently.”
Sudden dread hit the pit of Sophronia’s stomach. He knows Soap is here. Does that mean the Picklemen know? Is Soap in danger? “What information do you think you have, Felix?” She lowered her voice.
Blow the dewan’s seduction plan, she thought. I’m going to strangle the little traitor right here. Where’s my garrote? Her free hand fisted around her carnet de bal. The long chains were strong enough to wrap around someone’s neck—she’d made certain of it.
Felix looked down at his fingernails and pursed his beautiful mouth. “Nothing of any consequence. But then, neither is he.”
Strangling is too good for him. Sophronia snapped the guard off her bladed fan with her thumb and stepped in a little closer. The razor edge gleamed.
“Now, now, Miss Temminnick, you wouldn’t want to ruin that stunning—really, quite stunning, and so mature—dress with blood, would you?”
Sophronia gave a cold smile. “This dress is red, my dear viscount, with a pattern designed to hide stains.”
Felix looked slightly uncomfortable. “Of course it is. And yet you can’t help him by threatening me.”
“Killing him once wasn’t enough for you?”
Felix grimaced. “What, bitter you can’t spawn tea-colored infants named Bubble and Suds?”
“Is that an attempt at humor? I wouldn’t bother if I were you.”
Felix spoke through gritted teeth. “You were mine and he stole you.”
“Poor boy, is that what you thought?” Sophronia considered the root of his anger. Was I some weird prize to him or did I actually break his heart? Terribly careless of me if I did. And either way, Soap suffers because of his bitterness? “You never had me, silly. Even if you had, you would have driven me away, in the end. I don’t like traitors.”
Felix’s beautiful blue eyes turned pleading. “I tried to warn you from the dirigible, remember? I tried to stop my father from shooting.”
“And yet you told him we were Geraldine’s girls, putting us all in danger in the first place.”