Curtsies & Conspiracies (Finishing School, #2)(38)

“Miss?”

“Be a dear, Furnival, and go at Miss Dimity here for a bit?”

Furnival looked Dimity up and down doubtfully.

“Oh, must I?” Dimity hated to fight.

“Certainly.”

“Oh, very well.” Dimity kilted up her lovely skirts and gamely grabbed a stoking pole, aiming it limply at poor Furnival.

The sootie backed away and looked helplessly at Soap.

Soap gave him the nod.

Sophronia said, “I know she doesn’t look like it, but she’s trained like Sidheag and me.”

The boy swung his own pole tentatively at Dimity.

Dimity blocked.

Sophronia, Vieve, and Soap watched for a bit. Dimity wasn’t very good, but Furnival treated her gently. Unless Sophronia missed her guess, the poor lad was already developing romantic feelings toward her friend. Many of the sooties probably were. Dimity was so pretty and chattery, she quite overpowered the average male. Many gentlemen were unable to cope with abundant chatter, which is why they so often married it.

Soap went to encourage the fighters. Dimity developed a bit of backbone under his tutelage and struck with more firmness. Furnival scrambled to block.

Sophronia turned to Vieve. “Anything new on that mini-prototype?”

Vieve’s small face went serious under her oversized newsboy cap. She dipped into her waistcoat pocket and produced the faceted crystalline object. “It’s giving me stick. Why put a communication device inside an oddgob?”

Sophronia took it from her, rolling it about in her hands. “Definitely for communication?”

“Yes, and I have a few theories as to application.”

“Of course you do. Anything you wish to share?”

“Sophronia, my dear,” said the ten-year-old, sounding not unlike one of the professors, “I must test the theories first.”

“Of course. Silly of me to even ask.”

“What are you two plotting?” asked Soap, leaving Dimity and Furnival to whack irresolutely at each other.

“Nothing,” said Sophronia and Vieve in unison.

Soap was not convinced and took the mini-prototype from Sophronia, his soot-covered fingers brushing the back of her hand most unnecessarily as he did so. He held the valve gingerly, as though afraid to smudge it. “What’s it for?”

“That,” said Sophronia, “is the question.”

A set of birdlike whistling noises floated into the air, the sootie version of a proximity alarm. The boys assembled to watch Dimity’s duel shuffled about uncomfortably and look over at Soap for direction. It was not unlike a group of pigeons disturbed by the presence of a partridge in their midst.

“Oh, ho, what’s going on here?” said a cultured male voice.

Felix Mersey slouched up, as if he always wandered the boiler rooms of floating girls’ seminaries. He was dusty with coal, having obviously climbed in from the outer hull through the hatch.

Sophronia’s first thought was: Oh, dear, he’s figured out how to get around the ship. Her second was: Thank goodness I wore a dress this evening. Her third was: Life probably would have stayed easier had Felix and Soap never met.

At an almost imperceptible hand signal from the taller boy, the young lord found himself surrounded by sooties, none of whom looked pleased to see him. Vieve melted into the shadows. Dimity came to stand with Sophronia.

Soap straightened, put down his primer, and walked over to the viscount. Felix Mersey might be the cream of the aristocracy, but in the boiler room Soap was undisputed king—grimy empire though it might be.

Felix was not impressed. “Who are you, darkie? And what are you doing with a guidance valve?”

Sophronia didn’t like anyone disrespecting Soap. But even while battling anger, she filed Felix’s comment away: the mini-prototype was called a guidance valve. She jerked forward to take back the guidance valve and show her allegiance to Soap.

Dimity held her back. Her friend was remarkably strong for such an innocent-looking creature. “My dear, we’d best let them deal with this in their own way.”

“But—”

“This is not a matter for ladies.” Dimity considered. “Or even intelligencers.”

“Oh, but I—” protested Sophronia.

“No, dear, no.”

Soap smiled his big, wide, welcoming grin at Felix. For once, it did not look friendly. “Ah, now, little lordling, you’re in our world. I’m thinking a bit of politeness might be in order.”

“To commoners? I think not.”

“We can boost you right back out that hatch you came in.”

“Hardly sporting. There’s plenty more of you scrappers than there is me.”

“Ah, yes, but if you’re going about not treating us as gentlemen, we don’t have to behave like ’em, do we?”

“As if you knew how.”

Soap made a perfect bow, precisely the kind due to a viscount. “How do you do? The name is Phineas B. Crow.”

Goodness, if Soap didn’t sound exactly as if he were a gentleman. He’s been practicing the accent. Sophronia wondered where he’d learned it in the first place.

Shocked into an instinctual reaction, Felix bowed back. “Felix Golborne, Viscount Mersey.”

“Lord Mersey, I’ve heard of you.” Soap looked over to where Sophronia skulked.