Romancing the Inventor Read online

  “Coming from you, my dear, that’s true flattery.”

  They were most definitely flirting. Disgusting! With a married woman!

  Lord Maccon looked on indulgently.

  Finally, Madame Lefoux moved on from the Maccons. “Major Channing? How unexpected.”

  The big blond inclined his head. “Madame Lefoux.” His mouth was twisted in a slight sneer.

  The inventor tuned back to Lord Maccon. “Interesting choice.”

  The Alpha glanced at his Gamma. “Sometimes, one must take him out into polite company for an airing. If only to see whether he’s grown any manners in the interim.”

  “And if he must be brought out, why not inflict him upon vampires?” suggested Madame Lefoux, as if said vampires were not already in the room and bristling at being ignored.

  “Exactly.”

  Lady Maccon interjected, “Who more deserving?”

  Major Channing sniffed. “I can behave myself. Better than either of you, if the recent discussion is anything to go by.”

  Imogene felt oddly protective of him while simultaneously afraid he might notice her and remark. Why were they picking on the poor man? He still hadn’t recognized her. Or wasn’t going to show recognition. Imogene knew herself to be beautiful, but that didn’t make household staff any less part of the furniture. Right now, she was one more pretty thing the vampires had collected.

  Madame Lefoux said, “Well, isn’t this going to be a delightful evening? Now tell me, how is the infant-inconvenience?”

  Lord Maccon instantly softened and began prattling on about his daughter. Imogene gathered that this was a child of some post-talking, pre-schooling age. There was mention of a guardian named Lord Akeldama, and of the child being somewhat gifted, or cursed, or encumbered by an excess of philosophy.

  Imogene was left confused. Everyone knew neither vampires nor werewolves could breed. So, this daughter must be Lady Maccon’s issue from a previous marriage. Kind of Lord Maccon to be so welcoming and loving towards the girl.

  The tea and food were brought in, and the conversation flowed more freely as a result. Imogene followed very little of it as she glided about, serving canapés. Raw liver on tiny toast tips for the werewolves. Foreign grapes, imported at great expense, and aged cheddar for the ladies. The vampires, of course, ate nothing.

  Instead of trying to understand the discussion itself, Imogene watched the flow of interest and control. Lord Maccon held the highest social position but was breezy about it. His wife was something significant as Dr Caedes occasionally referred to her, in an awkward way, as muhjah. This title appeared to confer with it considerable rank, possibly political in nature. Although Imogene had never heard of a woman who held power in government – aside from Queen Victoria, of course.

  The two vampires, consequently, were forced to occupy the inferior social position, with Major Channing bringing up the rear. He was third tier in the London Pack, plus a major in the Coldsteam Guards, and as such accustomed to command. Lowest rank did not sit well, poor chap.

  Thus the circling of the predators in the room (verbal though it might be) was fraught.

  Madame Lefoux flitted through it all – more French, more erudite, more relaxed, and more charming than ever. She donned fine manners and big words as easily as she did a top hat. She did not glance in Imogene’s direction again.

  And she touched Lady Maccon a great deal more than was necessary.

  * * *

  Imogene was not to wait at table. As soon as the bell rang and the party adjourned to the dining room, she assumed her duties for the night were discharged.

  One of the drones, however, stopped her in the hallway.

  “Imogene, dear. Come with me.”

  “Miss Venables?”

  Most of the hive drones were male, but occasionally Countess Nadasdy took a female. She had hopes of someday making another queen, no matter how slim the odds. There was always some poor woman who wished to try for immortality regardless of the extreme risk. Right now, that woman was Miss Abigail Venables.

  Miss Venables was a harpist of renown. She had thick red hair, big brown eyes, and full lips. Imogene thought her wildly beautiful but awfully cold.

  “What can I do for you, ma’am?” Imogene asked politely.

  “Ah, no, it is for me to help you. We are of a similar size. You are to borrow one of my dresses for this evening.” Miss Venables began walking away, assuming Imogene would follow.

