CHAPTER SIX
In Which Mrs. Tunstell Proves Useful
Were they not recently moved into new accommodations, Lady Maccon might have made a different choice—one of Woolsey’s older clavigers, perhaps. But the pack was in chaos over the relocation. They were nowhere near as tethered to a place as vampires, but werewolves were, in simple terms, tethered to each other and were creatures of profound habit. Such arbitrary reorganization ruffled the fur. Solidarity and proximity became ever more necessary for the pack’s continued cohesion. Were BUR not occupied with its own investigation as to the current threat against Queen Victoria, Alexia might have tapped Haverbink or another experienced investigator. And, finally, were the Shadow Council supplied with its own agents, the muhjah would have had manpower to call upon. However, with none of these options readily available, Lady Maccon cast about herself and found that she had only one possible choice—as unlikely and as addlepated as that choice might be.
Mrs. Tunstell ran a tight household, despite overseeing her rented accommodations with a floppy hand and absentminded disposition. Her abode was clean and neat, and callers could be assured of a decent cup of tea or candy dish of raw meat, depending upon taste and inclination. Despite an interior resplendent in every shade of pastel, Ivy’s home was a popular watering hole. As a result, the Tunstells had developed a name for themselves among the more esoteric members of the West End as agreeable hosts interested in a wide range of topics and ever willing to open their door to the friendly visitor. This meant that, at any given time, one was practically guaranteed to find some breed of indifferent poet or insipid sculptor in residence.
So it was that when Lady Maccon called around teatime that summer afternoon, a delighted Mrs. Tunstell welcomed her inside with assurances that while they had indeed adopted a stray poet, that versifier was quite firmly asleep and had been for the better part of three days.
Ivy’s good-humored little face fell. “He drinks, poor man, to forget the pain of the embittered universe that subsumes his soul. Or do I mean sublimes his soul? Anyhoo, we’ve had to remove the tea quite forcibly from his grasp on more than one occasion. Barley water, says Tunny, is the only thing one should take when suffering such ailments of the emotional humors.”
“Oh, dear,” commiserated Alexia. “I suppose one might recover one’s spirits out of desperation if all one had to drink was barley water.”
“Exactly so!” Ivy nodded over her husband’s evident sagacity on the application of revolting beverages to despondent poets. She motioned her friend into her front parlor, a diminutive room that boasted all the elegance of iced Nesselrode pudding.
Lady Maccon deposited her parasol into the small umbrella stand and made her way gingerly toward a wingback chair, careful not to upset any of the decorative objects strewn about. Her visiting dress was of flowing blue paisley with a stiffened quilted skirt. Designed to accommodate her increasing girth, it was much wider—and thus more dangerous to Ivy’s receiving room—than the current trends dictated.
She sat heavily in the chair, sighing at the relief of getting the weight off her poor feet, which seemed to have swollen to near twice their original proportions. “Ivy, my dear, I was wondering if I might prevail upon you for a very great favor.”
“Oh, Alexia, of course. You have only to ask and I shall do whatever.”
Lady Maccon hesitated, wondering exactly how much to reveal. Ivy was a dear little soul, but was she reliable? She decided to buck up and take the plunge. “Ivy, have you ever wondered if there might, just possibly, be something slightly unusual about me?”
“Well, Alexia my dear, I never liked to say, but I have always wondered about your hat preferences. They have struck me as mighty plain.”
Lady Maccon shook her head. The long blue ostrich feather of her not-at-all-plain hat wafted back and forth behind her. “No, not that, I mean… Well, dash it, Ivy, there’s nothing for it.”
Mrs. Tunstell gasped in enchanted shock at Lady Maccon’s lowbrow language. “Alexia, you have been fraternizing with werewolves overmuch! Military men can be terribly bad for one’s verbal concatenation.”
Alexia took a deep breath and then blurted out, “I’m preternatural.”
Ivy’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, no! Is it catching?”
Alexia blinked at her.
Ivy donned a sympathetic expression. “Is it a terribly painful condition?”
Lady Maccon continued to blink.
Ivy put a hand to her throat. “Is it the baby? Will you both be well? Should I send for barley water?”
Alexia finally found her voice. “No, preternatural. You might know the term, as in soulless? Or curse-breaker. I have no soul. None at all. As a matter of fact, I can cancel it out in supernatural creatures given half a chance.”
Ivy relaxed. “Oh, that. Yes, I knew. I shouldn’t let it concern you, my dear. I doubt anybody minds.”
“Yes, but… Wait, you knew?”
Ivy tut-tutted and shook dark ringlets at her friend in mock amusement. “Of course I knew—have done for simply ages.”
“But you never mentioned a thing to me on the subject.” Alexia was not often flummoxed. She found it an usual sensation and wondered if this was what Ivy felt like most of the time. Her friend’s revelation did, however, give her some degree of confidence in her next move. Despite all her frivolities, Ivy could clearly keep a secret and, it turned out, was more observant than Alexia had previously given her credit for.
