Defy or Defend Page 5

  “Let’s discuss seduction first.”

  He looked even less happy. “If we must.”

  Sir Crispin didn’t want her seducing others, did he? That was interesting. Very interesting indeed. Perhaps there was forehead dabbing and tight hosiery in her future after all. Nevertheless, she did have a job to do. She couldn’t take Sir Crispin’s sensibilities into account, much as she might enjoy it. “Would the youngest member be the most susceptible to my wiles, do you think?”

  Sir Crispin shook his head and slid over the file on Justice Wignall. “Mr Wignall is not recommended. He’s of the Lord Akeldama persuasion and rather flighty, lots of handkerchiefs. There are rumors of long white night-rails and pretend fainting fits.”

  “Oh dear,” Dimity shook her head gravely. “Definitely not susceptible. Can’t have two people in a relationship, both of whom rely on strategic fainting. What about this Lord Finbar?”

  “He is a good target. So is Lord Kirby. Both are very old-fashioned, as you might expect from non-London vampires. And we all know you’re good with an old-fashioned gentleman.”

  “I am.” Dimity wasn’t going to deny praise from Sir Crispin, even when he said it as though it annoyed him. “Do we have a preference?”

  “Lord Finbar is hive praetoriani and the one you’ve been corresponding with. Well, the one the War Office has been corresponding with on your behalf. There are copies of the missives for you to review at the back of the stack, see there? He’ll be quite agitated after prolonged separation from his queen, since apparently she has refused to see all but one drone for many months. I think he’s the weakest link. So...”

  Dimity wasn’t thrilled about having to go the seduction route. Not in front of Crispin – not when she’d rather seduce him. And not for what she was hoping was her final mission. Seduction was overdone as a rule – she’d like something a bit more challenging. Still, if everyone thought this was the best approach... “Don’t seduce the hive’s one remaining drone, then? Human targets are usually preferred. Less experience.”

  “No, definitely not him.” Sir Crispin’s face took on a peculiar expression. “He’s high risk.”

  “You’re worried that on him, seduction would be too effective?”

  “Yes, I am.” He was looking twitchy, as though he wanted to pace. Also less green and more annoyed. His dark eyes were almost sparking with irritation. “I’m worried it would be too effective on Finbar as well. And Kirby.”

  Dimity hid a grin. Was that envy she sensed, or some more affectionate need to protect her than mere safety? Either way, it spoke to hidden feelings and she liked that idea very much. Perhaps Sir Crispin didn’t see her as completely frivolous. Perhaps he even enjoyed her company more than his near constant frown and forced politeness would suggest.

  She gave him a tentative opening. “You prefer a redecoration and household management approach?”

  He gritted his teeth, and bounced one leg up and down. “Of course I do. But policy dictates seduction first.”

  Dimity nodded. “It’s usually the most effective tactic.”

  “With you, of course it is.”

  “Sir Crispin! What a nice thing to say.”

  He gave her an exasperated look. “We are under a time crunch. We’ve only two weeks before BUR comes crashing in.”

  Dimity sighed. She didn’t like to be under pressure like that, and she hardly saw what good BUR thought they could do. “I think the household approach might work too, depending on what drove the queen underground. I mean, if we could bring it into the modern age, make it beautiful, make them beautiful, she might be tempted to return above ground. Vampires do love beautiful things above all else. Except perhaps human blood.”

  Sir Crispin nodded. There was no rehash needed, although they had been instructed to try seduction first. So that’s what she would do, like it or not.

  Dimity flipped through to read the description of the Nottingham Hive’s only surviving drone (whom Sir Crispin hadn’t yet met but already didn’t like). Cinjin Theris, actor. Oh my. She read on. Multiple affairs. Men and women. Possibly even a werewolf or two. “Goodness me! This drone seems delightfully salacious. Highly sexed young gentlemen with delusions of stage talent are some of my favorites. So full of pride and so easy to manipulate because of it. I once entertained starting an occult recruitment movement, collecting them for a cause of some kind. They’re so impressionable and there are so very many of them in London these days. Then I realized, that’s what werewolves are for. And, honestly, do I have the time to spearhead a cult? I ask you. No, I do not.”

