CHAPTER SEVEN
The Werewolves of Woolsey Castle
Having to keep Biffy mortal made for a pretty incommodious several hours. Ordinarily, Lady Maccon, even pregnant, could manage a meal and a carriage ride with aplomb, but when one must stay attached in some manner to a dandy, even the most mundane tasks become an exercise in complexity.
“It’s a good thing I enjoy your company, Biffy. I can’t imagine having to handle daily tasks with someone less agreeable affixed. Like my husband, for example.” Alexia shuddered at the very idea. She enjoyed having Conall affixed to her, but only for a limited amount of time.
The husband in question looked up at his lady with a grumbled, “Oh, thank you verra much, wife.”
They were sitting in the carriage together. Woolsey Castle loomed on the horizon—a sizable blob in the moonlight. Lady Maccon, being a woman of little artistic preference, regarded her domain with an eye toward its practicality as an abode for werewolves rather than an architectural endeavor. Which was good, as it was rather more of an architectural tragedy. Those unfortunate enough to happen upon it during daylight could tender only one compliment—that it was pleasingly situated. And it was, atop rising ground in extensive, if slightly unkempt, grounds with a cobbled courtyard and decent stables.
“Oh, you know perfectly well what I mean, husband. We’ve had to stay attached before, but customarily only when violence was imminent.”
“And sometimes for other reasons.” He gave her his version of a seductive look.
She smiled. “Yes, dear, exactly.”
Biffy said, being on his best behavior, “Thank you for the compliment, my lady, and I do apologize for the inconvenience.”
“So long as there are no more zombie porcupines, we should do very well.”
“Shouldn’t be,” said her husband. “Seems the hives have officially declared a cease-fire. Hard to tell truth with vampires but they appear to be pleased with the idea of Lord Akeldama adopting our child.”
“Well, at least someone is.”
Woolsey Castle was no castle at all but a large Georgian manor house augmented by mismatched Gothic-style flying buttresses. On her most recent trip to Italy, Lady Maccon had encountered a bug—a creature larger than her thumb that flew upright, like an angel, with a nose like an elephant, horns like a bull, and multiple wings. It stayed aloft in an erratic up-and-down manner as though it were remembering, occasionally, that a bug of its size and shape ought not to be able to fly. Woolsey Castle was built, in principle, upon much the same lines as that bug: improbably constructed, exceedingly ugly, and impossible to determine how it continued to stay upright or, indeed, why it bothered to do so.
Since Lord and Lady Maccon had set forth to their country seat with no warning, their unanticipated arrival at Woolsey threw the residents into a tizzy. Lord Maccon swept into the bevy of sprightly young men who’d congregated in the courtyard, taller than most by a head, and carved a path before him, scythelike.
Major Channing, Woolsey’s Gamma, strode down from his sanctum and out the front door to greet them, still knotting his cravat and looking as though he had only just arisen, despite the lateness of the hour. “My lord, you were not expected until full moon.”
“Emergency trip. Have to stick certain persons down the dungeon sooner than anticipated.” There were rumors as to the original owner’s use of Woolsey’s dungeon, but regardless of initial intent it had proved ideal for a werewolf pack. In fact, the whole house was well suited. In addition to a well-fortified holding area and brick walls, there were no less than fourteen bedrooms, a goodly number of receiving parlors, and several precarious-looking but fully functional towers, one of which Lord and Lady Maccon utilized as their boudoir.
Channing waved a hand at a gaggle of clavigers, directing them to help with luggage and assist in extracting Lady Maccon from the carriage. The earl was already cocking an ear to a murmured report from one of his pack. He left his wife to see to Biffy, secure in the knowledge that if nothing else, Alexia was good at setting a gentleman in his proper place, even if that place be a dungeon.
Lady Maccon, happy to lean upon Biffy, for exhaustion was beginning to take its toll once more, made her way down into the dungeon and saw the young dandy safely into one of the smaller cells. Two clavigers accompanied them, carrying the requisite amount of silver-tipped and silver-edged weaponry, just in case Lady Maccon lost her grip.
