“Exactly. A hive is always courting new drones and has the funds to do it. So we started a correspondence with the praetoriani, Lord Finbar, on Dimity’s behalf. Said she was interested in viewing one of the hive’s paintings, inquired as to whether the hive would consider putting it on loan to a museum collection. Dropped hints that she’s a painter herself. Also showed she had organizational capacities, and might be good as a housekeeper. Finbar was instantly intrigued, suggested she come up to visit, bring some of her artist friends, and see the painting in person. And ta da, we have an invitation!” Bertie’s grin was wide and full of guile, as though he had accomplished something quite profound.
“I don’t like it, Bertie. Did you see Lord Akeldama’s reaction? I mean really see it. He’s not happy about their condition. He thinks they’re doomed. He was only being halfway flippant. I’m sure his normal state is entirely flippant.” Crispin’s heart was doing funny things. This was worse than anyone was letting on and it wasn’t like Bertie to lie to him, not when he was sending him into a sticky situation. And yet there was something here. Something Bertie wasn’t telling him.
“No one is happy about Nottingham, Crispy. That’s why we’re sending her.”
Cris nodded, yet there were still prickles on his spine.
Bertie pressed, “So you’ll go as her safety?”
Cris was an adjunct safety. He’d been knighted for his services to the Crown after a particularly horrendous military action. He was not an indenture. The War Office couldn’t order him into anything, they could only request his services. Once he said yes, then they could order him about. He worked for them because he liked to be useful, and he wasn’t sure he was good for anything else. Also, he needed to make things right, make things better. For everyone, he supposed, even vampires. Bertie knew that about him and wouldn’t want him feeling coerced or pressured.
Perhaps that was why his friend was hiding something.
Cris continued his pacing, turning on his heel every six steps, rhythmically, making a satisfying squeak on the marble floor. “Let me understand fully. You want us inside quickly to determine the ramifications of the hive’s situation. Then Sparkles is to tidy up if she can, and I’m to get her out fast if she can’t. Because she’d want to stay and fix everything, if there’s even half a chance of saving them, at risk to her own life.”
“Got it in one, my dear chap.”
“What happens if we fail?”
Bertie looked away, the intensity of his dark, sharp eyes elsewhere, hiding the truth.
Cris pressed. “Bertie, what’s the plan to safeguard our retreat?”
“BUR will send in a sundowner.”
Cris paused, shocked. “For only the queen, or...”
Bertie wouldn’t look at him.
Crispin’s skin prickled all along his hairline. “Kill an entire hive? That’s slaughter!”
Bertie’s smiling mouth turned down. “We can’t let a hive go fully Goth, old chap. The last time that happened, France had a revolution. The white wolf walked and thousands died.”
“How long do Sparkles and I have to save them?”
“Two weeks.”
Cris ran both hands through his short hair, tugging it, using the pain to center himself and to stop the prickling. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”
Bertie stood and faced him, swallowing, chin firm. Bertie his boss at the War Office rather than Bertie his friend. “So, Sir Crispin, I’m formally requesting – will you take the mission?”
A gentleman’s word is his bond. Cris glared at Bertie. “Of course I’ll bally well take it. Someone has to keep an eye on her. Someone has to save the hive. I guess it’s us. Curses, how has BUR let it come to this?”
“They’ve had a lot of werewolf problems recently.”
Cris puffed out his cheeks, then let the air out in a huff and began to pace again. It occurred to him that he’d been short with one of his oldest friends. A man who’d put up with him since university. Bertie, who had never minded where Cris came from, how awful his father was, even when other families instructed their sons not to associate with “that Bontwee boy.” Bertie, who’d seen him through bumbling awkwardness and broken hearts. Who’d stuck by him for years now.
“I’m sorry, old chap, I didn’t mean to be curt with you.” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair again. “Honestly, Bertie, how am I supposed to pretend to be an artist? I’m neither an intelligencer nor an actor.”
He gestured at himself.
There was no doubt about it, he was a sporting fellow – big boned and far too tan, and there were some who called him rangy. Rather unkind, that. It wasn’t as if he played golf. Still, pale, wispy artistic type he most definitely was not. Not that all artists leaned that way, as a rule, it was simply that he didn’t even begin to look the part, and in espionage it was best to activate expectations, erroneous or not.
Bertie sighed. “We will give you clothing with paint splotches on it. Try to slouch a bit. Let your hair grow.” He squinted at Cris, as though seeing him fuzzy might improve him into an artistic inclination.
Cris crossed muscled arms over a wide chest and tilted his head at his friend.
Bertie winced. “Perhaps you’re the kind of artist who does things with large sheets of metal? You know, whelping or winching, something brawny and modern like that? Or stone maybe? Great slabs of granite? We could sprinkle marble dust in your hair? You should grow a beard.”
“I am not growing a beard, Bertie. Not even for my country.”
“You do have a very manly jaw. Pity to cover it over.”
“Thank you, old chap.”
“How about mutton chops? Or a mustache? That’d serve double duty – save you from Lord Akeldama’s interest. He’s reputed to have a horror of mutton chops and mustaches.”
Cris ignored this and pushed the conversation back to the mission. “And when the vampires ask me to actually create something arty?”
Bertie flicked the fingers of his free hand. “Just spend the entire visit claiming you’re in the throes of a tragic creative dearth. Lament your sad state. Artists do that sort of thing, don’t they? Regularly? It’s like writer’s block, only with paint.”
Cris wrinkled his nose. “I suppose so. I don’t fraternize with many artists.”
“Wear ill-fitting clothes. And tilt your hat forwards all the time.”
“Sometimes I hate the images you put in my head, Bertie.”
“The Honey Bee will carry you.”
“I’m not overly fond of that image either.”
Bertie grinned at him.
Cris sighed, wondering how many oversized shirts he had in his wardrobe and what his valet was going to say about it all.
“When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, by dirigible.”
“Oh, I say! Not floating.” Cris was not a very good floater – it played hell with his tummy.