Now that Sophronia was facing him and not looking down from above, there was something awfully familiar about that dark-haired gangly recorder. What was under that trimmed beard and mustache?
Sophronia was pleased to see there were no flywaymen with them. Either they were needed elsewhere or they had given up this lark after the exploding wicker chicken and abandoned the cause.
The recorder with his too-black hair looked hard at Sophronia. His posture changed. He seemed to get taller. Sophronia shook her head, staring at him. His hair had been longer and silver last time she saw him. Also, he’d been clean-shaven and in a very nice suit.
“Miss Temminnick, I should have known,” said the Grand Gherkin, otherwise known as Duke Golborne.
“Why, Duke Golborne, I only recently spoke with your son.”
“Little traitor. What about him?”
“Oh, nothing, I’m certain he sends his regards.”
“Have you been on board all along?”
Sophronia tilted her head at him in acknowledgment.
“Those disappearances. The sabotage!” He glared at his companion. “I told you our little flywayman infiltrator didn’t have enough time. And for an intelligencer of that caliber to take herself out of the game like that, she’d have to have been protecting someone. That someone is Miss Temminnick here. I don’t know the blonde.”
Monique looked upset at that but wasn’t suckered into revealing anything. She stood, having produced a little gun from somewhere. She was holding it with a remarkably steady hand, pointed at the Picklemen.
Sophronia felt introductions were in order. “Miss Pelouse, may I present the Duke of Golborne, also known as the Grand Gherkin, and—I believe—this is the Chutney. Forgive me, sir, I do not know your real name. Gentlemen, Monique de Pelouse, Westminster Hive.”
Monique gave her a sideways glance that suggested she felt Sophronia needn’t have included her affiliation, but she didn’t comment. She swiveled a bit to make certain she had the Chutney covered.
Does everyone always have a gun but me? wondered Sophronia. Lacking any other projectile, she hoisted the crossbow, already loaded with the final bolt, and pointed it at the duke. She palmed her last exploding fake pastry in her injured hand.
The duke was not impressed. “I am not a vampire, Miss Temminnick, to be threatened by a flying wooden stick.”
Sophronia didn’t say anything.
Behind the Picklemen, one-third of the dirigible continued to fall apart rather spectacularly, and something exploded. Then a few more somethings.
“Propeller boilers?” Sophronia suggested this conversationally to Monique.
Monique inclined her head. “Most likely.”
“There’s no way out of this, ladies.” Duke Golborne was forcing himself to be casual, but he wasn’t as good as Geraldine’s girls. “You are outgunned and outmanned.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Gherkin, we aren’t manned at all.” Although Sophronia had thought there would only be three facing them. A slight miscalculation. Still, there was no time like the present.
“Now!” She dropped to the deck.
Monique was a split second behind her.
The Picklemen fired at where they had been standing, but Monique was already shooting from a prone position, and Sophronia was throwing food.
Before the Picklemen could reload, the fake pastry—a delectable-looking strawberry shortbread—exploded at their feet. The duke cried out in pain, falling over. One of the bully boys lay facedown, not moving.
The Chutney stumbled back. Monique had shot him in the upper right shoulder. A bloom of wetness appeared on his immaculate black coat.
Before the Picklemen could regroup, Sophronia shot at their side of the deck with her crossbow.
What happened next was so fast and yet, at the time, it felt like everything moved through pudding.
The Chutney had some inkling of what that bolt meant, for he grabbed the duke and slid with him down the deck to where Sophronia and Monique crouched. The surviving bully boy followed.
The soldier mechanicals directed their cannons and fired.
Meanwhile, the three Picklemen engaged the two young ladies in fisticuffs. Monique was fighting the Chutney with teeth, nails, and elbows, like a vicious caged cat. He didn’t seem to know quite what to do with her and certainly couldn’t get a grip.
Sophronia struck out at the duke and the remaining bully boy with her fan. She dropped the now useless crossbow to the deck. It slid out under the railing and over the edge. While the duke was no fighter, the bully boy was good. He came in on her injured side and managed to wrap both his arms around her in a bear hug from behind. He began squeezing as tight as he could.
Sophronia couldn’t get in a decent slice with her fan with her arms locked against her waist. The pressure against her shoulder was agony. Nevertheless, she kicked and struggled.
Then the upper portion of the deck exploded, wood showering down on them.
Sophronia was shielded by the man holding her. He took the brunt of the flying splinters to his back. He screamed and stumbled to the side.