Alexia did not want to let go, for Biffy’s face was pale with the imminent terror of transformation. It was an agonizing process for all werewolves to endure, but the new ones had it the worst, for they were not yet accustomed to the sensation, and they were forced into it more frequently by their own lack of control.
Biffy clearly did not care to leave contact with the safe haven of her preternatural skin, but he was too much the gentleman to say. He would be more mortified to impose upon her for the duration of an entire night than to transform into a rampaging monster.
Alexia averted her eyes and kept her hand to the back of his head, her fingers buried in his thick chocolate brown hair, while the clavigers stripped him and clapped silver manacles about his elegant wrists. Conscious of his fading dignity, she kept a stream of irreverent chatter mostly concerning matters fashionable and decorative.
“We are ready, my lady,” said one of the clavigers, arms full of clothing, as he exited the prison cell. The other stood outside the silver-plated bars, ready to slam the door as soon as Lady Maccon came through.
“I am sorry,” was all Alexia could think to say to the young man.
Biffy shook his head. “Oh, no, my lady, you have given me unexpected peace.”
They stretched apart, fingertips just touching.
“Now,” said Lady Maccon, and she broke contact, moving as fast as she could in her condition through the door and into the viewing hall.
Biffy, mindful of any damage he might do before she could touch him again, threw himself away in that same instant, using all his regained supernatural strength and speed, before the change descended upon him.
Alexia found the werewolf transformation an intellectually fascinating occurrence and enjoyed watching it, as one might enjoy dissecting a frog, but not in the younger werewolves. Her husband, Professor Lyall, and even Major Channing could manage shifting form with very little indication as to the pain accompanying the experience. Biffy could not. The moment they broke contact, he began to scream. Lady Maccon had learned over the past several months that there is no worse noise in the universe than a proud, kind young man suffering. His scream evolved into a howl as bones and organs broke and re-formed.
Swallowing down bile and wishing she had wax to stopper her ears, Alexia firmly took the arm of one of the clavigers and ushered him toward the stairs and up into the comforting hullabaloo of the pack, leaving the other to stand solitary vigil over a broken man.
“You really want that?” she asked her escort.
The claviger did not try to hedge. Everyone knew Lady Maccon to be direct in her conversation and intolerant of shilly-shallying. “Immortality, my lady, is nothing to treat lightly, no matter the package or the price.”
“But at such a cost as that?”
“I would be choosing it, my lady. He did not.”
“And you wouldn’t prefer trying for vampire instead?”
“To suck blood for survival and never see the sun again? No, thank you, my lady. I’ll take my chances with the pain and the curse, should I be so lucky as to have the choice.”
“Brave lad.” She patted his arm as they attained the top of the stair.
The hubbub resulting from the sudden arrival of Alphas in their midst had settled down into the pleasant boisterous hum of pack in full play. There was some discussion of going hunting, others thought a game of dice was in order, and a few were advocating a light wrestling match. “Outside,” grumbled Lady Maccon mildly upon hearing that.
At first, Alexia had thought she would never acclimatize to living with over a dozen grown men—she, who had been reared with only sisters. But she rather enjoyed it. At least with men, one always knew where they were located, great yelling, galumphing creatures that they were.
She flagged down Rumpet, the pack butler. “Tea in the library when you have a moment, please, Rumpet? I have some research to undertake. And, would you be so kind as to ask my husband to attend me when he has the time? No hurry.”
“Right away, my lady.”
The library was Alexia’s favorite room and personal sanctuary. However, this evening she intended to use it for its actual purpose—research. She headed toward the far corner, where behind a massive armchair she had carved out some space on the shelves for her father’s collection. He had favored tiny leather-covered journals of the type used by schoolboys to keep accounts—navy blue with plain covers dated in the upper left corner.
