Ambush or Adore: A Delightfully Deadly Novel Page 4

  At the time, he’d exchanged looks with Sophronia, silently agreeing that there was no point in arguing further.

  Which was how Pillover found himself sort of engaged to his sister’s best friend. It was the first and only engagement of his life. He might have appreciated it more at the time if he’d known.

  Sophronia said she would find a polite way to jilt him. She also started to call him a lady-killer because he cut such a swath at the ball. Pillover was not amused.

  He tried not to cut swaths of any kind, but apparently the more reluctant he was and the more gloomy he appeared, the more the young ladies thought of him as some sort of tortured heroic figure ripe for swath-cutting. They had been reading far too much Brontë. Which he said to Vieve when he got back to Bunson’s.

  “Which Brontë?” wondered Vieve.

  “Does it make a difference?” Pillover replied.

  “Probably not.” Vieve reached up, bracketed his face with two tiny hands, and then dragged him down for close examination. “I suppose I can somewhat see what the ladies are on about. If you like the type.”

  “I’m a type now?” objected Pillover.

  Vieve nodded. “Face it. Silly girls like dyspeptic boys. They want to soothe your brow, dab your wounds, and cradle your emaciated form while you slowly die of consumption. You’re morose, but it comes off as sensitive. Perhaps you should try to be more cheerful.”

  Pillover stared at his small friend, aghast. “Absolutely not. Don’t be disgusting.”

  “Then you must face up to the fact that you are, indeed, a lady-killer.”

  Pillover curled his lip. “This is a tragedy. Possibly the great tragedy of my life.”

  “Yes, I believe that is the basis of the appeal.”

  Pillover was never entirely comfortable with the effect that he had on women and he was always grateful that Agatha seemed entirely immune. But Agatha was not the kind of girl who wished to sponge anyone’s brow or dab at anyone’s wound, except perhaps her own.

  3

  Explosive Décolletage

  December 1853 ~ Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality, somewhere over Devon

  “You’re engaged? To Sophronia?” Agatha had taken months to determine exactly how she was going to ask Pillover this question. She had practiced keeping her voice calm and her tone mild and disinterested. Still, it was hard to repress the quiver when he was right there in front of her. It hurt. At some point, and she wasn’t certain when exactly, Agatha had begun to think of Pillover as a little bit hers. Belonging to himself first, of course, and to Dimity because he was her brother, but also to her.

  Agatha wasn’t wrong in that, was she? He always sought her out. The way he had that very night. He’d spotted her in her corner and made a beeline over. There had to be something significant about that. Something special in his noticing when no one else did. Didn’t there?

  Yet now he was engaged to her friend.

  Sophronia talked about it as though it were all some great lark.

  Agatha wanted Pillover’s perspective.

  He shuffled his feet and stared down at them, clearly uncomfortable with the subject of engagements in general and his in particular.

  “What a clod rumpus,” was his profound take. “Her mama, you understand? My goodness. I mean to say. Mothers. Belters. I say! What?”

  Pillover was not a very eloquent boy. He was also giving her a very funny look. “Why so many sparkles tonight, Miss Woosmoss? You look as if you allowed my sister to decorate you.”

  Which, of course, she had. Agatha’s assignment was to pretend to be Dimity this evening. To act like her friend and experience the ball as someone else. To perform as another person as part of her spycraft. To see how a more charming individual might extract information at a ball. Accordingly, she had dressed the part – or been dressed – but at the moment she wasn’t bothering to be the part. Not with Dimity’s brother. That seemed… unacceptably incestuous.

  She looked up at him. He’d grown a great deal taller since the last time she’d seen him. He’d also unwittingly assumed the mannerisms of an idle reprobate – a slouching, sneering disinterest in social structures and a propensity to look away during conversation as though his soul were focused on deeper matters. In actuality, he was probably declining Latin nouns in his head. But to Agatha’s intense annoyance, other ladies, even trained ones, found this new version of Pillover appealing. No doubt this was a result of his mannerisms, not his nouns. She knew that one of the reasons Pillover had sought her out was to avoid an excess of feminine attention.