  Imogene followed. “I am?” Confusion cut through her. Why on earth would she need a dress?

  “Yes, indeed, one of my best dinner gowns, with a very low neckline. Pity to waste it, but I’m sure she’ll buy me another.”

  “I’m to attend the meal?” There could be no other explanation. “But I’m a parlourmaid!”

  “No, dear, no. You are to be the meal.”

  Chapter Five

  In Which Things Get Perverted at Supper

  Imogene was terrified. This wasn’t what she wanted!

  It was always a gamble, with vampires, whether they took you to bed or to eat. Imogene had hoped for the former. Then she’d met Madame Lefoux and hoped for neither.

  And now supper.

  The table was beautifully set. There was to be a specially prepared five-course meal in the French style for Madame Lefoux, Lady Maccon, and the attending drones. The two werewolves had trenchers of meat set before them that was a representative sample of all the game currently available throughout the countryside. It was very fresh and quite excessive.

  And the vampires?

  Next to each knelt a drone on a hassock, neck well exposed for feeding. Except that the spot beside the countess was empty. Miss Venables led Imogene there and then took her own seat partway down.

  Imogene knew she must be very pale. Her skin prickled. Her neck felt cold and horribly bare. The dress was ridiculously low-cut. She’d never worn anything so fine (or so lacking in material) in her life. It was fitted close to the full length of her body except for a great pouf of bustle out the back. It crinkled when she moved. Prey should never be allowed silence. It was white silk with a little jacket instead of sleeves that Miss Venables removed with ostentatious care right after they entered the room.

  Imogene’s arms and shoulders were now entirely bare. Her neck and chest were exposed in a way only streetwalkers, or very fine ladies, were ever allowed.

  Imogene was humiliated. It was as if she were in her underpinnings!

  Oh, they noticed her now. They all noticed her.

  She looked up through her lashes.

  Major Channing was grinning like a fool. He’d recognized her at last and no doubt thought it sweet that she’d found her way to the hive. A place of perversion for the perverted girl that only he’d ever noticed.

  Lord and Lady Maccon seemed more uncomfortable than anything else. Perhaps it was the nature of her dress, or perhaps it was the vampires’ feeding style that disconcerted the couple. Werewolves could be prudish about other supernaturals.

  Dr Caedes looked both annoyed and hungry. His eyes were fixed on Imogene’s chest. Lord Ambrose’s brooding was disturbed by a slight interest. Imogene felt a twinge of pride; he ordinarily showed concern for nothing beyond the queen’s safety. Even the Duke of Hematol’s reserved nature was shrouded with glittering avarice.

  And Madame Lefoux?

  Imogene couldn’t bear to look at her. It was too awful. This felt like a betrayal. As if the inventor had staked a claim and been denied, and now it was being rubbed in her face. Imogene was being used by the vampires to inflict pain on the only person there she cared anything about.

  Look, the vampires were saying. She is ours, not yours.

  Imogene wanted to scream that she belonged to no one. They had no right, no right at all!

  Except perhaps they did. They were her masters, after all. And they were vampires. And she’d known when she took work with them that this complicated matters. She had
counted on it.

  It didn’t help that she was out of her depth – wearing a dress that wasn’t hers, standing in a place of honor that she’d not earned, amongst company entirely beyond her station.

  Madame Lefoux had tried to handle everything quietly. She’d asked for nothing more than a little extra help in the laboratory, with no mention of Imogene’s skill with numbers. Or her beauty. And now Imogene was standing before them all like some anointed offering. She’d become a prize over which they would bicker, a way of punishing the inventor for some unnamed crime. Perhaps the crime of asking for what she needed. Or the crime of not wanting to be at the hive. Or the crime of noticing a servant and showing her favor.

  Imogene felt ridiculous, and unworthy, stuffed into that too-small, too-beautiful gown. She was afraid to move for fear she would spill out or split a seam. The stays (also on loan from Miss Venables) were stiffer than her working corset and designed to show the drape of a dress rather than to permit any freedom of movement.

