Curtsies & Conspiracies (Finishing School, #2)(67)

The handsome vampire who had been consoling Monique looked at Professor Lefoux and then, with a curt nod, flitted supernaturally fast to the edge of the crowd, scooping up Professor Shrimpdittle before the man could even start to run.

“I object!” yelled the teacher, his eyes wild.

Sophronia felt suddenly unwell. She didn’t want to witness this, not after she had driven him to do it. Because of me, she thought, the suit was sabotaged. Because of me, Professor Braithwope could be permanently damaged. And now, because of me, this man will be punished for it. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to blame Vieve and her devilish bargain. Instead, she schooled her features, swallowed down the bile, and stood witness to her own actions.

“We object,” said one of the Picklemen in an autocratic tone. “Professor Shrimpdittle is a respected member of the Royal Society, not to mention a learned teacher.”

“He is also a noted vampire hater,” said Lord Ambrose, casually picking at his fang with a cravat pin while still holding Professor Shrimpdittle with his other hand.

The crowd separated. The vampires and their drones ranged against the Picklemen. The few ladies present, the remaining girls from the school, and Captain Niall held neutral territory between the two parties.

The potentate stepped forward, flanked on either side by two very large scruffy men. Captain Niall did a strange thing at the sight. He bowed, tilting his head and baring the back of his neck in a gesture of profound submission. Sidheag did the same. The scruffy men both nodded, accepting this odd behavior as their due. Their top hats, while fine specimens to the height of fashion, were tied beneath their chins, the black velvet ribbon stark against the white of evening cravats.

“Who are they?” Sophronia asked.

“The one with the mustache on the left is the dewan, the queen’s own werewolf and the potentate’s counterpart. The other one is Lord Vulkasin Woolsey,” explained Sidheag out the corner of her mouth.

“Is there anything you don’t know about werewolves?” Sophronia demanded.

“Nope. You try living with them for a few years running. They’re not exactly subtle.”

“Shush,” said Captain Niall, coming out of his bow.

The dewan said, his voice gravelly, “You have an accusation to make, Professor Lefoux?”

Professor Lefoux looked up from the aether-suit. “I do.”

Professor Shrimpdittle struggled. “He bit me!”

One of the Picklemen instructed, “Say no more, Algonquin!”

Shrimpdittle was wild-eyed in desperation. Lord Ambrose lifted him as if he weighed no more than a lady’s muff, and carried him forward, depositing him into the even stronger embrace of Lord Woolsey. Vulkasin looked mean, even for a werewolf. His mouth was a hard line, and there were no smile wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“I had to protect myself!” cried Professor Shrimpdittle, wiggling futilely in the werewolf’s grip. “I had fang marks on my neck!”

“Poppycock,” said the potentate. “Professor Braithwope would never bite without invitation.”

“Shame on you,” said Lord Ambrose, “to cast aspersions on a vampire who has recently risked so much for his country!”

“Hear, hear!” cried the vampires in the crowd.

“Lies!” screamed Shrimpdittle, spittle spraying from his mouth. “All lies!”

One of the other Picklemen shook his head. “Stop now, Shrimpdittle.”

But the man was beyond reason. “I had to stop him! I had to.”

Lord Woolsey had heard enough. His lip curled. “I arrest this man in the name of the queen, for sabotage and attempted murder. You will let me know, Captain Niall, how the fallen vampire fairs. Whether I must change the charge to murder?” He clearly did not care either way. Vampires and werewolves might not like each other, but when it came to running of the country and preserving the good name of supernaturals, they always found common ground.

Captain Niall saluted the other werewolf. “Sir!”

Sophronia closed her eyes involuntarily. Vulkasin was one of the nastiest-looking supernatural creatures she’d ever seen. What have I done, delivering poor Shrimpdittle into his clutches?

“Any challenge?” The dewan looked over at the crowd of Picklemen.

They murmured briefly among themselves.

“Bad form,” Sophronia heard one of them say, “confessing like that. Very bad form.”

Finally, the oldest of the lot tilted his hat politely at three of the most powerful supernaturals in England and said, “We will, of course, provide legal counsel, but we cannot object to the arrest. It is justified. He will be immediately removed from all teaching responsibilities.”

With that, Lord Woolsey and the dewan walked away. Lord Woolsey carried the frantic Professor Shrimpdittle under one arm like a rolled umbrella.

Sophronia glanced at Felix’s face. The boy was shocked, but he did not look over at her, so he must not suspect her involvement.

Pillover, on the other hand, was glaring at her. “He really was one of the better teachers. It isn’t fair! Take it back, Sophronia!” With that, he grabbed his sister, still in a deep faint, and stormed off to the airship—half carrying, half dragging Dimity.

Sophronia, still worried about their safety, gave Sidheag a lips-compressed head tilt of encouragement.