From what his daughter had gleaned, Alessandro Tarabotti had not been a very nice person. Practical, as all preternaturals are, but without the ethical grounding Alexia had managed to cultivate. Perhaps this was because he was male, or perhaps it was the result of a childhood spent in the wilds of Italy far from the progressive posturing of England. His journals began the autumn of his sixteenth year, during his first term at Oxford, and ended shortly after his marriage to Alexia’s mother. They were sporadic at best, constant for weeks and then absent of a single word for months or years. They were mainly concerned with sexual exploits, violent encounters, and long descriptions of new jackets and top hats. Nevertheless, Alexia turned toward them hopefully, hunting out any possible mention of an assassination attempt. Sadly, the journals stopped some ten years before the Kingair plot. She allowed herself only a brief time to get lost in her father’s tidy handwriting—amazed, as always, to note how similar that writing was to her own—before pulling herself back and turning her attention to other books. She whiled away the rest of the night thus occupied. Her reverie was disturbed only by Rumpet bringing in an endless supply of fresh tea and, at one point, by Channing, of all people.
“Why, Lady Maccon,” he said, unconvincingly. “I was simply looking for—”
“A book?”
Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings and Lady Alexia Maccon had gotten off on the wrong foot and never managed to stabilize their relationship—despite the fact that he had, on more than one occasion, saved her life. As far as Alexia was concerned, Major Channing was uncomfortably good-looking—a strapping blond with icy-blue eyes, marked cheekbones, and imperiously arched brows. He was a true soldier to the bone, which might not have been so bad a thing had not his nobility of profession been augmented by an arrogance of manner and toothiness of accent so extreme only the bluest of the blue-blooded individuals ought to foist such upon others. As to Channing’s opinion of his mistress, the less said on the subject the better, and even he was wise enough to understand that.
“What are you researching, my lady?”
Alexia saw no reason to hide. “The old Kingair assassination attempt on Queen Victoria. Do you remember any of it?” Her tone was sharp.
The Gamma could not quite disguise the look of concern that suffused his face. Or was that guilt? “No. Why?”
“I think it might be relevant to our current situation.”
“I hardly think that likely.”
“Are you certain you remember nothing?”
Channing evaded the question. “Any success?”
“None. Dash it.”
“Well”—Channing shrugged and made his way nonchalantly back out of the library, without a book—“I think you’re on the wrong track. No good can come of meddling in the past, my lady.” Only Channing could put on such an air of dismissive disgust.
“Meddling! I like that.”
“Yes, you do,” said the Gamma, closing the door behind him.
After that, no one else intruded upon Alexia’s investigations until some few hours before dawn, when her husband came thumping in.
She looked up to see Conall watching her fondly, propping up a bookshelf with one massive shoulder.
“Ah, finally remembered me, have you?” She smiled, her eyes soft and dark.
He strode over and kissed her gently. “Never forgot. Simply misplaced while handling matters of pack and protocol.” He tugged playfully at a dark curl that had escaped to lie against her neck in a loose whorl.
“Anything of import?”
“Nothing that should concern you.” He had learned enough to add, “Although I’m happy to relay the inconsequential details, should you wish to hear them.”
“Oh, no thank you. Do restrain yourself. How is Biffy?”
“Not so good. Not so good.”
“I’m afraid your brand of roughness is not working as it ought to pull him into the pack.”
“You may be right. I am troubled, my love. I have never faced the problem of a reluctant werewolf before. Of course, in the Dark Ages they had to deal with this kind of thing all the time. Lord knows how they managed it. But our Biffy is such a unique case in this modern time of enlightenment that even I canna fix…” He paused, struggling for the right words, almost stuttering. “I canna fix his unhappiness.”
He cleared himself some space among the piles of books and manuscripts around his wife and settled next to her, flush against her side.
Alexia took his big hand in both of hers, stroking the palm with her thumbs. Her husband was a gorgeous lout of a man, and she could not but admit she adored both his size and his temperament, but it was his caring mother-henishness she loved best of all. “I hold them both in the highest of esteem, but Biffy has become overly Byronic. He really must endeavor to fall out of love with Lord Akeldama.”
“Oh? And how does one fall out of love?”
“Unfortunately, I have absolutely no idea.”
The earl was learning to have a good deal of faith in his capable wife. “You will think of something. And how is my delicious wife? No ill effects from your tumble earlier this evening?”
“What? Oh, onto the chaise? No, none at all. But, husband, I am having very little success on the matter of this threat to the queen.”
“Perhaps the ghost was mistaken or misheard. We have not considered that. She was close to poltergeist phase.”
“That’s possible. And it might be possible that there is no connection to the Kingair attempt.”
