Part 12 (2/2)
”You are sounding more and more like our mama,” replied Lady Maccon.
Ivy, who was flitting from one railing to the other, cooing over the view, gasped at the cutting nature of such a statement.
Felicity was about to respond in kind when Tunstell appeared, entirely distracting her. She'd deduced Ivy and Tunstell's regard for one another and thus was now committed to securing Tunstell's affection for herself, for no other reason than to show Ivy that she could.
”Oh, Mr. Tunstell, how lovely of you to join us.” Felicity batted her eyelashes.
Tunstell reddened slightly and bobbed his head at the ladies. ”Miss Loontwill. Lady Maccon.” A pause. ”And how do you feel today, Lady Maccon?”
”The airsickness fades by luncheon.”
”How terribly convenient of it,” remarked Felicity. ”You might hope it would hold on a trifle longer given your inclination toward robustness and obvious affection for food.”
Lady Maccon did not rise to the bait. ”It would be better if the luncheons were not so consistently subpar.” All food on board the dirigible appeared to favor the bland and steamed approach. Even the much-lauded high tea had been disappointing.
Felicity carefully knocked her gloves off the little table next to the deck chair in which she lounged.
”Oh, how careless of me. Mr. Tunstell, would you mind?”
The claviger stepped forward and bent to retrieve them for her.
Felicity s.h.i.+fted quickly and angled herself in such a way that Tunstell was now bending over her legs, practically facedown in the skirts of her green dress. It was a rather intimate arrangement, and, of course, Ivy came bouncing around the corner of the deck right at that very moment.
”Oh!” said Ivy, somewhat deflated in her bounciness.
Tunstell straightened, handing Felicity her gloves. Felicity took them from him slowly, allowing her fingers to trail over his hand.
Ivy's countenance looked remarkably similar to that of a bilious poodle.
Lady Maccon wondered that her sister had not gotten herself into trouble before now, with such behavior. When had Felicity turned into such a hardened little flirt?
Tunstell bowed to Ivy. ”Miss Hisselpenny. How do you do?”
”Mr. Tunstell, please do not let my presence disturb you.”
Lady Maccon stood up, ostentatiously fixing the ear flaps of her flying hat. Really, it was too vexing: Felicity overly bold, Ivy engaged to another, and poor Tunstell stuck making puppy eyes at the both of them in his confusion.
Tunstell went to bow over Miss Hisselpenny's hand. The dirigible encountered turbulence in the aether and lurched, causing Ivy and Tunstell to blunder into one another. Tunstell caught at her arm, helping her to stay upright while Ivy blushed like an overripe strawberry, her eyes downcast.
Alexia decided she needed a brisk walk on the forward deck.
Usually uninhabited, the forward deck was the windiest the dirigible had to offer. Both ladies and gentlemen tended to give it a miss, as it upset the hair something dreadful, but Alexia had no such qualms, even knowing she would earn a heavily accented chiding from Angelique upon her return. She turned the m.u.f.fs down about her ears, donned her goggles, grabbed her parasol, and sallied forth.
The forward deck was, however, already occupied.
Madame Lefoux, dressed as impeccably and as inappropriately as always, stood next to that very same Angelique at the rails to one side, looking down over the patchwork of the British landscape spread below them like some sort of ill-designed and asymmetrical quilt. The two were whispering to each other heatedly.
Lady Maccon cursed the wind of air travel, for it carried their words away before reaching her, and she would have dearly loved to know what was being said. She thought of her dispatch case. Had Floote packed any listening mechanicals?
Deciding there was nothing else for it but a direct frontal attack, Alexia moved as quietly as possible across the deck, hoping to catch some part of the conversation before they noticed her presence. She was in luck.
”... a.s.sume proper responsibility,” Madame Lefoux was saying in French.
”Cannot happen, not yet.” Angelique moved closer to the other woman, placing small, pleading hands on the inventor's arm. ”Please do not ask it of me.”
”Better happen soon or I'll tell. You know I will.” Madame Lefoux tossed her head, top hat tilting dangerously but staying in place, as it was tied on for travel. She shrugged off the blond woman's grip.
”Soon, I promise.” Angelique pressed herself against the inventor's side and nested her head on the other woman's shoulder.
Again Madame Lefoux shrugged her off. ”Games, Angelique. Games and fancying up a lady's hair. That is all you have now, isn't it?”
”It is better than selling hats.”
Madame Lefoux rounded on the maid at that, gripping the woman's chin in her hand, one set of goggle-covered eyes meeting another. ”Did she really kick you out?” Her tone was both vicious and disbelieving.
Lady Maccon was close enough by then to meet her maid's big violet eyes behind the plain bra.s.s goggles when the girl looked away. Angelique started at the appearance of her mistress, and her eyes filled with tears. With a little sob, she cast herself at Lady Maccon so that Alexia had no choice but to catch her.
Alexia was disturbed. Even though she was French, Angelique was rarely given to displays of emotion. Angelique composed herself, hurriedly withdrew from her mistress's arms, bobbed a curtsy, and rushed away.
Alexia had liked Madame Lefoux, but she could hardly condone her distressing the domestic staff. ”The vampires rejected her, you know. It is a sensitive subject. She does not like to talk about the hive giving her up to me.”
”I wager she doesn't.”
Lady Maccon bristled. ”Any more than you would tell me the real reason you are on board this dirigible.” The Frenchwoman would have to learn: a pack protected its own. Alexia might only be pack by proxy, but Angelique was still in its service.
Green eyes met her brown ones for a long moment. Two sets of goggles were no impediment, but Lady Maccon could not interpret that expression. Then the inventor reached up and stroked the back of her hand down the side of Alexia's face. Alexia wondered why the French were so much more physically affectionate than the English.
”Did you and my maid have some kind of a.s.sociation a.s.sociation in the past, Madame Lefoux?” Alexia asked, not responding to the touch, although it made her face feel hot even in the cold aether wind. in the past, Madame Lefoux?” Alexia asked, not responding to the touch, although it made her face feel hot even in the cold aether wind.
The inventor dimpled. ”We did once, but I a.s.sure you I am currently free of all such entanglements.” Was she being purposefully obtuse? She moved closer.
Alexia, always blunt, c.o.c.ked her head to one side and asked, ”Who are you working for, Madame Lefoux? The French government? The Templars?”
The inventor backed away slightly, strangely upset by the question. ”You misconstrue my presence here, Lady Maccon. I a.s.sure you, I work only for myself.”
”I would not trust her if I were you, my lady,” said Angelique, fixing Alexia's hair before supper that evening. The maid was ironing it straight with a specially provided steam iron, much to both their disgust. Straight and loose was Ivy's idea. Miss Hisselpenny had insisted Alexia be the one to try the fancy iron invention out, because Alexia was married and could suffer the burden of risky hair.
”Is there something I should know, Angelique?” Lady Maccon asked gently. The maid so rarely offered up an opinion that was not fas.h.i.+on related.
Angelique paused in her ministrations, her hand fluttering a moment about her face as only the French could flutter. ”Only zat I knew her before I became drone, in Paris.”
”And?”
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