“Now, Alexia, I thought you were embarrassed about it. I didn’t want to bring up an uncomfortable personal disability. I have more sensitivity and care for the feelings of others than that!”
“Ah, oh, well. Of course you do. Regardless, as a preternatural, I am currently engaged in some investigations. I was hoping to enlist your aid. It has to do with my husband’s work.” Alexia didn’t want to tell Ivy absolutely everything, but she didn’t want to fib outright either.
“For BUR? Espionage! Oh, really? How terribly glamorous.” Ivy clasped yellow-gloved hands together in delight.
“To which end I was hoping to, well, induct you into a kind of secret society.”
Ivy looked as though she had not heard anything so thrilling in all her life. “Me?” she squeaked. “Really? How marvelous. What’s it called, this secret society?”
Alexia hesitated and then, recalling a phrase her husband had once offered up in the heat of annoyance, suggested tentatively, “The Parasol Protectorate?”
“Oooh, what a perfectly splendid name. So full of ornamentation!” Ivy practically bounced up and down on the lavender settee in her excitement. “Must I make a pledge, or memorize a sacred code of conduct, or engage in some pagan ritual or other?” Ivy had an expectant look on her face that suggested she would be very disappointed if this were not the case.
“Well, yes, of course.” Lady Maccon floundered, trying to come up with something appropriate to the occasion. She couldn’t make Ivy kneel, not in that dress—a periwinkle muslin day gown with an extremely long, tight bodice of the style favored by actresses.
After a moment’s thought, Alexia stood laboriously and waddled over to the umbrella stand to retrieve her parasol. This she opened and placed point downward in the center of the room. Since the room was so very small, this did manage to take up most of the free space. Motioning Ivy to stand, Alexia handed her the handle and said, “Spin the parasol three times and repeat after me: I shield in the name of fashion. I accessorize for one and all. Pursuit of truth is my passion. This I vow by the great parasol.”
Ivy did as she was told, face serious and concentrated. “I shield in the name of fashion. I accessorize for one and all. Pursuit of truth is my passion. This I vow by the great parasol.”
“Now pick the parasol up and raise it, open, to the ceiling. Yes, just like that.”
“Is that all? Shouldn’t the vow be sealed in blood or something like?”
“Oh, do you think?”
Ivy nodded enthusiastically.
Alexia shrugged. “If you insist.” She took back her parasol, snapped it closed, and twisted the handle. Two wickedly sharp spikes projected out of the tip, one of silver, the other of wood.
Ivy inhaled in appreciation.
Lady Maccon flipped the parasol about. Then she took off one of her gloves. After a moment’s hesitation, Ivy did the same. Alexia nicked the pad of her thumb with the silver spike and then did the same for Ivy, who gave a little squeak of alarm. Then Alexia pressed their two thumbs together.
“May the blood of the soulless keep your own soul safe,” intoned Alexia, feeling appallingly melodramatic but knowing Ivy would love this better than anything.
Ivy did. “Oh, Alexia, this is so very stirring! It should be part of a play.”
“I shall have a special parasol made up for you, similar to mine.”
“Oh, no, but thank you for the thought, Alexia. I couldn’t possibly carry an accessory that emitted things all willy-nilly like that. Really, I’m much obliged, but I simply couldn’t bear it. You, of course, manage to carry it off with aplomb, but it would be too vulgar on someone like me.”
Lady Maccon frowned, but knowing her friend’s true weakness, she made another suggestion. “A special hat, perhaps?”
Ivy hesitated.
“Madame Lefoux designed my parasol.”
“Well, perhaps a small hat. One that isn’t too oozy?”
Alexia smiled. “I am convinced that could be arranged.”
Ivy bit her lip on a smile. “Oh, Alexia, a secret society. How marvelous of you. Who else is a member? Do we have regular meetings? Is there a covert signal so we should know one another at social gatherings?”
“Um, well, as to that, so far you are my first inductee, so to speak. I anticipate future members, though.”
Ivy looked quite crestfallen.
Lady Maccon continued on hastily. “But you will have to operate and report in under a cipher, of course—for aetherograms and other secret messages.”
Ivy brightened at that. “Oh, of course. What shall my cipher be? Something romantic yet subtle, I hope?”
Lady Maccon contemplated her friend while a series of rather silly names suggested themselves. Finally, she settled on one she knew Ivy would like, because it represented a style of headdress to which she was rather devoted but that Alexia might remember because it struck her as particularly Ivyish. “How about Puff Bonnet?”
Ivy’s pretty face glowed with pleasure. “Oh, fabulous. Perfectly modish. And what’s yours?”
Again, Alexia was ill prepared for the question. She cast about helplessly. “Uh. Oh, let me think.” She grappled, running through her mind several of Lord Akeldama’s epithets and some of her husband’s more affectionate endearments. Nothing quite suited a secret society, at least not that she could admit openly to Ivy. Finally, she settled on the simplest she could think of. “You may refer to me as the Ruffled Parasol. That should do well enough.”
Ivy clapped her hands. “Oh, excellent. Alexia, this is superb fun.”
Lady Maccon sat back down. “Do you think we might have tea now?” she asked plaintively.