  “Good evening, Mr Plumleigh-Teignmott,” she said, moving to leave her corner, somewhat annoyed at the whole situation.

  He caught her arm.

  “Crikey, Miss Woosmoss, I meant no offense. I did just compare you to my sister. That must be distressing. I do apologize. I shall say no more on the subject. Although,” he looked furtively around, “you have been gaining in the social game. That gown is topping.”

  Agatha acknowledged this fact and also hated it. Hated that even Pillover had noticed. Pillover, who barely noticed anything. Agatha was playing the game because it was required of her, but Dimity had stuffed her into a dress that was rather too tight, especially on the top. As a result, it put significant parts of her anatomy on display by virtue of the fact that she had been cursed with a great deal more of said parts than Dimity. Agatha, as a result, had been noticed by several of the young gentlemen in attendance and she did not like it.

  Now even Pillover, notorious in his dismissal of fashion, had been moved to comment. Although from his frown, he too did not like it, for all that his words had flattered.

  “It has pink ruffles,” said Agatha morosely.

  Pillover nodded. Gloomy was his preferred state and he sank quickly back into it with her. Now that they could mutually complain about something, all their earlier awkwardness was forgotten. “They must be very trying for you.”

  “And I am laced so tightly I can barely breathe.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To fit into the ruffles.”

  “Pernicious ruffles. I always thought there was something innately suspicious about them.”

  “It’s fluttering purgatory,” agreed Agatha.

  “Not too different from being engaged to Sophronia,” said Pillover.

  “That bad, is it?”

  “Perfectly ghastly.” He brightened a bit. “Although I did just talk to her and she said she would be throwing me over in the not too distant future. So there is some hope.”

  They stood, propping up the wall, and watched everyone else be effortlessly effervescent for a while.

  Pillover gave her an uncertain look. “Should we dance, do you think?”

  Agatha sighed. “It is a ball, and I am supposed to be pretending to be your sister.”

  “Are you indeed? Well, that makes it somewhat odd, doesn’t it? Should you be dancing with me under those circumstances?”

  “Ah, I should say I’m supposed to be pretending to be your sister’s breed of personality.”

  “You’re not doing a particularly brilliant job.”

  “No, I’m not. I was trying, but now I’m hiding.”

  “My sister would, however, dance if asked,” Pillover said, almost timidly. “Cannot I help you a little with your pretense? It might be easier to flirt with me, whom you know, than any of these other blighters.” He gestured at the conceited mass of Bunson’s boys in a highly disgusted manner.

  Agatha suspected he was right. Plus she really should pretend to do as she’d been instructed. She wasn’t sure it was smart, flirting with Pillover, but if he already knew it was all an act, then it couldn’t be too bad, could it?

  So she allowed him to lead her out on the dance floor and into a waltz.

  Agatha pretended liveliness and adoration and Pillover, at first quite uncomfortable with her attention, eventually grew into a tacit acceptance. His own expression remained glum, but th
ere was a certain twinkle to his eye that suggested he was game to play his part to the best of his meager abilities. Which, admittedly, were paltry. Pillover would never be able to tread the boards.

  “Of what do we talk?” he asked while they twirled sedately around the floor. “A young man in my position ought to brag, don’t you think? Of his achievements, I mean.”

  “If he has any. It’s either that or recite poetry.”

  Pillover wrinkled his nose. “I have some Latin verse memorized, if you would prefer?”

  “Oh no, please, brag away. Do.”

  Pillover was a passable dancer. Apparently evil geniuses were required to have the basics by rote. Agatha waited patiently while he considered his options.

  “Oh, right, yes! I have attained Nefarious Genius ranking. That’s something like, is it not?”