  Sir Crispin was staring at her in a sort of awed disgust. “The working of your mind is a thing of great beauty and profound horror.”

  “Why, thank you. What a nice thing to say!” Dimity was thrilled.

  “You see? Now, where were we?” Sir Crispin looked at her with a fond exasperation this time, but his leg had stopped bouncing up and down.

  Dimity reiterated the decision. “Lord Finbar for the approach? Redecoration as a backup plan.”

  “Agreed. Now, shall we get on with our memorizing?” He settled back, a map of Nottingham in his lap, bent on studying the layout of the town. As any good safety would.

  “Yes indeed.” Dimity collected her paperwork, glancing over it one final time to be certain she hadn’t missed anything. She read the letters she was purported to have written very carefully, wincing a bit at the grammar. No serial comma, really? What did they take her for? An artist might be a tad lax in her missives, but to drop a comma? How ghastly.

  Finally, she finished to her satisfaction and waved the stack at Sir Crispin. “Are you done with these?”

  “I am, thank you.”

  “I shall dispose of them then, shall I?” She tied them up with a bit of string and tucked them under one arm.

  “Going to demand a tour of the boiler room from the airship steward?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Of course you are.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  In Which There Are Pointy Bits

  Fortunately for Cris, his airsickness wasn’t overly debilitating. He suspected it was partly rooted in abject terror. Not illogical terror – if you asked him, it wasn’t natural to be up so high. A chap was born and died on solid ground and not meant to spend time hovering above it, if he was lucky. Fortunately for his heart, the float was remarkably calm. The aetheric current that they hopped northwards, just inside the gray, was pleasingly sedate. Cris was delighted. Nothing would be worse than to be sick in front of his Sparkles.

  Dimity returned to the dining compartment some hour or so later, the steward very much at her disposal and all incriminating paperwork safely disposed of. The steward’s face, when he discovered that Mrs Carefull did indeed come attached to a Mr Carefull of Crispin’s dimensions, was crestfallen. Then, when he heard Dimity cry, “Husband, I missed you. I do so hate to be parted from you for even a moment,” he looked like he might weep. Cris actually felt sorry for the poor blighter. He slipped him some coins in recompense and gave him a sympathetic smile.

  Dimity collapsed next to him, not across from him as was proper, and smiled coyly, cheeks flushed from wandering the dirigible. She looked glowing, and relaxed, and pleased with herself. He shifted, uncomfortable.

  Unfortunately for Cris, a lock of hair seemed near to escaping her elaborate coiffure. He was weak in the face of it, and was reaching forwards before he realized it, to tuck it back up under her hat.

  Her smile deepened and she nudged into his hand expectantly. So he cupped her absurdly soft chin, annoyed at his lack of self-control, even as he told himself he was only practicing for the marriage show and that others might still be watching.

  The door clattered as the steward closed it ostentatiously behind him.

  Cris kept touching Dimity.

  Dimity’s hazel eyes had flecks of green in them. It was rather extraordinary. And her lashes were ridiculous – no wo
nder she employed them so readily.

  “Tell me, Sir Crispin—”

  “You’d better start calling me Cris, at least from here on out.”

  “Oh really, may I? How delightful.”

  “It’s the name, remember? We’re Mr and Mrs Christopher Carefull.”

  Her face shuttered only briefly. She had excellent control and pulled it back immediately. He, of course, was annoyed by how much he enjoyed that brief chink in her facade.

  She pressed on. “So, I’m to be an aspiring painter of indifferent watercolors.” She pointed to the corner, where a portable self-folding easel and a stack of pressed paper resided. Some of the paintings were finished, some not, and all were carefully packed in a large leather portfolio.

  “Indeed.” Cris nodded. “And are you an indifferent watercolorist?”

  “Highly indifferent, I assure you. But I’ve enough facility to pass for raw, untrained skill to a hungry vampire. Even though I know, and so does anyone of lengthy exposure, that I’ve no actual talent to speak of.”