Ivy immediately rang the bell rope, and in short order a nervous young maid brought in a laden tea tray.
“Marvelous,” said Lady Maccon in evident relief.
Ivy poured. “And now that I have been properly inducted into the Protectorate, what is my first assignment?”
“Ah, yes, the reason I came to visit in the first place. You see, there is a matter of national delicacy concerning an assassination attempt on Queen Victoria. Some twenty years ago, members of the Kingair Pack tried to eliminate Her Majesty.”
“Oh, no, really? Not those nice Scotsmen? They couldn’t possibly do anything so treasonous. Well, except trot around displaying their knees for all to see, but nothing so calamitous as attempted regicide.”
“I assure you, Ivy, this is the honest truth, universally acknowledged by those in a position to know such details.” Lady Maccon sipped her tea and then nodded wisely. “Fact—my husband’s previous pack tried to kill Queen Victoria by means of a poison. I need you to float back to Castle Kingair and ascertain the particulars.”
Ivy grinned. She had developed, since her first trip with Alexia to Scotland, a most unladylike fondness for dirigible travel. Her current position in life did not allow her to indulge, but now…
Lady Maccon grinned back. “All I know is that the previous Beta spearheaded the plot and was killed. My husband left the pack as a result. Any further information could be invaluable to my current investigation. Do you think you are up to this task, even in your present condition?”
Ivy blushed at the very mention. “I am barely along, and you certainly cannot go.”
Alexia patted her belly. “My difficulty exactly.”
“Can I take Tunny with me?”
“I should hope you would. And you may tell him of your mission, although not your new position.”
Ivy nodded. More pleased, Alexia suspected, by the need to keep one secret from her husband than by permission to reveal another.
“Now, Ivy, please pay particular attention to any information on the poison that was going to be used. I believe that may be key. I shall give you a crystalline valve frequensor for aetheric transmission to my personal transponder at Woolsey. At sunset you are to report in, even if you have uncovered nothing of interest. I should like to know you are safe.”
“Oh, but, Alexia, you know how clumsy I am with gadgetry.”
“You will do fine, Ivy. How soon can you leave? Naturally your expenses will be covered.”
Ivy blushed at the mention of such unseemly matters as fiscal settlements.
Alexia brushed her friend’s embarrassment aside. “I know one doesn’t ordinarily talk of such matters, but you are operating under the umbrella of the Parasol Protectorate now, and you must be free to act in accordance with the needs of the organization, regardless of expense. Is that clear, Ivy?”
Mrs. Tunstell nodded, cheeks still hot. “Yes, of course, Alexia, but—”
“It is a good thing I am to be patroness of your acting troupe, as it is the perfect way to hide pecuniary advancements.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, Alexia. But I wish you didn’t insist on mentioning such things while we are eating—”
“We shall say nothing more on the subject. Can you leave directly?”
“Tunny has no performances on at the moment.”
“Then I shall send Floote tomorrow with the necessary papers.” Lady Maccon finished the last of her tea and stood. She was suddenly tired. It was as though she had been out and about most of the night, sorting out the problems of the entire empire. Which, in her way, she had.
Mrs. Tunstell stood as well. “To Scotland I go, investigating assignation attempts of the past!”
“Assassination,” corrected Lady Maccon.
“Yes, that. I must find my extra special hairmuffs for dirigible travel. I had them made to match my own curls. They are rather stunning, if I do say so myself.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
Lady Maccon returned to her new house and then made her way across to Lord Akeldama’s. Floote’s builders produced exemplary work. They had constructed a small secret drawbridge between the two balconies that operated by way of a hydraulic lever. It flipped downward. At the same time an elaborate spring mechanism caused the railing on each balcony to fold away. This allowed Alexia to easily traverse from one building to the next despite encumbrances.
She retired to her closet with alacrity. She had been keeping remarkably odd hours recently, what with having to consult daylight folk yet living with the supernatural set. It was of little consequence, as the infant-inconvenience was making it increasingly arduous to sleep for any length of time without some part of her body going numb or some unmentionable function driving her out of bed. Really, pregnancy was the most undignified thing she had ever had to endure in all her life, and for several years Alexia Tarabotti had been a confirmed spinster living with the Loontwills—a most undignified state—so that was saying something.
She slept restlessly, shifting aside when her husband joined her only to be awakened fully just after sunset by someone banging on the closet door.
“Conall, there is someone at the door to our bedroom!” She shook her massive husband where he lay in a boneless pile next to her.
He snuffled softly and rolled over, trying to gather her in closer. He had to settle for patting her belly absently and burrowing into her neck.
Alexia arched against him as much as she was able, enjoying the affection and the movement of his lips against her skin. For such a scruffy man, he had very soft lips.
“Darling, light of my life, lord of my heart, there is someone at the door to our closet, seeking entrance. And I don’t believe Lord Akeldama and his boys are awake yet.”
The earl merely burrowed in against her with greater interest, apparently finding the flavor of her neck most intriguing.