  Agatha pretended to be very impressed and fluttered her lashes up at him. “You don’t say? But I thought you didn’t want to actually become a full Evil Genius. And here you have progressed.”

  “Oh, I don’t want it. But Vieve has helped me to develop this augmentation for devices. Now most everything I make explodes upon contact. I don’t really have to worry about the device itself functioning for its intended purpose anymore. All I have to do is make sure it blows up when anyone picks it up. The professors are very impressed and bang’s your biscuit, everyone thinks I’m admirably terrible. It’s masterly. The Pistons have mostly stopped pestering me. Lord Dingleproops nearly lost an eyebrow to my hair tonic applicator only last week. I was cursed. He cursed me. Best day of my life.”

  “Well done, you!” said Agatha. Pillover was rather getting into the spirit of waltzing and bragging, and she liked it when he opened up and just talked to her. He did it as though nothing else really mattered, as though he just wanted to chat. It was nice. Honest. There wasn’t a great deal of honesty in Agatha’s life. It was unaffected and adorable.

  “Thank you. It’s made it much easier to spend most of my time studying history and dead languages and suchlike. Not the education my parents would have wished for me, of course. And I must remember not to touch the explosive devices myself, but all in all, a satisfactory outcome.”

  Agatha winced in concern. “Do be careful. The last thing you need is to lose a finger or some other appendage in a spate of absentmindedness.”

  Pillover nodded. “Too true. Very embarrassing. Now, what shall we talk about next?”

  “The weather?” suggested Agatha.

  “No, I don’t think that works. Shouldn’t you be trying to extract information from me or some such rot?”

  “I could do that with the weather.”

  “Could you, indeed? Well, then. Carry on.”

  So they talked of the weather. Agatha learned that Pillover liked the rain, when it was outside and he did not have to be in it, of course. “It makes me feel cozy and pleased to be reading and not as if there were a whole wide world out there overwhelming me with possibilities that I do not like.”

  Agatha nodded. “I don’t like rain,” she admitted, in a rare moment of confession. But this was only Pillover – nobody minded if he actually knew something real about her. “I like warm weather and the sun.”

  “Hardly likely to find much of that here in jolly old England.”

  “Which is why I want to travel.”

  “Do you really? How extraordinary.”

  “Don’t you?” Agatha cocked her head, genuinely surprised. She thought it was a sentiment most people at least verbalized, even if they didn’t really feel it. It was true for her, though. For as long as she could remember she’d dreamed of foreign lands and exotic places. She could not recall a time when she’d wished to stay in England.

  “Absolutely not. Travel seems a highly incommodious business. All that larking about. I suppose the desire does suit your line of work.” Pillover was alluding to her intelligencer future. It was pleasant to talk to someone who simply assumed that was what she would be doing with her life. Agatha’s friends did not believe that she would actually graduate from finishing school. Of course, she was deluding them into that belief. But Pillover did not care what his sister might have said about how bad Agatha was at her lessons. He only knew that she had never told him otherwise. He had said to her that he did not want to be an Evil Genius and assumed that if she did not want to be a spy, she would have been similarly forthcoming. Pillover did not judge, he accepted until informed otherwise.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked.

  Agatha realized that somehow she’d allowed him to distract her and was in danger of failing her current mission. Both the fake one, where she was using Dimity’s personality to extract information, and the real one, where she was supposed to be gleaning information to send to Lord Akeldama. Pillover was of little help on that front. She must dance with other, more evil and well connected boys.

  “Everywhere,” she said, elusively.

  “Wales?” suggested Pillover.

  “I was thinking rather further afield.”

  Pillover nodded, somber. “Seems dangerous.”

  “Yes, but sunny.”

  “Fair point. Ah, speaking of which, I have a small gift for you. Might it be a good thing to give it publicly, so your professors can witness it?” The waltz having ended, he escorted her off the dance floor.

  Agatha nodded.

  Pillover pressed a small, wrapped object into her hand.

  “It won’t explode, will it?”