Lord Maccon growled in irritation.
“Yes, I am well aware that you hate to be reminded.”
“Every man hates remembering failure. But we werewolves are the worst of the lot on the subject. I cannot believe there is a connection.”
“It is my only avenue of inquiry.”
“Perhaps you can leave it for the moment. I require your presence.”
Alexia bristled at the commanding tone. “Oh, yes?”
“In bed.”
“Oh. Yes.” Alexia relaxed and smiled, allowing her husband to help her to her feet.
Alexia slept on the far side of the bed from Conall. This was not because he was a restless sleeper. In fact, he was as still as any supernatural creature, though not quite so dead-looking as a vampire, and he snored softly. And, though Lady Maccon would never admit it to anyone, not even to Ivy, she was a bit of a cuddler. She simply didn’t want him vulnerable while he slept. Also, given his irreverence for physical appearance, she was in constant fear that should she touch him all night long, he would grow a beard and then neglect to shave.
On this particular day’s rest, the infant-inconvenience allowed Lady Maccon to doze only fitfully on her side, facing the tower window. Which was why she was partly awake when the burglar entered.
There were many things wrong with a thief breaking into Woolsey Castle in the middle of the day. First, what thief in his right mind travels all the way to Barking to perform a break-in? Prospects were much better in London. Second, why bother with Woolsey Castle, a den of werewolves? Just down the road was a small but wealthy ducal estate. And third, why aim for one of the challenging tower windows and not a downstairs parlor?
Nevertheless, the masked form clambered over the sill with graceful economy of movement and stood, light and balanced on his feet, silhouetted against the thick curtains that could not entirely block out the full afternoon sun. He inhaled sharply upon seeing Lady Maccon up on one elbow staring at him. Clearly, he expected to find the room abandoned.
Lady Maccon was far less reticent. She let out a scream that might have raised the dead, and in this case did.
Her husband was no pup who, required by recent metamorphosis and weak control, must sleep solid the entire day through. Oh, no, he could be awakened. It was simply that when he was very tired, it took a mighty loud noise. Not much of a screamer as a general rule, Alexia’s lung capacity was nevertheless sufficient to the task and produced a trumpeting kind of yell. Once emitted, however, it did not, as one might expect, bring domestic staff and clavigers running. It had taken only one or two highly embarrassing incidents for the denizens of Woolsey Castle to ignore any and all strange noises produced by Lord and Lady Maccon during their slumbering hours.
Still, one angry husband was sufficient to meet Lady Maccon’s needs.
The burglar darted to one side of the room, running for Alexia’s armoire. There he opened several drawers, finally extracting a sheaf of papers. These he stuffed into a sack. Alexia rolled from the bed, cursing her own lack of mobility, and charged toward him at the same time as her husband. Conall, made clumsy by the full sun, deep sleep, and the unexpectedness of the event, got his feet caught in the bedclothes and pinwheeled widely in a circle like some large and eccentric ballet dancer, before righting himself and lurching at the intruder. That’ll teach him to steal the coverlet, thought his wife in satisfaction.
Choosing wisely, the burglar went for Alexia, the weaker link, pushing her aside. She kicked out. Her foot met flesh, but not hard enough. All that resulted was Alexia losing her balance and tumbling backward onto the floor, twisting her ankle in the process.
The intruder dove for the open window. Literally dove right through, for he managed to unfold some kind of metal reinforced cape that became a parachute. This carried him gently down the five stories to the ground. Without registering his wife’s predicament, floundering about on the floor, Lord Maccon leaped after.
“Oh, no, Conall, don’t you dare—” But Alexia’s admonishment met only empty air, for he had already jumped out of the window. A werewolf could take such a fall and survive, of course, but not without substantial damage, especially during daylight.
Greatly concerned, Alexia crawled and squirmed her way across the floor, then used a stool and the windowsill to haul herself upright, balancing precariously on her good foot. Her husband had angled his leap to land on the rooftop of the castle keep; he then lowered himself some three stories to the ground and dashed after the culprit. Naked. The wrongdoer, however, was equipped to escape at speed. He had a mono-wheel cycle, rigged up with a small steam propeller, that carried him away across the landscape at a remarkably rapid pace.
