Etiquette & Espionage (Finishing School, #1)(16)

“What?” said Sophronia, so shocked she was moved to speak.

“Look at her, all innocence! She’s the crafty one. I’d watch her if I were you.”

“She’s lying,” said Sophronia flatly; there was no other response possible.

The painted woman interrupted. “The particulars matter not at this juncture. The question is, Miss Pelouse, do you have it?”

Monique gestured to her torn dress. “Of course I don’t have it! I’m not so idiotic as to keep it on my person. As soon as I realized what it was, and that you’d given me a dangerous finish, I secreted it away in a private location.”

Sophronia understood the undercurrent of that statement. She expected us to be attacked by flywaymen all along.

The bony female craned her neck forward and hissed, “Where?”

Sophronia frowned, trying to remember a time when Monique might have hidden something.

Monique shook her head. “Oh, no. When I’m properly finished, then I’ll tell you.”

The Frenchwoman stepped forward to loom over the girl. “You manipulative baggage, I ought to—”

The dumpy nun put a hand on her arm.

“Now, Beatrice, don’t fuss. We have new girls here, don’t forget.”

Beatrice glanced at Sophronia and Dimi7">nia andty, and then snorted.

Gosh, thought Sophronia, the French are every bit as rude as Mumsy always said they were.

The painted woman said, “Beatrice, take Miss Pelouse away and see if you can’t come to an arrangement.”

Monique looked militant. “I’ll summon reinforcements if I have to.”

“Are you threatening me, girl? We shall see about that.” The Frenchwoman did not look cowed.

Sophronia shuddered—she wouldn’t want to be alone with either of them for any length of time.

She heard Miss Tall say, as the two walked away, “Properly finish, my dear? What makes you think there is any way for you to finish at all, now?”

Sophronia decided to forget Monique for the time being.

“Well, it certainly appears that you two have had a very exciting journey,” said the nun.

“We didn’t faint!” protested Dimity. “Or, rather, Sophronia didn’t faint. I did, but only after we rescued Monique from the flywaymen! She told it all backward!”

“Do you have witnesses?”

“Well, my brother was there.”

The teachers exchanged looks. Apparently Pillover’s reliability was questionable. “A boy? I don’t know.”

“And there was the coachman.” Dimity would not let the matter rest.

“He was insensible for most of the event,” Sophronia pointed out.

“You’re a funny one, aren’t you?” The painted lady looked at Sophronia closely. “Why aren’t you defending yourself?”

Sophronia shrugged. “I have sisters. I know how this works.”

“Do you indeed?”

Sophronia said nothing else. Monique was covering up her trail as well as self-aggrandizing her own actions. Perhaps she’d given the prototype away to someone else beforehand. Sophronia intended to find out. What was the prototype, and where was it, and why did everyone want it so badly? Some new kind of device for producing tea inexpensively? In the Temminnick household, nothing was valued more than good quality tea.

Dimity opened her mouth to protest further, but Sophronia elbowed her in the ribs.

The painted lady said, “Shall we get on with official business? Where was I?”

The nun whispered something in her ear.

“Yes, of course! Welcome to Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality. I understand one of you is a covert recruit?”

Sophronia raised a tentative hand.

“Welcome, welcome! I’m Lady Linette de Limmone. I’ll be instructing you in music and several of the finer creative arts. This is Sister Herschel-Teape. She’s head of household management. And you are?”

“Sophronia Angelina Temminnick,” said Sophronia with a curtsy.

“Oh, dear,” said Lady Linette. “We are going to have to work on that curtsy.”

“Dimity Ann Plumleigh-Teignmott,” said Dimity, with a better curtsy.

I must ask her to teach me the way of it. It seems a powerful weapon, thought Sophronia.

“

Dimity squeezed Sophronia’s hand. “Good luck.” She followed the dumpy nun out of the cavernous room.

The painted woman raised the lantern and looked Sophronia over.

“Well, well, let me see. You’re… how old, girl?”

“Fourteen, my lady.” Sophronia couldn’t believe that a woman with that much face paint was a real lady. Mrs. Barnaclegoose had a teacup poodle named Lord Piffle; perhaps Lady Linette’s was a similarly spurious title?

“Good bones, average height. I suppose there’s no hope of your growing into that chin?” Sophronia said nothing. “No? I thought not. Eyes, indifferent. Hair”—she tsked—“you’ll be wearing curling rags the rest of your natural life, poor thing. The freckles. Well. The freckles. I’ll have cook order extra buttermilk. But you are confident. Shoulders back, girl, when you’re facing inspection. Confident is something we can work with. And Captain Niall likes you.”