Nothing.
Desperately, Dimity mentioned badminton.
I mean to say, who doesn’t have opinions on badminton? Everyone has opinions on badminton. The latest dirigible-on-dirigible World Puff had been an absolute triumph.
Nothing.
Nothing on badminton from the great Professor Meeld-Forrison. Not the tiniest little puff of interest.
Really, Dimity was beginning to question whether the man was capable of speaking in full sentences, let alone the conversation required in order to sell his technology to the Prussians.
How could any man conduct illegal business with overseas agents when he could barely open his mouth? The War Office must be wrong on this one. This was a waste of her time.
Dimity was well aware that she was an acquired taste – but fortunately, once convinced to try, most people acquired a taste for her rather quickly. She was easy to talk to, for goodness’ sake. Easy!
Not so far as Professor Meeld-Forrison was concerned.
Perhaps it wasn’t verbal language she need use?
In the guise of delicate avoidance of steam emanating from the corner of the lab, Dimity whipped out her fan. She fluttered at the steam ineffectually, and then shadowed her nose and lower face, tilting her chin down and widening her eyes so they were as big and as limpid as possible.
“Oh, my dear sir, such risks you take for your studies. So many devices all running at once. Surely there is no small danger to your person?”
Words not working, Dimity would try bodies. She sidled closer to the man. Increased her breathing a little. Tried to match hers to his, which had caught and was now quite rapid.
She gazed into his face adoringly. “Dear sir, you must be so strong to have to handle such things, feeding in coal and carrying water and so forth.”
Professor Meeld-Forrison cleared his throat and looked like he wanted to flee or faint. Instead, he froze.
The man is completely hopeless, thought Dimity. She angled her body towards him, shifted the shawl away from her white neck, exposing the little divot at the base of her throat.
Still nothing.
Her eyelashes fluttered.
The man swallowed. A tiny bead of sweat appeared at his brow.
Aha! “Dear Professor Meeld-Forrison, you don’t speak any other languages, do you? I do so adore a polyglot.”
“I speak a little French,” he admitted, in a whisper.
“No German?”
“Not a single bratwurst of it, I’m afraid.”
Dimity giggled. She wasn’t sure he’d meant to be funny, but at least she’d gotten an entire sentence out of the man.
“Oh, are we talking about sausages? I do love a sausage. Are you a sausage or a bacon connoisseur, as a rule, dear Professor?”
The professor’s eyes widened. “Uh, bacon, I assure you.”
So he liked women in his bed, did he? At least that’s cleared up. Unless he means actual bacon. But the man was only shy, she suspected, not obtuse.
Dimity moved in for the kill. She took his arm.
He did not flinch this time.
She closed her fan, for it was no longer necessary. He was now looking down into her face, his eyes a little dazed.
She leaned subtly against him, as if dying for his manly arms. His support. His attention.
He shuddered and angled his upper body towards her. He sported the kind of frame that had spent too much time indoors examining devices – curled at the shoulders and bent in the spine.
The bacon has it, thought Dimity.
“Shall we continue our tour, my dear sir?” She gave him a slow blink. (Too soon for another eyelash flutter.)
He wobbled slightly and finally came up to bat. “My dear Miss Chitty—”
“Call me Jonquil, do.”
“My dear Miss Jonquil, I should like nothing better.” His eyes were now fixed on hers, his breathing a little shallow. She hoped he wouldn’t faint.
“And shall we talk more about breakfast? Are you a particular fan of the meal?”
“I should like nothing more for the rest of my days,” he said, apparently realizing that she was, in fact, flirting with him. Poor chap, he wasn’t used to such things.
He patted her hand where she clutched his arm, then very daringly left his cold, clammy one atop hers.
Oh dear, thought Dimity, I might have taken this a little far.
“Breakfast first, my dear sir. Now, tell me, have you traveled much? How do you feel about breakfast as served on the Continent? I’ve been given to understand, for example, that the French prefer a bit of puffy bread and some coffee to start their day. Surely not. Surely that is wicked hearsay.”
“Oh no, my dear Miss Jonquil, I understand that’s entirely true.” The gentleman shook his head. His hair was rather messy, sticking up about a pair of yellow-tinted goggles pushed back from his brow. He looked tired, and older than the mission launch papers had stated.
“You understand? You’ve never visited yourself?”
“Sadly, no.” His eyelashes and eyebrows were so pale they disappeared into his face, making him seem perennially surprised.
“And other parts of Europe?” Dimity pressed, but he shook his head. She had to face the truth – this man wasn’t guilty. He hadn’t done it. Or if he had passed along illegal technology to the Prussians, he hadn’t realized what he’d done.
“Oh, my dear sir, I too am woefully under-traveled. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, I assure you. I’ve barely even met anyone from outside the British Isles. A tragedy of my innocence, I suspect.” Now was the time for more eyelash fluttering.
Dimity fluttered.
The man melted right there in the middle of his lab. Metaphorically, of course. No actual melting was involved.
Which made Dimity think fondly of sugar melting into tea. She wondered if she could extract Professor Meeld-Forrison to a tea house. She was famished and this was taking longer than she’d anticipated. “Certainly you’re more worldly than I, Professor.”
The professor cleared his throat and admitted to having met, only recently, at his gentleman’s club, several visitors all the way from Prussia.
And that, as they say, was that.
Dimity did not get him out to tea, but she did get the details of most of the conversation with those Prussians. She learned that the gentlemen in question had visited Professor Meeld-Forrison’s lab. Flattered by their interest in his work, he had given them an extensive tour, much as he was doing with her now. And so, the whole sordid story played out.
The poor chap hadn’t meant to be a traitor. His interests lay entirely in the arena of vacuum technology, what the War Office referred to as fluff and blow. There were projectile military applications, but Professor Meeld-Forrison obviously neither knew nor cared.
In Dimity’s experience, once seduced by her lashes, no man was a good enough actor to play the innocent with such aplomb. Besides, if he’d been conscious of his betrayal (during or after) he would never have admitted to her his meeting the Prussians in the first place. After all, the whole initial encounter had occurred at a gentlemen’s club, and those were notoriously difficult to crack. Gentlemen’s clubs were far better at keeping secrets than the government.