The sun was full in the sky, so Lord Maccon was unable to change into his wolf form, and even as fast as a werewolf could be after sunset, it was probably not sufficient to catch up to that wheel. Alexia watched Conall run a goodly distance before coming to this realization and stopping. Sometimes his hunter instinct took a while to defuse.
She tsked in annoyance and turned to glare at her armoire, a mile away and impossible to get at without crawling, trying to determine what exactly had been stolen. What on earth had she stashed in that drawer? She certainly hadn’t looked at whatever it was since she unpacked after her wedding. So far as she could remember, it had been full of old letters, personal correspondences, party invitations, and visiting cards. Why on earth would anyone want to steal that?
“Really, husband,” she said from her post by the window when he got around to climbing back up the many flights of stairs to their sleeping chamber, “how you manage to jump about like some deranged jackrabbit without any permanent damage is a mystery to me.”
Lord Maccon snorted at her and went to sniff suspiciously at her armoire. “So, what was in that drawer?”
“I can’t readily recall. Some society missives from before we were married, I believe. Can’t imagine what anyone would want with those.” She frowned, trying to dig her way through the mire of pregnancy-addled wits.
“You’d think they’d be after your dispatch case if it was classified paperwork they wanted.”
“Exactly so. What did you smell?”
“A bit of grease, probably from that parachute contraption. Nothing else significant. And you, of course—the whole armoire smells of you.”
“Mmm, and how do I smell?”
“Vanilla and cinnamon baked puff pastry,” he answered promptly. “Always. Delicious.”
Alexia grinned.
“But not of child. I’ve never been able to smell the bairn. Neither has Randolph. Odd that.”
Alexia’s grin faded.
Her husband returned to his examination of the drawer. “I suppose the constabulary will have to be called.”
“I don’t see why. It was only the odd bit of paperwork.”
“But you kept them.” The earl was confused.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean they were important.”
“Ah.” He nodded his understanding. “Like all your many pairs of shoes.”
Alexia chose to ignore this. “It must be someone I know who stole it. Or arranged for the theft.”
“Hmm?” Lord Maccon slumped thoughtfully onto the bed.
“I saw him enter. He was after that drawer in particular. I don’t think he was expecting us to be here—he seemed more than usually startled to see me. He must be intimate with our family, or acquainted with some member of Woolsey staff, to know where our room is located and that we were not supposed to be in residence.”
“Or it is meant to throw us off the scent. Perhaps he stole something else or did something that has nothing to do with those papers.”
Alexia pondered, still standing on one foot, like an egret, propped back against the windowsill. “Or he is after some important item to use for blackmail. Or something to give to the popular press. There has been remarkably little scandal since you and I reconciled. I wouldn’t put that kind of thing past old Twittergaddle and the Chirrup.”
“Well, idle speculation is getting us nowhere. Perhaps he got the wrong room or the wrong drawer. Now, why are we not both back in bed?”
“Ah, yes, there is some difficultly there. My ankle, you see, no longer appears to be functioning as designed.” Alexia gave Conall a weak smile, and he noticed, for the first time, her awkward stance.
“God’s teeth, why?” The earl strode over to his wife and offered his own substantial form instead of the windowsill. Alexia transferred her weight gratefully.
“Well, I did take a little bit of a tumble just now. Seems I have twisted my ankle.”
“You never…? Wife!” He half carried her to the bed before bending over to examine her foot and lower leg carefully. His hands were impossibly gentle, but still Alexia winced. The joint was already starting to swell. “I shall call for a surgeon immediately! And the constabulary.”
“Oh, now, Conall, I scarcely think that necessary. The surgeon, I mean. You may, of course, summon the police if you think it best, but I hardly require the services of a physician for a twisted ankle.”
Lord Maccon entirely ignored this and marched from the room, already yelling at the top of his considerable lungs for Rumpet and any claviger who might be awake.
Lady Maccon, ankle throbbing dreadfully, tried to go back to sleep, knowing that in very short order her room would be swarming with surgeons and policemen and that her dozing time would be drastically curtailed.
