Romancing the Inventor: A Supernatural Society Novella Read online

  ROMANCING

  THE INVENTOR

  A SUPERNATURAL SOCIETY NOVELLA

  Gail Carriger

  Wait, what am I reading?

  Imogene Hale is a lowly parlourmaid with a soul-crushing secret. Seeking solace, she takes work at a vampire hive, only to fall desperately in love with an amazing lady inventor. Genevieve Lefoux is brokenhearted, enslaved, and French. With culture, class, and the lady herself set against the match, can Imogene and her duster overcome all odds and win Genevieve’s heart, or will the vampires suck both of them dry?

  A Note on Chronology

  The Supernatural Society Novellas can be read in any order.

  This particular story is set in the summer of 1878. It is thus two years after the final Parasol Protectorate book, Timeless. Genevieve Lefoux was first introduced to readers in Changeless (Book 2). She also appears as a child, Vieve, in the Finishing School series. However, this novella can be enjoyed without having read any of Gail’s other works. Although it’s always fun to play a rousing game of “spot that side character.”

  Gail Carriger has a fun, silly newsletter full of gossip, sneak peeks, and giveaways.

  Contents

  About Romancing the Inventor

  A Note on Chronology

  1: In Which We Hope Vampires are Perverted

  2: In Which Inventors Have Powerful Dimples

  3: In Which Equations Prove Fruitful and Multiply

  4: In Which Werewolves Come Calling

  5: In Which Things Get Perverted at Supper

  6: In Which Imogene Contemplates Rodger

  7: In Which We Learn the Source of Vanilla

  8: In Which There are More Dimples

  9: In Which Werewolves Meddle

  10: In Which We Solve All the Equations

  Note from the Author

  Glossary of Terms

  Acknowledgements

  Want More Gail Carriger?

  About the Writerbeast

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  In Which We Hope Vampires are Perverted

  Summer 1878

  “I’ve taken work at the big house.” Imogene spoke into the awkward silence at the end of supper. They needed to know now, because she started that very night.

  Her mother looked up, exhaustion inked around eyes bright with horror. “No. Imogene, please, no. Not you. They’ll take you for a drone, try to keep you forever.”

  “Really, Ma. Why should they? I’ve no artistic talent to speak of. No painting, nor pottery, nor pickling, nor what have you. I’ll be perfectly fine. It’s not even an indenture, simply good honest work, lighter than the fields, easier than the farm. You know how handy I am with a duster. Tall enough to reach all the difficult spots.” The fact that they desperately needed the money hung in the air, unsaid.

  Ma ignored both the said and the unsaid. Ignored the hunger still present at the table, though the littles had eaten all that was there. “You want a good position? Marry.”

  Imogene raised her eyebrows. “Positioning me on my back, yet still dusting? You’re too kind.”

  “Don’t be smart with me. That beauty of yours won’t last forever, my girl. The butcher was asking after you only this morning. He’s still hopeful and he’s got a good business.” Mrs Hale flapped a work-red hand – a weak attempt to physically dismiss her eldest daughter’s disgust.

  “The butcher cheats his customers.” Now, if his sister offered… Imogene knew Mr Bouchard’s cheating for a fact because she could do complex sums in her head and had caught him in the act. Even though she’d been distracted by Miss Bouchard at the time. Mary had the most luscious lips. Probably something to do with access to all that meat.

  “Haw, look at you, high and mighty, so wise with the numbers.”

  Imogene sniffed.

  “So, he cheats. All tradesmen cheat. Yes, I know, he ain’t half good enough for you. None of them ever are.”

  Imogene closed her eyes, using exasperation to hide fear. Let her mother think her haughty. Let the men of the village think her rejections stemmed from arrogance. It was so much safer that way. “Exactly. I prefer dusters. They’re so pleasingly feathery and round, and they can be twirled. No man in this village would abide a twirling.”

  Mrs Hale lowered her voice. Much good it did; the littles were all ears. “Be serious, Imogene, you can’t go. Them’s perverted at the big house.”

