Curtsies & Conspiracies

Sophronia thought he looked disturbingly adorable when confused. “Indeed it is. Ever heard of the Westminster vampire hive?”

“Of course, hasn’t everyone? Not exactly my social circle, Miss Temminnick.” The boy’s lip curled slightly.

“Are there many hives in London, do you know, Lord Mersey?”

“My dear Ria, one would be too many.”

“Well, perhaps Professor Braithwope will enlighten me. I take it you won’t be attending our lesson with him?”

“Wouldn’t be permitted, Miss Temminnick.”

“Pity, he’s a very entertaining teacher. If you would excuse us?” Sophronia and Dimity curtsied and made their way into the vampire’s classroom.

“Now what are you about, Sophronia?” hissed Dimity, as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Me?” They took their seats, Sophronia back to reading.

Professor Braithwope entered wearing a velvet smoking jacket, an expertly tied Indian silk cravat, and a pathologically unsteady mustache. “Welcome, little bites, welcome. Today we are on to an extremely interesting topic, whot. But first, your thoughts on the reading? Miss Pelouse?” The mustache arrowed in Monique’s direction.

Monique made some offhand comment. Preshea was up next, equally vague.

The mustache drooped. “Ladies, this is vital high-society survival information. Even should your paths take you into a duplicitous union with a conservative family, you must know who sits where in government. Not to mention, who came out of which families into which hives and packs. Did anyone read the articles? Miss Temminnick.” He turned the mustache on Sophronia.

Sophronia looked up at the mercurial little man from the wingback love seat she shared with Dimity. “I think the articles are meant to demonstrate the gradual acceptance of vampires into London society via their image as presented in the popular press. The earlier articles emphasize vampires’ monstrous nature, feeding habits, and visiting hours. Shockingly late, says one line. And regrettable slurping, says another. This article was all about so-and-so being bitten after only three dances. The later columns focus instead on vampire influence on complexion and dress, particularly driven by one Countess Nadasdy of the Westminster Hive. A recluse who never leaves her secret home yet has a significant effect on fashion.”

Professor Braithwope stood silent under this assessment. “Excellent, Miss Temminnick.” His mustache vibrated in approval.

“Do you think you might tell us a little more about the Westminster Hive?” asked Dimity, all innocent and pure. It was the perfect setup, for while she turned wide, honey-brown eyes on the teacher, Sophronia watched Monique. The older girl went still, her expression impassive, which was a giveaway.

Now that the professor has dropped her as drone, I bet Monique wants to trade up to a hive. And she’d want Westminster. It’s clearly the most stylish. Sophronia would lay good money on it.

Monique fished about in her reticule, retrieving a golf ball–sized white powdery object, which she popped covertly into her mouth. She swallowed with the look of a cat forced to eat a carrot.

Professor Braithwope, in animated response to Dimity’s interest, said, “The queen of the Westminster Hive, Countess Nadasdy, is old, mean, and wise. However, her success in making new vampires is no better than any other queen’s. And therein, of course, is the immortal curse. Drones tend to die in the attempt, and she has to kill them. This makes most vampire queens a little funny about the head—all that murder.” He looked pointedly at Preshea and then went on to detail the male members of the Westminster Hive—age, holdings, undocumented trade, technological interests, and rank, if any.

This lesson left the six girls with the distinct impression that it was better to play nice with the Westminster Hive. Or avoid crossing them altogether.

They moved on to discussing the reach of the potentate, a rove vampire but a powerful one, who sat on Queen Victoria’s Shadow Council and advised Her Majesty on the running of the Empire.

The girls were beginning to look glassy-eyed. It was a great deal of information to absorb.

“There is one other rove of interest in London, no matter how frivolous he may appear at first. Lord Akeldama is a unique personage of considerable standing with a propensity to dandification—Miss Pelouse? Miss Pelouse, are you unwell?”

Monique had turned, throughout the course of the lecture, a chartreuse color not unlike that of Agatha’s dress.

“You are sweating, Miss Pelouse, whot. Young ladies of quality are not supposed to sweat!”

“Oh, Professor, I believe I’m unwell.” The blonde got shakily to her feet and then, in a dramatic show, fell forward in a dead faint.

Since they had been instructed many times always to faint backward, this was shocking. A forward faint was, to the best of their assessment, a real faint! Practically unheard of. Preshea bent over her friend, spreading her own lavender-and-blue skirts out prettily.

Professor Braithwope reeled, discombobulated by such frail mortal activity, and then minced out the door. “Matron! Where’s the matron, whot?” Sophronia and Dimity followed him.

At his yell several of the other teachers opened their doors. Sister Mattie’s round, friendly face was concerned. “Professor, may I be of assistance?”

“Miss Pelouse is unwell.”

Sister Mattie bustled across the hall and into the room.

Professor Shrimpdittle emerged at the far end of the passageway, followed by his boys. “What’s happening?”

Sophronia sent Dimity off. “Tell him something is terribly wrong with one of the girls in Professor Braithwope’s class. Use a tone that implies the vampire is to blame.”

Dimity gave her an odd look but did as requested. She wafted down the hall, smiled sweetly up at the Bunson’s teacher, and then whispered to him. She might not be the best at acquiring information, but she was deliciously excellent at disseminating it.

Professor Shrimpdittle’s boyishly handsome face became suffused with red, and he glared at the vampire teacher. Professor Braithwope, flustered by actually having to deal with a human illness, remained unaware of the man’s ire.

The matron arrived. She and Sister Mattie made a litter out of some parasols and carried the insensate Monique from the room.

By now, word had spread, and most of the lessons were on hiatus. The doors were crowded with curious students, a consequence of their education. A few milled about in the hallway, causing Dimity some distress in returning. Vieve popped up, watching with interest as the fainted girl was carried past. She exchanged a few words with Pillover, who was lurking near Professor Shrimpdittle.

“What did that vampire do to her?” the visiting professor blustered loudly.

“Don’t be silly, Algonquin,” Professor Lefoux sneered. “The girl fainted. Could hardly be Aloysius’s fault!”

“No good can come of having vampires supervising a bevy of nubile young girls,” insisted Shrimpdittle.

Pillover said something to Vieve that made her laugh. The girl then trotted back the way she had come. Sophronia realized Pillover must be included in the plot to get Vieve into Bunson’s, as he knew her real identity. How to persuade him?

The girls returned to class, somber after the sudden illness in their midst.

“Imagine, fainting forward!” Preshea whispered, white with shock.

What did Monique eat? Useful to know, thought Sophronia. I must ask Sister Mattie. Dover’s powder, perhaps? And why did Monique want to get out of class so badly she poisoned herself?

Over supper, Pillover agreed to Vieve’s planned infiltration, because it was evil to hide a girl from his professors, and he’d yet to do anything truly evil. “If I’m found out, I’ll probably be awarded top marks. So I’m