The door shook and rattled as whoever it was seemed to be trying to physically force it open. But for all Lord Akeldama’s frolicsome decorative choices, his town house was built with the supernatural in mind, the protection of his clothing being paramount. The door barely budged. Someone on the other side yelled, but a door so massive that it could withstand shoe thieves could also muffle even the loudest commentary on the subject.
Lady Maccon was becoming concerned. “Conall, get up and answer the door, do! Really, it sounds most pressing.”
“I, too, have matters that are pressing and must needs be taken into hand.”
Alexia giggled at the terribleness of both pun and innuendo. She was pleased her husband still thought her attractive, despite her beached-whale state, but was finding it increasingly awkward to accommodate him. The spirit was willing but the flesh was swollen. Still, she enjoyed the compliment and understood that there was no real demand behind the caresses. The earl knew her well enough to realize she valued his desire almost as much as his love. After a lifetime of feeling ugly and unworthy, Alexia was now tolerably assured that Conall genuinely did want her, even if they could do nothing about it at present. She also understood that he was expressing his conjugal interest partly out of knowledge of her own need for such assurances. A werewolf and a buffoon, her husband, but wonderfully caring once he’d blundered into the way of it.
And yet, someone was still torturing their poor door. Conall blinked awake, his tawny eyes wide and direct. He kissed the tip of his wife’s long nose and, with a massive sigh, rolled out of bed and lumbered over to the door.
Alexia, sleepy lidded, admired his backside, then shrieked, “Conall, robe! For goodness’ sake.”
Her husband ignored her, throwing open the door and crossing his arms over a wide, hairy chest. He was wearing not one stitch of clothing. Alexia sank down under the covers in mortification.
She need not have worried; it was only Professor Lyall.
“Randolph,” grumbled her husband, “what’s all the ruckus about?”
“It’s Biffy, my lord. Best come quickly. You’re needed.”
“Already?” Lord Maccon swore a blue streak, his blistering language the result of military service combined with a creative imagination. After a glance about the room, he seemed to decide that changing his form would be faster than getting dressed. He began to shift, the musculature underneath his skin rearranging, the hair on his head migrating downward and turning into fur. Quick enough, he dropped to all fours. Then he dashed out and down the hall, presumably to leap the gap between houses and see to whatever had gone wrong. Alexia caught sight of the brindled tip of his fluffy tail as he skidded out of sight without even a nod in her direction.
“What is it, Professor?” she demanded imperiously before her husband’s Beta could follow in his Alpha’s wake. It was rather unlike Professor Lyall to disturb them with such forcefulness. It was equally rare for there to be any issue so in need of the earl’s attention that his second could not delay the matter or handle the preliminaries himself.
Professor Lyall turned back to the dim interior with a reluctant droop to his posture. “It’s Biffy, my lady. He really is not handling the curse well this month. He fights it too much, and the more he fights it, the more painful it is.”
“But it’s over a week until full moon! How long will he suffer such bouts of early physiological disjunction?” Poor Biffy. It is so embarrassing—premature transfluctuation.
“Difficult to say. Could be years, could be decades of losing nights around full moon until he has better control. All new pups are like this, although they are not often taken so suddenly or so badly as Biffy. Usually it is only a few days before the moon. Biffy’s cycle is off.”
Alexia winced. “And you could not…?”
Backlit by the expensively bright gas lighting of Lord Akeldama’s hallway, it was impossible to make out the werewolf’s expression. Even if she could, knowing Professor Lyall, his face would not reveal much.
“In the end, I am only a Beta, Lady Maccon. When a werewolf is in wolf form, moonstruck and rampaging, there is nothing that can calm or control him except an Alpha. You must have realized by now that there is much more to Alpha than being simply big and strong. There is power of restraint and wolf-form intelligence as well.”
“But, Professor Lyall, you are very restrained all the time.”
“Thank you, Lady Maccon. There can be no higher compliment to a werewolf, but mine is a matter of self-control only. That does others little good.”
“Except that you lead by example.”
“Except that. And now I should leave you to get dressed. I believe we may expect your results from BUR shortly.”
“Those little OBO bottles of mysterious liquid.”
“Ah, yes, fantastic! Will you please arrange for Floote and I to have the carriage after supper? I must visit Woolsey’s library as soon as possible.”
The Beta nodded. “I have a feeling it will already be commissioned. We’ll have to take Biffy to the countryside for his confinement. His most recent inabilities have resulted in some rather disastrous redecoration of your back parlor.”
“Oh, no, really? And after the drones did such a lovely job with it.”
“We had to lock him somewhere, and that room has no windows.”
“I understand. But claw marks are murder on wallpaper.”
“Too true, Lady Maccon.”
Professor Lyall drifted away and, because he was Professor Lyall, managed to corral one of Lord Akeldama’s drones, just awakened, to help Lady Maccon dress.
Boots stuck his head in before catching sight of Lady Maccon still abed. The head instantly retreated and a back was presented in the doorway.
“Oh, dear me, most sorry, Lady M. Can’t be me. Couldn’t handle it a second time. Not that noble. I’ll go rustle up someone a little more suitable to assist you. Shall I? Be back in a jiff.”
