Curtsies & Conspiracies (Finishing School, #2)(69)

“But if the school could have followed his fall faster? If Shrimpdittle hadn’t… if I hadn’t tricked Shrimpdittle into…”

“Stop being so hard on yourself, Sophronia.”

“Will he recover? Will he be mad forever? Will he die?”

“They don’t know. Matron has never heard of such an extreme case of tether snap, even without the added aether exposure. There is no precedent. He’ll be put under guard, but he may never regain his senses. Or he could expire within the hour.”

Sophronia did not feel any better. She thought she might rush to Professor Braithwope’s quarters and offer up her blood. She felt she should admit her guilt to Lady Linette. She wanted to do penance. Instead, numb with horror, she allowed herself to be shuffled along to a ball.


In no time whatsoever, those who had been invited to Monique’s ball, a select group of almost half the school and all the visiting Bunson’s boys, disembarked. A veritable herd of hansom cabs awaited them.

Sophronia, Sidheag, Agatha, Dimity, Pillover, and Lord Mersey crammed into one together. Felix arranged it so he could sit between Sophronia and the door.

“How are you this evening, Miss Temminnick?” He was looking quite handsome. His evening dress was impeccable—crisp whites and silken blacks.

Sophronia could hardly believe such a man as this held her in genuine regard. “Well enough, Lord Mersey,” she replied, uncomfortable with his proximity. She could feel the warmth of the length of his thigh against hers, even through all her skirts.

“Still upset, Ria, my sweet? Your gentle heart moved by this evening’s calamity?”

Sophronia studied him from under her eyelashes. “Yes, I must admit, I was shaken. To see a man fall like that.”

Felix patted her gloved hand. “Not a man, a vampire, and they are made of stern stuff. You must rise above it.”

Unfortunate choice of words, thought Sophronia. “Oh, yes, thank you for such kind thoughts.”

“To be sure, Ria, my dear. You lean on me if you are feeling unwell. Don’t tax yourself this evening. And I demand the dinner set and the last dance, in order to better see to your health.”

Dimity, on Sophronia’s other side, stiffened at this audacity.

Sophronia pretended to blush. She couldn’t blush on cue yet, but she could pretend. She lowered her eyelids and fanned herself with her free hand. “Lord Mersey. You already have the third. That would be three dances. I think not. As to the dinner, I said I would think about it.”

“Well?”

“I’m still thinking.”

Felix looked appropriately chastised.

Such games we play, thought Sophronia, rather tired of the whole thing. As if I didn’t have to hedge and speak in code most of the time, I must now do it as part of regular social interactions. No wonder Mademoiselle Geraldine’s has such success training the female aristocracy to be intelligencers. It’s most of our life already. For some inexplicable reason, in a horse-drawn carriage on the way to a ball, sitting in close proximity to another boy, Sophronia found herself thinking of Soap. He never plays any games with me.

Felix was pressed against her side, but she found herself thinking of Soap’s long arm about her waist. She crushed the upwelling of warmth ruthlessly. Soap is a friend. I don’t want to destroy that. I don’t want to change us. Some small traitorous part of her whispered back. Then what do you want?

They arrived, and Lord Mersey gallantly helped them all to descend from the carriage. Sophronia was first, so that by the time he had finished, she was already making her way into Walsingham House with Dimity. Felix was left to escort Agatha or drop the girl’s trembling hand and run after Sophronia in a most unseemly manner.

Walsingham House Hotel was beyond lavish, and the Frond Court Tea Room was particularly grand. Monique’s family must be very wealthy or very optimistic, for no expense was spared. The entire venue was decorated in a gold-and-cream tea theme. There were cream roses nested in large gold sugar bowls. The everyday chandelier had been replaced with one of lavish crystal in the shape of a massive teapot. No one but Monique had been permitted to wear gold, and she glided, in regal superiority, among the attendees in their muted pastels. A string quartet, sufficient but not boastfully large, sat in one corner near a raised dancing area. Long, lace-covered tables arrayed along one wall groaned under bowls of golden punch and cream-colored nibbles. The punch was served in teacups, the comestibles on saucers. All the food was made to look like tea cakes, whether sweet or savory. This got a mite confusing, but everything tasted delicious.

Sophronia did not want to be impressed, but she was. It made her sister Petunia’s coming-out ball seem provincial by comparison.

Several guests had already arrived—enough young men to make up the numbers, some elderly ladies to act as chaperones, and a full service of flaxen-haired, arrogant fops who could only be Monique’s relations. As the room began to fill, Sophronia noticed a bevy of dandies, slightly older and more refined than might be expected, take up position near the punch. The vampire Lord Ambrose lurked to one side. Captain Niall stood in the opposite corner. He saw Sophronia’s group enter, his top hat tilted in Sidheag’s direction like an arrow of inquisition. Sidheag nodded at him shyly.

Having played the appropriate ode to Her Majesty, the band struck up a waltz. Titters of shock permeated the room, excitement from young ladies and disapproval from chaperones. To have a small band was elegance; to commence a ball with a waltz was very daring indeed.