Curtsies & Conspiracies (Finishing School, #2)(32)

Professor Braithwope’s tone became almost kindly. “You are more connected to her than I at this point, whot. After all, I did not authorize the redistribution of the prototype; you undertook that at her private request.”

“You thwarted me and them in that matter,” said Monique. “They aren’t happy with either of us.”

Sophronia rubbed at her forehead, trying to make her brain’s inner cogs tumble smoothly. Last autumn, when Monique tried to steal the prototype, Sophronia had thought she was working for the government. This conversation indicated that Monique was working for a vampire hive instead. If they wanted the prototype valve then, did they still want it? Goodness, I wish Vieve would tell me what that newer one from the oddgob was for. Is it still all about communication across distances? Or do the mini ones do something more sinister?

“Hence the reason I do this test with Giffard,” said Professor Braithwope.

Well, that cinches it. Professor Braithwope needs to meet with Giffard and his new dirigible; that’s why the school is going to London.

The vampire continued. “What will you do to get back in their good graces?”

Monique said nothing. Sophronia wished she could see their faces. Eavesdropping was difficult without a window.

Finally Monique muttered, “I don’t know.”

I’d wager she already has a plan, thought Sophronia.

“I wager you already have a plan,” said Professor Braithwope.

“And you’re hungry enough to let me get away with not telling you about it.”

Sophronia realized, for the first time, that Monique had always favored high-necked gowns. She also liked silk shawls and ribbon chokers. How could I have not realized it was to disguise feeding bites? I’m going to have to pay better attention to that part of fashion in the future.

“Oh, no, my dear, you forget, I no longer care,” said the vampire, sharper than Sophronia had ever heard him speak to a student. “Now, come here.”

Sophronia prepared to shimmy back up the rope.

After a long silence, Monique spoke, her voice weaker than before. “Since you are no longer looking after me, Professor, you must consider this our last meal together.”

Professor Braithwope said, “Of course, wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You have… alternative options?” Monique sounded jealous.

Sophronia began to make a mental list, trying to think of all forty-five students and which ones might be hiding the mark of Professor Braithwope’s favor.

The vampire did not answer Monique.

Sophronia considered offering herself. There would be quite an advantage to having a vampire’s help. But it smacked of cheating. Also, the idea made her squeamish. It was a mark of how far she had come during her time at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s that it didn’t make her more than squeamish.

“Well, Professor, will you be able to attend my ball?”

“I’m afraid not. That’s well within Lord Akeldama’s territory. I’ll stay with the ship around Hyde Park, neutral ground, whot.”

“Shame,” said Monique.

“I am certain you will catch London afire with your charm,” said the vampire gallantly. Professor Braithwope never forgot his manners, which was why he taught lessons on them.

“I’d rather do it with my looks,” snapped Monique.

Angry footsteps headed in Sophronia’s direction. She scrabbled backward, sacrificing silence for speed. She grabbed her rope at the edge of the balcony and shimmied up, coiling it behind her.

The door below burst open, and both Professor Braithwope and Monique walked out.

“I heard something!” said the professor.

“No one is here.” Monique glanced around but did not look up.

But Professor Braithwope did, just as Sophronia tumbled over the railing of the balcony above. Their eyes met for one startled instant.

The vampire winked at her. Actually winked, his mustache bristling conspiratorially. “Ah, perhaps you are right. Simply the wind, whot?”

There was no wind.

Monique had her own concerns and let the matter drop. It was one of the things that made her such a poor intelligencer. She was good at putting lessons to use, but only in the service of her own ends.


“I can’t believe it,” said Dimity over breakfast. Her objection was almost loud enough for Monique to hear at the other end of the table.

Monique, fortunately, was in deep council with Preshea, Lord Dingleproops, Lord Mersey, and several of the older girls on the subject of decorations. Who supplied the best fresh flowers in London? And did they want ribbons, rosettes, and streamers, or only two fluttering options?

“He’s her advocate on staff. Or he was. I suppose it makes sense, but I should never have believed it of him. I was certain Prof B. had better taste. And”—Dimity’s attention was caught by the end of the table—“why must Preshea flirt with him so outrageously?”

Sophronia was accustomed to her friend’s lightning-fast change of topics. “Lord Dingleproops?”

“Of course, Lord Dingleproops! I could hardly mean Lord Mersey. He’s obviously yours. And Pillover doesn’t count. Pillover never counts. They are the only three assigned to our table.”

“Not that Monique would ever flirt with me,” added Pillover, staring glumly into his bowl of porridge. Sister Mattie had put him on a diet. He was, if possible, even more morbid as a result.