So when Dimity eventually managed to extract herself, still tea-less, it was to report to the War Office that the Prussians had most certainly managed to steal or at least learn something significant from Professor Meeld-Forrison, but that the man himself was unaware of this fact. Her assessment being that the poor man was shy but innocent, and might best be guided into studies with less dangerous applications.
Dimity also departed having learned Professor Meeld-Forrison’s opinion on every breakfast item offered unto the great British public, tea notwithstanding, and attained what she thought might be her twenty-second offer of marriage.
Really, being a spy could be too tiresome. She thought, not for the first time recently, that it might be time for her to move on from the work. Perhaps the next mission would be her last. Maybe she should accept one of those marriage offers. Except there was only one man she actually wanted to marry – and he was difficult.
Lord Pritchard was waiting for her just outside the laboratory, in the guise of her uncle and guardian, indulging in his niece’s peculiar interest in science. He was her safety on this mission – not that she needed one, but the War Office always insisted.
Lord Pritchard was an elderly military gentleman with firm opinions on the delicacy of proper feminine behavior and therefore thought Dimity was wonderful. Men of his sort always did. When she expressed her need for sustenance, he took her to Lottapiggle Tea Shop on Cavendish Square, because it was the best in town, and a young lady of her sensibilities must have the very best.
Dimity agreed with him, of course, and then wondered if he might be convinced on the matter of small gifts of jewelry to the most holy paragon-ness of feminine behaviors, viz, herself. Then thought better of it.
One shouldn’t really confidence-trick one’s co-workers, should one?
Sometimes it was difficult to stopper up her training. But then, Lord Pritchard was so very set in such disagreeably old-fashioned ways, and so very rich, and he would keep telling her she ought to give up her wild ways, marry, and become a proper woman, as though she wasn’t perfectly brilliant at her job. To be honest, Dimity resented his instructing her to do something she was already contemplating, because she did want a husband and family and she didn’t think there was anything wrong with that. It was simply his tone and the way he said it, all patronizing. Perhaps she should fleece him for a small diamond bracelet or two, simply for revenge on the universe for having to put up with him.
Dimity had her tea, ignored her dining companion, and fantasized about leaving off the intelligence game. She fully intended to organize a husband for herself eventually. She had always rather admired the simple life – it was only that her dearest friends tended to be active in the world of espionage, someone had to keep an eye on them, and she was made loyal. Still, Dimity was resolved to settle down in the countryside with a nice gentleman someday. This gentleman had once been rather an amorphous idea. But now, well, now she had her eagle eye set on someone particular. Unfortunately, the chap was under the startling bad impression that he did not like her. He was obviously mistaken, and she would fix his misconception forthwith.
You see, Dimity had always believed that an engagement, especially one’s own, ought to be carefully constructed, especially when the gentleman in question was both unaware and unwilling. It was possible that she might have to kill someone to convince him. But she was hoping she could get away with a mild maiming. Dimity wrinkled her nose in thought. Then again, he was awfully stubborn.
All of which was to say, she certainly didn’t need sainted Lord Pritchard’s advice on the matter.
She sipped her tea. Lottapiggle really did very good things with the sacred leaf.
She looked at Lord Pritchard through thick dark lashes. Dimity had powerful lashes and she always used them to good effect.
“You wouldn’t mind one more tiny stopover before we head back, would you, my dear lord?”
“Not at all, poppet.”
While jewelry might be asking a bit much, there were other accessories to consider. Dimity twinkled at him. “It’s only that there are these charming gloves I’ve had my eye on for ages. Of course, they didn’t have my size. I’ve been waiting for the smaller ones to come in. My hands are so very delicate, you see.” She brushed her white fingers seductively against the handle of her teacup. They were beautiful and creamy, if she did say so herself. Dimity actually had done quite well in her fingersmith and lock-picking classes. A girl had to take care of her hands if she wanted to delve smoothly into pockets. She soaked hers in cream most evenings.
Lord Pritchard gleamed at her. “We must protect such beauties, of course, pretty poppet. I’m sure the War Office can wait for your report.”
Dimity lowered her lashes again, nibbled a biscuit, and smugly wondered if she might get two pairs of gloves out of the man.
It was a little too easy. Lord Pritchard was awfully susceptible to wiles. She’d have to warn Bertie of that. The boss ought to keep an eye on this man. Pritchard was weak in the face of womanhood, and if he was susceptible to her, he was susceptible to other ladies outside the War Office.
Unlike some of the other muscle they assigned to guard her back. Unlike Sir Crispin.
Sir Crispin would not be manipulated. She’d never managed to extract a single cup of tea out of that man, let alone a pair of gloves. It was extremely vexing, and highly attractive, of course. When she lowered her lashes at Sir Crispin, the bally fellow simply gave her one of his swarthy glowers and reminded her that he had sisters and anything she tried would be held against her.
Dimity wished he would hold himself against her. But if his response to the merest smile was a sardonic arched brow or a sniff of disgust, what was a young lady of tricky inclinations to do? How was Dimity to net the man of her dreams when he was as highly trained as she, and apparently capable of total resistance?
A quandary.
Plus, he kept getting other missions. Going off and looking after other intelligencers, when he ought to be looking after her, and only her.
It was extremely aggravating.
Dimity sighed into her tea. She hated it when men got complicated. They were so very bad at it.
CHAPTER TWO
Wedded Bliss & Other Complications
Crispin and Bertie rose to their feet as one.
The entirely fabulous fellow sashayed into the conservatory with a flourish designed to encourage awe, if not outright applause. He was dressed in a manner decades, perhaps even centuries, out of date, and yet he managed to look entirely à jour. The man sported tight satin britches and a long brocade jacket in matched purple hues, a queue of silky blond hair tied back with a ribbon, and shoes with buckles on them. It was as if he were starring in a play, something scandalous yet much admired behind closed doors.
Cris had never met him, but he knew at once who he was. And more importantly, he knew what he was.
The vampire’s voice was a musical tenor and rather loud for such a small person. “Bertie, darling, you repainted your door! I might have worn something different had I known. This outfit clashes horribly. Why did you not warn me? The very act of my walking inside surely seared the eyeballs of all who observed. Send a card ’round next time you redecorate, do, sweetling. What are you collecting now? Still cactuses? I suppose we all must have hobbies.” He swept the room with a piercing gaze and (for lack of any additional seating) moved to perch on the edge of the table next to the tea tray, at which he glanced with mild distaste.