  Precisely the appeal, Imogene thought but didn’t say. Maybe they would know what was wrong with her. Maybe they could fix her. Or guide her. Could never tell Ma that reason for going into service.

  “They may not want a poor country lass for fangs, even one with your looks, but they’ll likely want something else from you. It ain’t worth the risk. You’ll spoil your prospects. Such as they are, you having refused every eligible bachelor for leagues and getting long in the tooth besides.”

  Imogene’s reply was to twist the subject. “You’d prefer we had the werewolves back? At least the vampires bring in extra work. Plus, they don’t come crashing through town every ripe moon.” She hid a smile at the idea of vampires crashing anything, aside from a carriage and four.

  But Ma was in one of her moods. “At least you could’ve leashed one of them. Werewolves marry. Vampires don’t.”

  Imogene jerked her chin up. This was partly why everyone thought her prideful, her response was all too often an up-tilted nose coupled with sullen silence. There goes Imogene Hale, thinks she’s better than us. Thinks the world owes her more than a pretty face and fine figure.

  Imogene didn’t care because that way, they never guessed the truth behind the up-tilt. She’d rather be thought mean than bent.

  The werewolves had guessed.

  Well, one of them had. Not so much guessed as known straight up. An odd encounter. She’d been out after dark, not a custom for a single girl, but Ma’d had one of her spells and Imogene had trekked across town after a tincture of willow bark. She’d noticed more shadows than usual at the pub. Big shadows. The pack had returned from abroad and was out for a drink with fellow soldiers. One of them hadn’t been interested in ale. He’d been looking to flirt and caught her in his claws.

  “Beautiful lady, where are you going so quickly?” He’d moved very fast to block her path.

  She’d looked on him; hard not to with a man that big. Taller than Imogene by a hand or more, and she was no sprout. He was easy on the eyes, no doubting that, like moonlight brought to life. He knew it too. He treasured it as part of his character, keeping it front-facing when he spoke – words behind his words. Look at me – ain’t I the living end? Or perhaps it only came off that way, like her beauty. Such icy eyes. She’d wondered what his secret was, the one that made his chin up-tilt in arrogance. Was it as dire as hers?

  She knew very well what made him stare. A girl too delicate for common blood, even with the muscles of hard labor layered over her tall frame, skin too smooth and clear, hair too dark and glossy. Imogene’s slender beauty was all court lady and little country lass, adding to her aura of arrogance. She’d eyes too big not to be bold and a mouth too lush to hold its peace. Imogene was allure damped by poverty, but not snuffed out. He’d looked at her and taken in all the things that made the village men come offering. Only he’d likely ask for more. Or maybe he’d steal it. Gentleman and werewolf made for uneasy bedfellows; sometimes werewolf came out on top.

  She hadn’t been afraid. Not really. Gentleman usually won with a Woolsey Pack member, or the Alpha would hear of it and tear throats. Lord Maccon’s werewolves didn’t savage their neig
hborhood’s goodwill.

  But Imogene hadn’t reacted rightly to his beauty. She hadn’t really registered it except aesthetically. He’d noticed that.

  “Beautiful lady,” he’d repeated. “But not at all inclined. Pity.”

  He’d leaned in a little, not so close as to be rude, but certainly enough to make the hearts of most maidens flutter. Except hers. I’m flawed, she’d thought, analyzing how handsome he was.

  “What is it, my sweet little thing? Broken heart? Can’t be that you’ve given it away – even the married ones react to me.”

  Very arrogant, then. “How do you know I have a heart?”

  “She speaks.”

  Imogene didn’t say anything more, merely looked into his eyes. Direct. A maiden was supposed to lower her lashes before any man, let alone a gentleman soldier. But a werewolf took careful handling.

  He’d stared back. Searching for something and, finally, finding it. “Ah, so. No. Utterly uninterested in a man, I think. Or is it men in general?”

  Imogene had never felt more exposed than at that moment. No one had ever spoken her secret aloud. She’d lowered her lashes and whispered, so softly only his supernatural ears could hear, “Please, m’lord. Don’t tell.”

