Curtsies & Conspiracies (Finishing School, #2)(42)

Vieve unclipped the obstructor about her wrist and passed it over. Then she carefully nicked one finger with the sharp edge of her shirt pin, drawing blood. She’s hiding my smell, Sophronia realized. Vampires senses could be befuddled by fresh blood. Then Vieve stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jodhpurs, pulled her cap over her eyes, and sauntered out.

“What ho, Professors,” she said jovially. Just as though she strolled about the ship at all hours turning up where least wanted—which, Sophronia supposed, was exactly what she did do.

The vampire looked none too pleased to see her.

“Oh, it’s only little Genevieve,” said Sister Mattie, relief in her voice. Really, thought Sophronia, she ought to be better at hiding her emotions. Then again, acting was Lady Linette’s speciality.

“You are a scamp, aren’t you, whot?” said the vampire, not relaxing. “How much did you hear?”

“Not much.”

Sister Mattie said wisely, “A little lovage is a dangerous thing.”

“I think you mean knowledge,” corrected Vieve.

“No, I do not.” Sister Mattie was very opinionated on the subject of herbs.

Quicker than the eye could follow, even had it been broad daylight, the vampire reached out and grabbed Vieve’s ear.

“Ouch!”

“What did you hear?” he repeated, sounding much more vampirelike than Sophronia had thought he could. His mustache even managed to quiver with malice.

“Something about a technology, and whether they were interested or not. And how many.”

“Anything else?”

Sister Mattie clucked. “Now, now, Professor, don’t damage the girl.”

Vieve began to struggle. The vampire lifted her by the ear. She struck and kicked out. “Stop it, sir! There’s nothing more, I promise.”

That’s odd behavior, thought Sophronia. Not odd for a ten-year-old girl, but Vieve rarely acted like an actual ten-year-old.

Vieve began to whimper and scrabbled more, raking at the front of the vampire’s chest. “Lemme go, that hurts!”

It’s quite a show, thought Sophronia, but it’s definitively a show. Vieve was no more an actress than Sister Mattie. What is she up to?

“You realize I will have to report this transgression to your aunt?” The vampire set Vieve down, still angry.

Vieve sullenly rubbed her abused ear. “I suppose so.”

“Oh, you do, do you? You’re too young to have transgressions. Now, here, wrap this handkerchief around that finger and come along.”

With that, the two professors, trailing a protesting Vieve, walked the long stretch across the warehouse floor and left, shutting the door behind them.

The smell of blood, all that propeller noise, and Vieve’s whining had effectively hidden Sophronia’s presence. She wondered if the same trick would work on a werewolf. I must really learn more about the limits of supernatural abilities. She sent a thought of thanks after Vieve. I guess that’s a fair exchange for betraying my sootie visits to Dimity and Felix.

She was mystified as to why the girl had thrown such a tantrum. She felt around the floor where the vampire had shaken Vieve. Sure enough, as she patted, she happened upon the key to the shed. Professor Braithwope had put it into his waistcoat pocket, and Vieve had thrown her fit in order to pinch it for Sophronia. Blast it, Sophronia thought, now Vieve is one up on me and I owe her! I shall have to put some serious thought to getting rid of Shrimpdittle so she can go become an evil genius.

Sophronia put the key in the shed door and turned it slowly. The bolt clicked over, but if the cargo was that important, there would be more than a lock guarding it. Inside Sophronia could just make out that the shed was set up like a lady’s sitting room. There were multiple low couches, a very ornate chaise longue—all brass fittings and cream brocade—and fifty or more embroidered throw cushions. There was even a tea trolley near the door, complete with teapot and a plate of small cakes. She had no doubt those were from Mademoiselle Geraldine’s collection. Sophronia was not fooled by all the detail; no one set up a shed like this unless they were trying to hide something in plain sight. She checked the doorway for traps. She ran her hand cautiously along the jamb on each side and down the center for a trip wire. Nothing. Most atypical.

Cautiously, she moved into the room.

The ornate chaise across the way emitted a puff of steam from under its brocade ruffle and whirled to life. It had an affronted aspect, as though it were a mother goose and the decorative pillows strewn all about were its eggs.

The chaise charged Sophronia, who leapt to one side, bounced up onto a couch, and, in lieu of any other weapon, grabbed one of the cushions.

The chaise whirled on one of its legs, tassels flying. Its gilt decoration and upholstery disguised copious elaborate mechanisms. It faced Sophronia again, skittering from one side to the other, unable to jump up after her and unwilling to charge and break the other couch.

Sophronia waived the pillow at it.

The chaise puffed smoke out a back slat and waved two tassels with obvious menace.

Luckily, it didn’t seem to be able to sound the whistle alarm like a maid mechanical, nor the trumpeting blast like a soldier mechanical, but it was not going to let her out of the shed, either.

Its protocol probably dictates that it hold infiltrators here and not allow them to escape until someone checks. I could be at this all night.