  “No, your talents lie elsewhere, don’t they?”

  Dimity tilted her head towards him, earrings swaying. “Do they? Are you certain of that, husband?”

  Crispin’s throat went dry. “No, but I suppose we will be sharing a bed for the next fortnight.”

  She blushed at that. Even she couldn’t entirely control blushes. He nodded internally. So not as experienced as she was wont to pretend. He would be stalwart and treat her with nothing less than complete respect and gentility – the looming spectre of his father’s lascivious treatment of young women making him shudder and pull back.

  She looked slightly hurt at his recoiling, then brightened. “Oh, is your airsickness returning? Do you need a cold compress? Should I dab your fevered brow?”

  He almost shammed indisposition to give her a reason to dab, she seemed so excited by the prospect. After all, that meant she’d be close and touching him, and who was he to muck with the inclination? He didn’t, in the end, but he definitely considered it. Then he realized that was exactly the kind of thing his father would do – take advantage of the chit’s goodwill – and felt like a cad.

  “My brow, I assure you, can remain undabbed,” he said, perhaps a bit curtly, annoyed with himself.

  Dimity nodded and settled back and away from him. She nibbled her lip. “So what is your artistic skill on display then, husband?”

  Cris felt himself flush. He was grateful for a certain never-talked-about ancestor who’d gifted his family a dark complexion, himself in particular. He’d been teased at school for being swarthy. Until he’d grown into his shoulders and taken up boxing. He cleared his throat. “I believe they have let it be known that I, erm... That is to say, I have no little capacity for, uh, not to put too fine a point on it... dancing.” He almost whispered the last.

  “What? You mean to say, ballroom and the like?”

  “Yeeessss...”

  “There are further terpsichorean pursuits for a man of your position?”

  “And, erm, ballet.”

  Dimity’s hazel eyes went very big indeed. “Ballet! Ballet? With pointy feet and fluffy skirts and dramatic collapses? And the waving arms above one’s head like a spring breeze and everything?”

  Cris rolled his eyes at her. “Yes, Sparkles, pointy feet and everything. I never performed, of course – too much a soldier to take to the stage. But when our childhood dance instructor discovered I had the acumen, and with six sisters, all of whom number grace as their only saving grace, so to speak, ballet seemed a natural progression. Once we learned all the quadrilles we could muster, he had us leaping and twirling.”

  “Twirling, you say?”

  “Yes. Twirling.” Cris tried to keep his voice as bland as humanly possible. “Even the occasional pirouette.”

  Dimity angled herself next to him, presumably so that she could stare up into his face in delighted awe. “And what happened next?” She smelled faintly of milk and honey and rosewater, like a French pudding of refined delicacy.

  “Father came home early and put a stop to the dance master, but too late. The ballet had already taken. It’s actually proved quite useful over the years. Surprisingly broad applications, ballet. Improved my bowling arm no end. Helped me master fencing and fisticuffs. After all, no one expects a pirouette. Especially not in battle.”

  Dimity’s face went slack with carefully hidden amusement. “Especially not from a man of your stature?” She gestured with her chin at his broad frame.

  “Exactly.”

  “Interesting secret weapon you have there, my knight.”

  “Stop it, Sparkles.”

  She sniffed and returned to the mission. “At least you have barterable skills for drone status. We should make an appealing pair. I intend to gently indicate some difficulty conceiving children and with the marriage bed, as well. To make us, you know, more tempting.”

  Everyone knew vampires did not recruit breeding humans. Went against nature, that did. One didn’t pot about with one’s food supply.

  Of course, Cris nearly said, “Do you have any troubles in that arena?” as revenge for her teasing him about the ballet. But he stopped himself because all upbringing to the contrary, he wished to be gallant, not crass, and Dimity was still a lady, for all her worldly ways and ready quips.

  Instead, he turned his jaundiced eye on the veritable mountain of additional baggage his so-called wife had brought along in addition to the leather portfolio of indifferent watercolors.

  “Really, Sparkles, are we not supposed to be artists, suffering pecuniary struggles and eschewing material concerns in pursuit of a higher spirit of creativity?”

