Bertie nibbled his roly-poly pud. “Well, you carry on as her safety however you see fit. It would be better if you two had a decent working relationship, however, for queen and country and all that rot.”
“I’ll do my best to behave.”
“It’s not your behavior I worry about, old chap. Never is.”
“So you see what I mean? She’s difficult, prone to trouble.”
Bertie looked noncommittal. “Mmm. Speaking of – your mission.”
“Speak on, do. I’m at your disposal.”
“It’s not mine you have to be at, it’s BUR’s.”
Crispin’s leg began to jiggle at that. “Crickets, what’s the bureau want with me and the Honey Bee, for goodness’ sake? We’re both well out of their purview. Quite apart from everything else, we’re human. We handle human problems. Not the supernatural.” He suppressed a shudder.
Bertie grimaced. “That’s the thing, they decided they needed daylight players for this one. They have humans on retainer, of course they do, but none trained in quite the same manner as our Honey Bee. BUR’s tactics are more... last resort. Violent and final, if you follow my meaning.”
“The Honey Bee is good at fixing things. BUR is better at ending them.” Cris nodded and tried not to worry.
“Exactly so.” Bertie made a face, as though he’d smelled something unpleasant. “Lord Maccon leans in favor of direct and fatal. You know werewolves. Such can be useful, but this particular infiltration requires subtlety.”
“And your first thought was, of course, Sparkles?”
“Don’t be mean, Crispy. She can be subtle, in the right way. In the necessary way and when the situation demands it. You’ve seen her work. She’s good.”
Cris sighed, defeated. “Very good, actually. Go on.” She was flirtatious and conniving and heart-stopping. He adored her, of course.
“The Bureau of Unnatural Registry has recently had word of trouble at a vampire hive up in Nottingham. It seems to be going a touch off – not to put too fine a point on it. The queen has come over loopy, holed herself up in a limestone cave or some such nonsense, communicating solely by means of homemade Valentine’s cards.”
Cris frowned. Not that he was sentimental, but— “It’s April, Bertie.”
“Precisely! And I mean to say, the kind of cards with gold and lace and bits of ribbon stuck to them. She seems to have been doing this for months, if not years. There’s not a confident timeline. BUR only recently noticed. At last report, a decade ago, it was a small, staid, stable hive – nothing to fret about. Now limestone caves and Valentine’s cards out of season. You see the source of the distress? The rest of her hive is unresponsive to BUR’s inquiries as to why she’s retreated. But they are essentially without a queen. However, as they’ve done nothing supernaturally wrong, the Bureau’s agents are stymied. No apparent crimes against humanity either, no rash of murders or disappearances in the area, so they can’t send in the constabulary to get all constabby-stabby. They have lost most of their drones to abandonment, not death. So there’s a chance the vampires are starving themselves out of pure stubbornness. It’s all rather a mess. Wants sorting. BUR came to us and I’m sending in the Honey Bee. You know how she gets when things want tidying. You’re to go along to keep everything under control.”
“You want to fix a vampire hive using Sparkles?”
“That’s the general idea. Usually works. Vampires like shiny things. The Honey Bee is awfully shiny.”
Cris pressed his hand to his own leg to stop its vibrating, not liking the idea of Dimity Plumleigh-Teignmott loose in some bally vampire hive. “I’ve read her file. I thought she fainted at the sight of blood.”
Bertie waved his hand. “Only very large amounts and under particularly stressful circumstances. Minor impediment. I’m sure you’ll manage to control for triggering variables.”
“It’s a vampire hive, Bertie, you wiffin.”
“You’ll be all right.”
“I hate it when you say that.” Sir Crispin gave up trying to be still, stood, and began to wander about. Not quite pacing, but nearly there.
“Yes, but see how distracted you are now? All your dead-father troubles forgotten.”
“To be supplanted with sparkling new troubles.”
“Exactly. Speaking of, where is he?”
“Where’s who?” Cris whirled to look at the closed conservatory door.
“He would be late. I asked a friend ’round, in case you had vampire-related questions. This not being your field of study, nor mine either, quite frankly, and BUR being mostly run by werewolves these days, I thought we might consult with an outside expert.”
The double doors to the conservatory burst open in a dramatic way, displaying an enthusiasm they’d not shown when Cris walked through. An impossibly glorious person swept into the room, his steps small and his arm gestures prodigious.
It was harder than one might think, to flirt a gentleman inventor into submission. Any given inventor might be susceptible, but was usually so confused at getting feminine attention it took extra effort (on the part of said femininity) to get the blighter up and running.
Miss Dimity Plumleigh-Teignmott would never admit she was struggling with this particular inventor. Yet... she struggled.
Honestly, sometimes setting a lady of Dimity’s caliber at an inventor was unfair to all parties concerned.
This particular inventor, one Professor Meeld-Forrison, had responded to Dimity’s initial foray with the rapidity of an allergic reaction, and had retreated into almost complete silence at the merest hint of a fluttered eyelash. When she fiddled with the massive sapphire brooch at her collar (to draw attention to the whiteness of her throat, of course), he nearly fainted.
Have you any idea how hard it is to flirt with someone who won’t even talk back, let alone flirt back?
They had not covered this particular level of resistance at Finishing School.
Dimity had been at the endeavor for over half an hour with little conversation, let alone results. She’d exhausted all possible topics of discourse, from books to vehicles to steam technology, from hounds to whiskey to all manner of things that interested any given gentleman, intellectual or otherwise. The man seemed to be composed entirely of monosyllabic murmurs of mild-mannered agreement.
She might recommend blowing up Big Ben and replacing it with a spun sugar poodle and Professor Meeld-Forrison would merely say, “Mum-hum.”
Which, to be fair, made him excellent husband material, but the worst source for information during an espionage operation.
But Dimity was resilient. Dimity was determined. Dimity could handle anything.
Except shy.
And this poor fellow seemed almost paralytically shy.
Dimity nevertheless continued to steer him around his own laboratory and chatter at him. She picked up things, touching them ostentatiously, hoping for some kind of reaction, even anger as he leapt to defend some precious piece of technology from the bumbling female wafting about his domain.