Mystified, Alexia began the laborious process of squirming herself around and lurching by stages out of bed. She was just standing when Lord Akeldama came traipsing merrily into the room. “Top of the evening to you, my blooming marigold! My lovelorn little Boots said you could use a bit of twisting up, and I thought since I was awake I might avail myself of your delicious company and provide much-needed assistance simultaneously.”
Lord Akeldama himself was not yet properly dressed for the evening. His affected monocle was absent, as were the obligatory spots of rouge on his alabaster cheeks and the ridiculous spats about his ankles. Nevertheless, even in his least formal attire, Lord Akeldama excelled.
“But, my dear friend, your knees!”
He was wearing royal blue breeches of watered silk, a damask waistcoat of white and gold, and a quilted velvet smoking jacket ornamented with brandenbourgs. His trousers were of such very fine quality, Alexia was quite aghast that the vampire should even consider playing at lady’s maid, for he might have to kneel—on the floor!
“Oh, phooey, you know me, darling—always open to an adventure à la toilette.”
Lord Akeldama was a man who Lady Maccon very much doubted had had much to do with dressing—or undressing—ladies on a regular basis, yet he seemed more than equal to the task. In the early days of her pregnancy, Alexia might have managed it herself, rejecting her corset and selecting a carriage dress or some other gown that fastened up the front. However, at this point, she couldn’t even see her own feet, let alone touch them. So she acquiesced to this very strange new form of servant.
“I suppose it was courteous of Professor Lyall to think to send someone in. But really, if a gentleman who is not my husband is to see me bare, why not him?”
Lord Akeldama sashayed over to her, scooping up her underthings along the way. He tittered at the very idea. “Oh, my darling pea blossom, your professor might enjoy it a little too much. Like my poor Boots. And they are both gentlemen of principle.” His hands began nimbly dealing with ties and buttons.
“What could you possibly be implying, my lord?” Lady Maccon asked this from within a chemise partly stuck over her head.
The vampire pulled the fine muslin down and smoothed it out over her belly with a little pat. His other hand was on her naked arm, and the contact turned him human in that moment. His fine, sharp fangs vanished, his pale white skin flushed slightly peach, and his lustrous blond hair lost a mote of its brilliance. He grinned at her, his face more effeminate than ethereal. “La, honeysuckle, you are well aware that we here are all, in our own special way, deviants in our penchants.”
Lady Maccon thought about Lord Akeldama’s drawing room with all its gilt and tassels. Even knowing this was not the vampire’s point of reference, she nodded. “Oh, yes, I noticed.”
Lord Akeldama rarely shrugged, for this upset the fall of his jacket, but he looked as though he would have at this juncture. Instead, he flounced over to the side of the room where Alexia’s clothing hung on a long rack and began perusing various gowns, eyeing each with a discerning eye.
“Not that one,” said Alexia when he paused overlong, considering a green and gold stripe.
“No?”
“The décolletage is too low.”
“My dearest girl, this is a good design point, not a bad one. You should accentuate your best features.”
“No, honestly, my lord, these days I—how to put this?—overflow. It’s terribly incommodious.” Alexia made a kind of flip-forward gesture with both hands at her bosom area. Always substantial, that particular region had expanded to near scenic proportions over the last few months. Lord Maccon was delighted. Lady Maccon found it ridiculous. As if I weren’t well enough endowed to start with!
“Ah, yes. I do see your point, periwinkle.” He moved on.
“You were saying, about Professor Lyall?”
“What I mean to articulate, honey bee, is that there are levels of deviation. Some of us are, shall we say, more experimental than others in our tastes. In some, I believe it is a matter of boredom, in others it is nature, and for still others it is indifference.” The vampire’s tone of voice was filled with the usual airy flippancy, but Alexia had a feeling this was something he had studied much over the centuries. Also, Lord Akeldama never doled out information without good reason.
The vampire continued to prattle on as he sorted through her wardrobe without looking up at her, as though he were having a conversation with the dresses. “So few are lucky enough to love where they will. Or unlucky, I suppose.” Finally, he selected a walking outfit comprised of a ruffled purple skirt, cream blouse, and square cropped Spanish jacket in mauve. Despite the fact that there was very little trim, something about it clearly appealed to him. Alexia was delighted with this choice, as the outfit coordinated with one of her favorite hats, a little mauve bowler with a purple ostrich feather.
He brought it over to her and held it up, nodding. “Excellent palette for your coloring, my little Italian pastry. Did our Biffy help you order this?” Without waiting for confirmation, he continued his previous discussion with studied casualness. “Your Professor Lyall is one of those.”
“One of the indifferent ones?”
“Ah, no, petal, one of those who has no particular preferences.”
“And Boots?” Alexia held very still as the vampire moved around behind her, very much like a real maid, and began lacing up the back of the skirt.
“Boots is another one.”
Lady Maccon thought she understood what he was trying to say but was determined to ensure things were as clear as possible. Lord Akeldama may enjoy prevarications and euphemisms, but no one had ever accused Alexia of being coy. “Are you telling me, my lord, that Boots enjoys the company of both men and women?”