  The werewolf had only sighed. “What a waste. No, don’t be ashamed. What do I care? Who would I tell? And why bother? I don’t even know your name to speak it. It’s not as if you had a choice, after all.” Then he’d tsked. “Poor child. The countryside is no place for a tom.”

  With which enigmatic statement he’d twisted out of her path and, executing a mocking little bow, let her on her way.

  Imogene hurried off. Her skin prickled with exposure, as if his knowing words had needled her, inside and out, sewing her with the threads of his understanding. Visible stitches. What one werewolf knew, the whole pack knew.

  But they’d kept her secret, and now they were gone.

  And vampires were perverted.

  Or so she hoped.

  * * *

  Vampires were indeed perverted, as it turned out.

  But it didn’t do Imogene any good.

  She was hired on after only the briefest of interviews with one of the drones. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. It was true, vampires always needed new blood, but she’d like to think they saw some value in her besides the veins of her shapely white neck.

  Woolsey Castle’s previous occupants, the werewolf pack, had lived sparingly in the sprawling manor. They’d keep assorted clavigers as valets, one capable butler, and a few footmen and groundskeepers, but that was all they required in the way of domestics.

  Vampires, on the other hand, lived in high style. They insisted on everything being perfect and perfectly spotless. They had drones for food and entertainment, just as werewolves had clavigers, but nowhere near enough. And, of course, drones wouldn’t deign to undertake menial tasks. In addition, the hive entertained a constant stream of guests, several artists in residence, and one very demanding canine (a Papillon puppy named Skootnaughtel, or Skoot for short). All of these kept odd hours and needed the attendance of an army of staff (particularly Skoot). The fact that the vampires occasionally referred to their servants as nibbles was neither here nor there.

  Imogene intended to become one of those snacks.

  It started out well; the hive appreciated beauty. This kept Imogene out of the kitchens and put her amongst the upstairs staff – where she could be displayed to advantage. Too old for chambermaid and too crass for lady’s maid, parlourmaid seemed the natural choice. She was given a crisp black dress and a starched white pinafore to wear over it, in the French style; these emphasized her fine bone structure and gentle curves. She was instructed to pull her dark hair back but to keep it soft about her face. By the end of the first week, she’d proved herself quite handy with a duster, which landed her the daytime rotation. This suited her well enough, except it afforded her little opportunity to research vampire perversions.

  She became friendly with Skoot, who, in personality, form, and frivolity, rather resembled her favorite duster.

  “It’s easy work,” she told her mother on her trip home for seven-day. “I share a room with one of the upstairs maids, but she works nights, so I mostly have it to myself.”

  “And your mistress and masters, they are kind?”

  “I rarely see the vampires, Ma, my duties are during daylight hours. I like it. The visitors are varied and mostly absentminded geniuses.”

  Mrs Hale shook her head. “I don’t know about you being exposed to such characters. It’s not right for an innocent young girl.”

  “I’m not so young anymore.”

  “But still innocent. Or I’ll know the reason why.”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  Except that Imogene wished to be decidedly less innocent. She’d found the courage to approach the hive, but she was no closer to exploring her own perversions. She’d thought being exposed to vampires would help her understand why, for as long as she could remember, she’d never looked to a man. Oh, she noticed them, she interacted with them (they were, after all, people), but when the other girls of the village started to flirt, and the men flirted back, it was without her. Imogene had watched the girls. She’d always watched the girls. The soft swell of cheek, and notch of vulnerability at the base of the neck. Smooth curves and sweet smiles, glossy hair and soft skin – why want anything else? So, she’d avoided both, and they thought her arrogant.

  Even young, she’d realized it wasn’t normal. She wasn’t normal. As she got older, she’d understood that it also wasn’t legal. Supernaturals were the exception. But supernaturals were the exception to everything. And they were mostly men.

  So, she’d stuffed it away in fear. Until the vampires came, because inside a hive (as everyone knows), things were different. Inside a hive, the vampire queen had absolute authority. She protected her people, except from herself.