  Dimity pouted at him.

  He wanted to nibble that sticking-out lower lip. No doubt she would taste as sweet as the honey of her moniker.

  “Well, yes, but I’ve never been to Nottingham before. And I’ve never infiltrated a vampire hive before, either. I mean to say, will there be social events? Do I need a ball gown? How many ball gowns? I don’t ride, but Nottingham is the countryside, so I had to pack a riding habit. Then there’s my small crossbow with the wooden bolts, not to mention enamel-inlaid muff pistols to consider. Then once I had muff pistols, I had to include muffs, because surely it gets cold up north? And I thought, foxglove – is it indigenous to the area? And would I have time to make poison if I needed it? So I packed some ready-made, to be on the safe side. And then, well, if I’m taking digitalis, why not throw in a little arsenic and some cyanide? And then I thought perhaps werewolves might be involved, so I added a few bottles of silver nitrate and a silver letter opener. I was only going to bring a few, mind you, but suddenly I felt my entire apothecary case might be necessary. And frankly, if I’m bringing the ball gowns, matched jewelry is also quite, quite necessary. Before you ask, I do need all five jewelry cases – you don’t call me Sparkles for nothing, now, do you? And if I’m packing the poison rings, there are bladed fans to consider, and hats with garrote ribbons, and heat-resistant reticules, and in the end—” She finally paused for breath. “I packed the whole of this season’s wardrobe, and all associated accessories, even the deadly ones.” She tilted her head. “Especially the deadly ones. I mean to say... vampires.”

  “Very perspicacious of you,” said Crispin, because really, what else could he say? “I begin to think espionage is merely an excuse for advanced accessorizing tactics.”

  “Can you think of a better reason? I also packed the very latest fashion papers out of Paris. Did you know bustles are the next de mode on the horizon? I never would have believed it. In my lifetime... bustles? I mean to say, what’s next, a bum roll?”

  “What’s a bustle?” Cris asked, confused.

  Dimity put her hand to her chest, pressing against the brooch at the ruff of her carriage dress. “What’s a bustle? What’s a bustle! You ignoramus!”

  Crispin never pretended to be more than a man of a soldiering mindset. If he cou
ld wear his uniform for all time and never think about proper attire, he probably would. He disliked making such decisions and left his toilet and dress entirely up to his valet. He supposed, as a starving married ballet dancer without staff, his sham wife would be dressing him forthwith. No doubt Dimity was up to the task.

  “I don’t follow the fashion papers,” he confessed, without shame. “And bustles have yet to come up at my club.”

  Dimity giggled. “I certainly hope they don’t come up at your gentlemen’s club.”

  “So, what is a bustle?” He was intrigued now.

  “That’s for me to know and you to admire later.”

  He shifted a bit, slightly concerned for the state of his trousers if this bustle bum roll was what he was imagining it was. Some foundation garment perhaps, light and filmy, floating around Dimity’s slim legs and flared hips and round... Could such a thing be depicted in fashion papers, and how could he get hold of the ones she’d brought to find out? And would Dimity wear one for him, without much else, if he asked very nicely?

  Then he hated himself for such thoughts. He was trying to be a better man and yet around this woman, his mind would keep sinking gutter-side.

  Unaware of his heated looks and stiffening nether regions, Sparkles was affectionately regarding her mountain of trunks and suitcases, carpetbags and hat boxes. “What else is there? Oh yes, of course. Well, one or two things from Mummy and Daddy, mostly explosive. A book of Latin verse that my brother left last time he visited, and a recipe for Nesselrode pudding from my aunt, which she swears by.”

  “Fearful they don’t have Latin verse and pudding in Nottingham?”

  “One can never be sure,” replied Dimity darkly.

  “No sporting accoutrements?”

  “Oh, dear me, no! Unless you count the riding habit? Should I have brought ice skates? It is the north, of course, but it’s also April. Have the lakes not thawed?”

  Cris decided to stop teasing her. “We are visiting vampires, Sparkles. I doubt we’ll even leave the house.”