The vampire came back around to the front and cocked his head to one side, as though more interested in the fit of the jacket than their conversation. “I know, peculiar of him, isn’t it, my little pigeon? But I and mine, possibly more than anyone else in London, do not presume to judge the predilections of others.” He bent forward to tidy the fall of the bow at Alexia’s neck. Then he had her sit while he fussed with stockings.
“Well, I should never venture to question your assessment of Boots’s taste, but really, you must be mistaken in Professor Lyall’s nature. He’s in the military, for goodness’ sake!”
“I take it you have heard very little on the subject of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy?” The vampire moved on to her shoes. Her feet were so swollen she no longer fit into any of her boots, much to his disgust. “Imagine wearing a walking dress with dancing slippers!”
“Well, it’s not as though I walk all that much anymore. But, my dear lord, I can’t believe it. Not Professor Lyall. You must misconstrue.”
Lord Akeldama became motionless, his head bent over one of her kid slippers. “Oh, little lilac bush, I know I do not.”
Lady Maccon stilled herself, frowning down at the blond head bent so diligently at her feet. “I have never seen him favor anyone of either sex. I had thought it was a part of being Beta, to love the pack at the expense of every other romance. Not that I have met many Betas. It is not a personality trait, then? Has he not always been so reticent?”
Lord Akeldama stood and came back behind her, beginning to toy with her hair.
“You arrange a lady’s ensemble rather well, for an aristocrat. Don’t you, my lord?”
“We all came from somewhere originally, buttercup, even us vampires. Of course, your Professor Lyall and I have never run in the same circles, and until you came into our lives, I must admit I never paid him much mind.” The vampire frowned and a look of genuine disfavor crossed his beautiful face. “This may yet prove to be a rather catastrophic oversight. As bad as that brief period wherein I became enamored of a lime-green overcoat.” He shuddered at the unpleasantness of the memory.
“Surely it cannot be so awful as all that. It is only Professor Lyall of whom we speak.”
“Exactly, my plum puff. So few of us can be so easily dismissed as an only. I’ve done some inquiring. They say he never quite recovered from a broken heart.”
Alexia frowned. “Oh, do they?”
“An embarrassing affliction in an immortal, brokenheartedness, wouldn’t you say? Least of all in a man of sense and dignity.”
Lady Maccon gave her friend a sharp look through the looking glass as he pinned one of her curls into place. “No, I should say instead poor Professor Lyall.”
Lord Akeldama finished with her hair. “There!” he pronounced with a flourish. He held up a hand mirror for her to look at the back. “I haven’t our lovely Biffy’s skill with the curling tongs, so a simple updo will have to suffice. I apologize for such ineptitude. I should add one or two rosettes or a fresh flower, just here.”
“Oh, simple is absolutely splendid, and anything is better than what I could do for myself. I shall take your advice about the flower, of course.”
The vampire nodded, took the mirror back, and placed it on the armoire. “And… how is Biffy?” The very flatness in the vampire’s words alerted Alexia to the importance of this oh-so-casual question.
“He is still upset at having to give up snuff.” Lord Akeldama smiled only slightly at her attempted lightheartedness, so Alexia adopted his serious tone. “Not as well as he could be. My husband thinks, and I am inclined to agree with him, there is something holding him back. Pitiable, for Biffy did not ask for the lupine afterlife, but he must learn to accept it.”
Lord Akeldama’s perfect mouth twisted slightly.
“I am given to understand there is a matter of control. He must learn to master the shift rather than allow it to master him. Until he does, there are all sorts of restrictions. He cannot go out during the day or he may be permanently damaged, he must be kept near silver for simply ages around the moon, and no sweet basil within smelling distance. It’s all quite tragic.”
Lord Akeldama stepped back and then spoke as though she had never answered his question. “Ah, well, I must bid you adieu, my dearest girl. I have my own toilette to see to. There is a most licentious music hall show opening this very evening, and I have a mind to attend in full regalia.” He made his way toward the door in the sweeping manner much favored by an operatic villain when exiting stage left.
Lady Maccon was not fooled.
“My lord.” Alexia’s voice was soft and gentle, or as soft and as gentle as she could make it, being not a woman generally in command of such feminine wiles. “On our subject of brokenheartedness, should I now be saying poor Lord Akeldama?”
The vampire left without dignifying that with a reply.
Lady Maccon lowered the balcony drawbridge and made her way into Woolsey’s town home and down the stairs. Walking a gangplank when one cannot see one’s feet was a tad nerve-racking, but Alexia Maccon was a woman of forthright character and firm principle, not to be defeated by a mere fat belly. She encountered Felicity, obviously recently returned from one of her unmentionable jaunts, for she was once more attired in knitwear. They had no chance for idle conversation, thank goodness, for the house was in a veritable uproar.
Still, Felicity would not allow Alexia to pass without some commentary. “Sister! What is that tremendous ruckus in the back parlor?”