  Imogene had hoped, perhaps, that she’d catch the countess’s full attention. Hoped in vain (or should that be vein?), as it transpired.

  It started well. “You are quite the prettiest creature, aren’t you?” Countess Nadasdy said when Imogene was finally brought before her a month into her employment. “So long as you can string a sentence together, you’ll do nicely.”

  Imogene wasn’t entirely sure what she expected. Aside from neck nibbles, of course. The queen was attractive, in a sweetly rounded, tavern-wench kind of way. Curves are good. Perhaps she’ll dismiss the other vampires and ravish me? Maybe neck bites will turn to kisses? Imogene had never kissed anyone, not willingly. Not a girl. And by heaven, she wanted to. More than kisses too. Although she’d no idea what that might entail. But I’m a quick study.

  The queen turned away to one of her male vampires. “I wager she tastes as sweet as she looks, Ambrose.”

  Imogene held her breath in giddy anticipation and fear.

  Ambrose regarded Imogene down his nose. “I’d be careful with country meat, my queen, it can be quite tough.”

  “Surely not one as fine as this?”

  “Look at the eyes, my queen.” That was one of the other vampires, Dr Caedes.

  Countess Nadasdy gave a gesture and someone pushed Imogene forward. Imogene stumbled, righted herself, and marched directly to the queen. Up-tilt in place.

  The other vampires present tensed as she neared Countess Nadasdy.

  Imogene lowered her eyes and curtsied, offering her neck.

  “She hasn’t been vetted for intimate contact!” objected Lord Ambrose.

  “Pish tosh,” said the queen. “Now look at me, child.”

  Imogene looked. The countess had freckles on her nose. It was unexpected and vampirically questionable. Of course, they could be fake. Imogene started to count them. Counting made her feel less frightened.

  The countess placed a cool hand beneath her chin. “I see what you mean, Caedes. Willful.”

  The vampire’s skin was very
white. The tips of her fangs poked out slightly as she parted her lips in concentration.

  Imogene shivered. Twenty-six, twenty-seven…

  “To break or to bend, do you think?”

  Imogene thought the countess lovely. She looked as much like a country lass as Imogene herself looked like an aristocratic countess. Thirty, thirty-one…

  “Either one might be fun. Unless you think her better left preserved.” Dr Caedes was a cautious man.

  Now I’m a jar of jam, thought Imogene.

  “Wait? Surely not.” Apparently, the queen objected to Imogene-flavored jam.

  “I’ve an idea she might be best left to mature, like a fine wine. A certain eagerness may result.” The doctor was a peculiar vampire, tall and skinny as a deer midwinter, with thinning hair. Imogene hadn’t thought they made ugly vampires.

  Lord Ambrose was sitting back now, watching the proceedings with ill-disguised contempt. “What rot. One doesn’t rest country ale. It goes sour.”

  Imogene winced, offended.

  Countess Nadasdy’s eyes narrowed. “No, I believe I see your point, Caedes. We wait.”

  Thus, the hive agreed to forget about Imogene.

  And forget her they did. She was never summoned to the queen’s chambers like some of the other maids (and all of the footmen). She was never even asked to serve Countess Nadasdy at supper.

  At first this was frustrating. I should like to be corrupted! What else are vampires good for? But after another month’s employment, Imogene decided this might be a good thing.

  Countess Nadasdy proved too cruel. She cared not for maids’ feelings on the matter of sharing her chamber. Imogene roomed with a frail blonde, fine-boned and rosy-cheeked. A night chambermaid, she sported bruises and lacerations every week after visiting the queen. The collar of her housedress became ever higher. She returned to the room clutching boiled sweets and fresh oranges from foreign lands. She added a new shawl to her tiny wardrobe, silk paisley from Paris, far too fine for a maid. But Imogene caught her crying over that shawl. They were not friends, so she couldn’t ask: did she weep because of the bruises, or the bites, or some other thing a vampire queen could make a girl feel?