  Imogene was angry that it must be done this way. She’d known all along what might be her fate in a vampire hive, but she’d believed they’d be circumspect. After all, this was her first time! Weren’t vampires lauded for their discretion?

  Her eyes burned, but she knelt, waiting. There was no point in running; they were all stronger and faster, supernaturally so. And they were all predators by nature; should she flee, even the werewolves would give chase.

  She had ignored all the warnings.

  She had sleepwalked long enough.

  “Is she not stunning?” The countess stroked Imogene’s naked arm from bicep to wrist, tracing the blue veins visible there.

  Imogene shivered.

  “I’ve been keeping her for a special occasion. Waiting for her to ripen. Such a reserved young thing. One wouldn’t think, with such beauty, that she’d be so meek. But some underlings never learn, do they? Ridiculous to think they can be taught anything. I don’t know why Snodgrove keeps going on about educating the masses. You wouldn’t want that, would you, sweet thing?”

  Imogene would’ve answered but it wasn’t really a question.

  The queen kept stroking. “Of course you wouldn’t. It’s our sacred duty to speak for them. Poor, weak little creatures. We know what’s best for you.” She turned her attention to the table. “Is everyone served? Shall we begin?”

  The other three bare-necked drones immediately tilted their heads invitingly.

  Imogene did not. A small defiance. Also, her thighs were shaking. She felt if she tried to move, she’d fall over.

  The queen yanked on her wrist, hard, pulling her to the side.

  Instinctively, she jerked away, overbalanced, and crashed forward. Her chin struck the table edge hard, knocking her teeth together and jarring her neck. She saw stars.

  The crack was loud in the silence.

  Everyone waited.

  The queen smiled, big and broad and showing all her fangs. The smile didn’t reach her eyes. They were colder and harder than the grip around Imogene’s wrist.

  Imogene righted herself with effort but didn’t tilt her head. Instead, she hung it, staring down at the tabletop.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Countess Nadasdy tilt hers instead – a query or a defiance or an acknowledgment? Imogene couldn’t read vampire body language.

  “Very good. Dinner is served.”

  * * *

  The male vampires bent, clamped mouths to necks, and began to feed. A soft rhythmic slurping permeated the air.

  Imogene couldn’t see much from her humbled position, but she had to assume, from the gnawing noises, that the two werewolves were eating as well.

  Countess Nadasdy dropped Imogene’s wrist to grab her hair, yanking her head to one side.

  Imogene’s chin ached and the stars returned, spearing a shaft of pain through her head. She swallowed convulsively.

  “Delightful,” said the vampire queen.

  The sound of something being slammed onto the table reverberated around the room.

  “Enough!”

  A chair scraped. Light, assertive footsteps approached.

  Imogene found herself pulled to her feet, gentle hands on her shoulders, and then guided to stand behind Madame Lefoux’s slender form. The inventor was now between her and the vampire queen.

  “How rude,” said Countess Nadasdy, “disturbing my meal.”

  Everyone stopped eating and stared. The three male vampires looked almost comical, blood dripping from their fangs.

  “Oh, isn’t this charming! Are you volunteering in her place?”

  At that moment, Imogene realized she was a pawn in a game she didn’t understand.

  Someone else stood at that statement. Lady Maccon. “Careful, Countess. You hold Genevieve’s indenture, not her life. Blood was never in play.”

  The vampire queen looked sulky.

  “You are only doing this because I asked for her!” Madame Lefoux’s frustration was evident. Then, in a desperate attempt to explain to the avidly listening company, she said, “I wanted Miss Hale to assist in my work. I had come to rely more heavily on Quesnel than I realized. With him gone, my progress has slowed. But apparently, the duties of a parlourmaid take priority. My request was denied.”

  “You may not be entirely mine, inventor,” said the countess on a hiss, “but she is!”

  Imogene gritted her teeth. She was still feeling a mite dizzy, but she quite objected to that. She was a servant, not a slave!

  “It is my legal right to take sustenance from my staff.” Countess Nadasdy appealed to her guests.