  Pillover’s serious face was made striking and unfairly beautiful by a sudden smile. “No, it’s only a Depraved Lens of Crispy Magnification, but it could be very useful in places where there is sun.”

  Agatha faked a laugh and tucked the gift down her cleavage, because it was right there on display and it was something that might definitely attract the attention of the wrong sort of useful boy.

  Pillover’s eyes bugged. Agatha felt a little embarrassed. She hadn’t thought he’d be affected. He looked faint.

  “Was that necessary?” he squeaked.

  “Hush, you. I believe my dance card is about to be full.”

  Pillover snatched the carte de bal away from her and filled in a later set.

  Agatha whipped out a fan. “A second waltz, Mr Plumleigh-Teignmott? Surly you ask too much.”

  “You’re getting rather too good at this, Miss Woosmoss,” said Pillover, bowing and making himself scarce.

  Agatha was popular at the ball after that. Although she tried hard not to be too popular. She wanted to pass the test, but not with flying colors. Later she would blame Dimity’s pink ruffles for all her success. And she would try never again to be the center of attention like that. But she would also admit, late at night in a private missive to Lord Akeldama for she had no other confessor, to liking the attention just a little bit.

  She did not tell the vampire that her liking had included Pillover’s startled face. And the way he flushed slightly. The way he swallowed audibly when he danced with her a second time. Her own feminine wiles, as it turned out, were a heady kind of power. It was a remarkable thing to hold sway over a man, any man, even Pillover. Especially Pillover.

  Sophronia thanked her later because Pillover’s marked public preference for Agatha had afforded her the perfect opportunity to cry off their engagement. Agatha was pleased with that result, too, although she did not let that show to anyone.

  She treasured her magnification lens. It was the first gift a boy had ever given her, and it was a useful one. She used it for years, in many sunny places and foreign lands. More than once it extracted her from a very sticky situation. And it did not explode.

  New Year’s Eve 1853 ~ Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality, somewhere over Devon

  Decades could pass, but no matter how forgetful he became, Pillover would never forget the time his sister’s finishing school crashed out of the sky. It was to be the end of Agatha’s education (his sister’s and Sophronia’s too). For obvious reasons,
one could not go back and pursue higher learning in a dirigible that no longer floated at all high. Pillover remembered it not only because it was the ending of a great many more things than just Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, but also because he had the dubious pleasure of experiencing the entire event live and in person.

  Mostly he remembered how frightened he was. And how not frightened his sister and her friends were. All the ladies behaved so very capably in that crisis while Pillover and the other gentlemen present acquitted themselves like panicked quail crossing a frozen puddle. It was a lesson he never forgot. It was to lead him into a lifelong admiration for capable women and an equally lifelong suspicion of puddles.

  The New Year’s tea party was in full vibration when Pillover joined it. What had probably started as mild talk and meek encounters around set tables had descended into a proper rout. The young persons were circulating freely, seeking preferred partners or more engaging conversation. There was even some questionable dancing. Pillover could guess from their purposeful expressions that a few of the young ladies had assignments. He’d had a long enough association with the school to at least spot intent, even if he could not identify specifics. That was by design, of course. He was only an evil genius in training. He had no particular interest in countering intelligencers in action, let alone young ladies of quality enjoying themselves at play. He was rarely a target and he planned to engage in a life of obscurity well away from politics or performances, so it hardly mattered that he could spot them in action. He never intended to reveal to anyone that he could, regardless.

  What he noticed that worried him was not the lady spies. No, it was the fact that while there were many familiar faces amongst the Bunson’s boys in attendance, somehow at some point, strangers had come aboard. And not strangers who were other Bunson’s students to whom Pillover had not yet been properly introduced. These were actual strangers – boys whom Pillover had never seen before in his life. Some of them were even adult men pretending to be boys. It was highly unsettling. Pillover knew he must tell Agatha about it. Because Agatha would know what to do.