“Felicity, you did know, when you prevailed upon my hospitality, that this was the den of werewolves, did you not?”
“Yes, but to behave like animals? Surely that’s not polite.”
Lady Maccon narrowed her eyes, tilted her head, and gave her sister a look and the time to contemplate what she had just said.
Felicity sputtered. “You mean to say? Changed! Here! In town? How unspeakably shameful!” She turned to walk with her sister back down the stairs. “May I see?”
Lady Maccon wondered if she did not prefer the cuttingly nasty Felicity of previous incarnations.
“No, you most certainly may not! Really, what has gotten into you of late? You are not at all yourself.”
“Is it so unlikely that I should wish to improve myself?”
Alexia fingered the dull gray shawl draped over her sister’s faded dress. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
Felicity huffed in annoyance. “I must go change for supper.”
Lady Maccon looked her up and down, emitting a lip curl that was, quite frankly, remarkably Felicity-like. Sometimes, although not too often, there came an indication that they were, indeed, related. “Yes, I do believe you must.”
Felicity wiggled her shoulders and emitted the “Oh, la,” of an insult being shaken off, and proceeded back up to the best bedroom, which she had, naturally, commandeered as her own.
Lady Maccon waddled on down, one careful stair at a time. The urgency of the noises below made her increasingly annoyed by her own inability to move with any kind of alacrity. Really this is simply too ridiculous! I’m trapped by my own body. She attained the main hall only to find that the door to the back parlor was locked and shaking. Professor Lyall and two clavigers were milling about unhappily, crowding the passageway with masculine concern.
“Why aren’t you at supper?” demanded Lady Maccon imperiously. “I am certain Floote and the staff have gone to substantial lengths to provide.”
Everyone stilled and looked at her.
“Go on, go eat,” she said to them, as though they were small children or pet dogs.
Professor Lyall raised a quizzical brow at her.
Lady Maccon lowered her voice. “Biffy wouldn’t want anyone to see.”
“Ah.” Then the Beta, obedient to his mistress’s will, followed his fellows into the dining room, shutting the door behind him.
Lady Maccon let herself into the back parlor. Which was an absolute mess. Lord Maccon, now a massive brindled wolf—quite handsome, Alexia always thought, even in lupine form—was squared off against a younger, lankier animal. Biffy’s fur was a deep chocolate color, much the same as his hair, except for his stomach and up to the ruff, which was oxblood. His eyes were yellow and crazed.
Lord Maccon barked at his wife authoritatively. Lord Maccon was always barking at his wife, the form of his body mattering not one jot.
Alexia dismissed the commanding tone. “Yes, yes, but you must admit I can be quite useful under such circumstances as these, even in my less-than-nimble state.”
Lord Maccon growled in evident annoyance.
Biffy caught Lady Maccon’s scent and turned instinctively to hurl himself at her, a new threat. The earl twisted to place his own body in the way. The slighter wolf charged full tilt into his Alpha. Biffy reeled, shaking his head and whining. Lord Maccon feinted toward him, teeth nipping, backing him flush against the now mostly destroyed chaise.
“Oh, Conall, look at this room!” Lady Maccon was displeased. The place was in chaos—furniture overturned, drapes shredded, and one of the cook’s precious journals had been bitten into and slobbered all over.
“Oh, doesn’t that just take the biscuit! That’s evidence, that is.” Alexia’s hand was to her breast in distress. “Oh, dear, I suppose I ought to have kept it with me.” She couldn’t really blame Biffy, of course, but it was vexing. She toddled her way toward him, stripping off her gloves.
Biffy continued to snap and slather in her direction, growling in uncontrollable rage, the cursed monster of folklore made flesh and fur before her.
Alexia tsked at him. “Really, Biffy, must you?” Then she used her best Lady Maccon voice. “Behave! What kind of conduct is this for a gentleman!”
Alexia was Alpha, too, and the commanding tone sunk in. Biffy mellowed his snapping frenzy. Some measure of sense entered his yellow eyes. Lord Maccon seized the opportunity and charged, clamping down hard on the other wolf’s neck, bearing him down to the floor by sheer superiority of mass.
Lady Maccon approached and looked down at the tableau. “It’s no good, Conall. I can’t bend down to touch him without falling over.”
Her husband let out a snort of amusement. Then, with a casual flick of his head, he hurled the young wolf upward. A surprised Biffy landed on his back on the chaise lounge, scrambling to right himself and attack once more.
Lady Maccon grabbed his tail. He jerked in surprise, enough to overbalance her so that she fell with an oof onto the chaise next to him. In that same instant, the power of her preternatural touch forced him back into human form. Even as Biffy’s tail retreated, Alexia reached for a paw with her other hand.
In very short order, a naked Biffy lay sprawled in a most undignified way upon the chaise lounge with his foot firmly grasped by his mistress. Since contact with Alexia made him mortal, with all the physical responses such a state entailed, it was not unsurprising to find him blushing crimson in humiliation.
Alexia, while sympathetic to his plight, maintained her grasp and noted, with scientific detachment, that his blush went all the way down. Remarkable.