  “Only if they are willing.” Lord Maccon’s his deep voice was calm. “And only if you have exhausted your regular supply.”

  Imogene tried to put a respectful distance between herself and the inventor.

  Madame Lefoux twisted her head slightly and whispered, “No, stay close. Safer that way.” Her voice was warm, kind.

  So, Imogene shifted to press against the inventor’s back. It was firm beneath the coat. She fought not to nestle against the other woman, breathe in the scent of vanilla.

  The countess shrugged. “We’ve had a busy evening. And as you can see, we only have three drones available for feeding. The others have already served for the night.”

  “Hungry, were we?” That was Major Channing, an antagonizing sneer to his voice.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said the vampire queen. “I want my supper, and it’s incalculably rude to discuss the food in front of the food!”

  “I will pay for her indenture.” That was Madame Lefoux.

  “Impossible!” spat Lord Ambrose.

  “Alexia?” Madame Lefoux appealed to her friend for help.

  Lady Maccon looked at her husband, eyebrow raised.

  The Alpha shrugged. “He’s right. Someone under indenture may not purchase an indenture herself. And we’re all neglecting the fact that even if it were possible, the young lady would have to be willing.” He inclined his shaggy head in Imogene’s direction.

  Imogene wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Everyone was staring at her now. Everyone was wondering why she was so special. She was disturbing their meal for no apparent reason. And all this while barely wearing any clothing on her upper half.

  This has to be some kind of nightmare.

  Henry was waiting at table; both first footmen were. They were staring too. None of the quality noticed that the staff was equally intrigued by this drama. Even the butler was mesmerized.

  “Then let us settle this,” said Lady Maccon. From her appearance, Imogene surmised that she was not the kind of woman who liked to be interrupted at mealtime. “I shall buy her indenture and loan her to Genevieve as a laboratory assistant.”

  “You cannot simply misappropriate my parlourmaid!” objected Countess Nadasdy.

  “Oh, I think you’ll find she can,” said Lord Maccon, mildly. “So long as the lass agrees.”
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br />   “Oh, good.” Lady Maccon sat back down, satisfied. “Can we eat, then? I’m afraid, Countess, you’ll have to find someone else to dust. Genevieve, if you’d see to your new assistant? Then we can get on.”

  Madame Lefoux turned to Imogene. “Miss Hale? What do you think?”

  “I would be working with you? No one else? Forever?” It sounded like heaven.

  The dimples appeared. “Not forever. An indenture is for a prescribed amount of time. Three years, for example.”

  “How long is yours?” Imogene felt emboldened enough to ask. Although she did so in a whisper, still conscious of how ridiculous she must look all gussied up in that low-cut dress.

  “Ten, but I have already served four.” Madame Lefoux gave a green-eyed look sideways at the countess. Then, seeming to sense Imogene’s discomfort (or perhaps to further her point with the vampire queen), the inventor took one of Imogene’s hands in a reassuring manner.

  It was reassuring; it was also quite thrilling. Imogene squeezed and was delighted to get a squeeze in response.

  Fortified by the support, she took a short breath and turned to face Lady Maccon. Imogene had thought this woman her rival, and yet she’d found her an unexpectedly stalwart ally. “I would ask for six years then, Muhjah.” The title, which she’d only heard used once or twice, seemed appropriate.

  Lady Maccon was clearly pleased with this request. Her eyes flicked back and forth between them. Taking in the clasped hands, they crinkled with delight. “Excellent! I’ll have the articles drawn up at once. In the meantime, would you like to return with me to the pack house this evening?” She glared at Countess Nadasdy. “For the sake of your health.”

  Imogene felt another squeeze. “No, thank you, Muhjah. My understanding of vampires is that they’ll obey the letter of the law, particularly if it’s a law they helped to enact. That’s assuming the articles take effect immediately, without my having signed anything.”

  Lord Maccon said, “Smart girl. Yes, they do. Supernatural or no, this is still England. We have always honored verbal contracts, and a woman’s word is her bond. That, funnily enough, is also is a law that originated with the vampires.”