Her husband’s growl drew her attention back to him. He, too, was back in his human form and naked.
“What?”
“Stop looking at him. He’s bare.”
“So are you, husband.”
“Yes, well, you can look at me all you like.”
“Yes, well. Oh.” Lady Maccon clutched suddenly at her stomach with her free hand.
Conall’s mild jealousy translated instantly to overbearing solicitude. “Alexia! Are you ailing? Oh, you shouldna hae come in here! It’s too dangerous. You fell.”
Biffy sat up, also concerned. He tried to extract his ankle, but Lady Maccon refused to let go. “My lady, what is wrong?”
“Oh, stop it! Both of you. The infant is simply kicking up a fuss over such sudden activity. No, Biffy dear, we must stay in contact, however indecorous you find it.” Biffy offered her his hand instead of his foot. Alexia accepted the exchange of prisoners.
“Shall I ring for Floote?” suggested Biffy, blushing slightly less now that he had something to be worried about that wasn’t his own shame.
Alexia hid a smile. “You should find that rather difficult, as you seem to have chewed up the bell rope.”
Biffy looked around, blushing again. He covered his face with one hand, peeking through open fingers as though he couldn’t stand to look, yet was unable to drag his eyes away. “Oh my ruffled bacon! What have I done? Your poor parlor. My lord, my lady, please forgive me. I was not myself. I was in thrall to the curse.”
Lord Maccon was having none of it. “That’s the problem, pup. You were yourself. You continue to refuse to accept that.”
Lady Maccon understood her husband’s meaning and tried to phrase it in a more sympathetic manner. “You must begin to accustom yourself to being a werewolf, Biffy dear. Even attempt to enjoy it. This continued resistance is unhealthy.” She looked around. “Mainly to my furniture.”
Biffy looked down and nodded. “Yes, I know. But, my lady, it’s so undignified. I mean to say, one must strip before shifting. And then after…” He looked down at himself, attempting to cross his legs. Lord Maccon took sympathy on him and tossed him a velvet throw pillow. Biffy placed it into his lap gratefully. Alexia noted her husband took no such pains himself.
Biffy’s blue eyes were wide. “Thank you, my lady, for bringing me back. It hurts, but it is worth anything to be human again.”
“Yes, but the question is, how are we to get you dressed while I maintain contact?” Alexia wanted to know, ever practical.
Lord Maccon grinned. “Something can be arranged. I shall call Floote in, shall I? He will know how to manage.” In the absence of the bellpull, Conall strode out into the hall, yelling for the butler.
Mere moments later, Floote appeared. He took in the wretched condition of the room, furniture everywhere, and the entirely unfurnished condition of two of its occupants without even the flicker of an eyelid.
“Sirs. Madam.”
“Floote, my man,” said the earl jovially. “We will need someone to see to this room. It’s a wee bit messy. A re-covering of the chaise, I think; repairs to the wallpaper and curtains; and a new bell rope. Oh, and Biffy here needs to be dressed without letting go of my wife’s paw.”
“Yes, sir.” Floote turned to see to the matter.
Lady Maccon cleared her throat and looked meaningfully at her husband, up and down and then up again.
“What? Oh, yes, and send one of the clavigers next door for some kit for me as well. Deuced inconvenient, but I suppose I may need garments at some point tonight.”
Floote vanished and then reappeared in due time carrying a stack of clothing for Biffy. The young werewolf looked as though he would like to object to the butler’s selection but didn’t want to cause any more of a fuss. It did seem that Floote had chosen the most somber attire possible out of all of the dandy’s peacocklike closet. Biffy’s bottom half was seen to rather simply. After which Floote suggested the young man kneel at the edge of the chaise lounge and Lady Maccon touch the back of his head while shirt, waistcoat, jacket, and cravat were summarily dealt with. Floote handled everything with consummate skill, an ability Alexia attributed to his many years as valet to her father. Alessandro Tarabotti, by all accounts, had been a bit of a dandy himself.
While Floote, Alexia, and Biffy performed their complicated game of knotted parts on the chaise, a claviger arrived with apparel for Lord Maccon. The earl threw it on in an arbitrary way, showing all the attention to detail a ferret might employ if called upon to decorate a hat. Lord Maccon believed that if his trousers were on his legs, and something else was on his torso, he was dressed. The less done after that, the better. His wife had been startled to find that in the summertime, he actually went around their room barefoot! Once—and only once, mind you—he even attempted to join her for tea in such a state. Impossible man. Alexia put a stop to that posthaste.
Professor Lyall stuck his head in to see if everything was sorted.
“Ah, good. You’ve managed matters.”
“Doesn’t she always?” grumbled her husband.
“Yes, Professor Lyall?” asked Alexia.
“I thought you should know, my lady, those results you wanted came in from our laboratory at BUR.”
“Yes?”
“On those little vials you, uh, found?”
“Poison. All of them. Different kinds, different effectiveness levels. Some detectable, some not as such. Mostly for mortals but one or two that might put even a supernatural under the weather for some time. Nasty stuff.”