As predicted, Alexia got very little respite that day, which barely made much difference, as she was forced to rest that night after the surgeon pronounced her unfit to walk. She was confined to her bed with a splint and barley water and told that on no account was she to move for an entire week. Worse, she was also told that she was to lay off tea for the next twenty-four hours, as imbibing any hot liquid was bound to increase the swelling. Alexia called the doctor a quack and threw her bed cap at him. He retreated, but she knew perfectly well that Conall and the rest of Woolsey would see that his instructions were obeyed to the letter.
Lady Maccon was not the kind of woman who could be easily confined to bed for seven hours, let alone seven days. Those who knew her well were already dreading her confinement, and this, so close to that fated time, was seen as a preliminary test as to both her behavior and everyone else’s ability to cope with it. It was pronounced, by Rumpet and Floote much later in some private butler musings, to be an abject failure on all counts. No one survived it intact, least of all Alexia.
By the second day, she was chafing, to put it politely. “Queen Victoria could be in imminent danger and here I lie, confined to my bed by that fool of a physician because of an ankle. It is not to be borne!”
“Certainly not with any grace,” muttered her husband.
Lady Maccon ignored this and continued with her ranting. “And Felicity—who is keeping an eye on Felicity?”
“Professor Lyall has her well in hand, I assure you.”
“Oh, well, if it’s Professor Lyall. He can handle you—I have every confidence in his ability to restrain my sister.” Her tone was petulant, for which she wasn’t entirely to be blamed, being grimy, sore, and stationary. Nor was her lying-in translating to actual rest. She was too far along for the infant-inconvenience to permit anything more than a few fitful minutes of shut-eye at a time.
“Who says he can handle me?” The earl looked most offended by this blight on his independence.
His lady wife arched an eyebrow at him as if to say, Oh, now, Conall, really. She continued on to a new worry, without further disparagement of such frivolous masculine dignity. “Have you had the lads check the aethographic transmitter every evening at sunset? You remember, I’m expecting some very important information.”
“Yes, dear.”
Alexia twisted her lips together in contemplation, trying to come up with something else to gripe about. “Oh, I do hate being cooped up.” She picked at the blanket draped over her belly.
“Now you know how Biffy feels.”
Lady Maccon’s temper softened at the mention of the dandy. “How is he?”
“Well. I have taken your suggestion under advisement, my dear, and I am trying a gentler approach—less firmness of manner.”
“Now that I should like to see.”
“I have been sitting and talking him through the change at sunset. Rumpet suggested some light music might help as well. So I have Burbleson—you remember Catogan Burbleson, that new musically minded claviger we recruited last month?—playing violin all the while. A nice soothing piece of European fluff. Hard to tell if any of this is helping, but my efforts don’t seem to be making the poor boy feel any worse.”
Alexia was suspicious. “Is young Catogan any good on the violin?”
“Rather.”
“Well, perhaps he could come play a bit for me, then? I must say, Conall, it is exceedingly dull being bedridden.”
Her husband grunted at that—his version of a sympathetic murmur.
Eventually, the earl resorted to pulling Floote back from London in order to cater to Alexia’s whims. No one could manage Lady Maccon quite so well as Floote. As a result, most of Woolsey’s library and a goodly number of newspapers and Royal Society pamphlets took up residence about Alexia’s bed, and her imperious bell ringing and strident demands ebbed slightly. She began receiving hourly reassurances that Queen Victoria was under guard. Her Majesty’s Growlers, special werewolf bodyguards, were on high alert, and in deference to the muhjah’s conviction that werewolves might be a risk factor, there was also a rove vampire and four Swiss guards in attendance at all times.
Lord Akeldama sent Boots around with not only inquiries as to Lady Maccon’s health, but also a small spate of useful information. The ghosts around London seemed to be in turmoil, for they were appearing and disappearing and wafting here and there, whispering dire threats concerning imminent danger. If queried directly, none of them seemed to know exactly what was going on, but the ghostly community was certainly all aflutter about something.
Alexia went nearly spare at this information combined with the fact that she was unable to rush off to London at that very moment in order to continue inquiries. She turned from demanding to positively imperious and made life rather unbearable for those unfortunate enough to be at Woolsey. As full moon was just around the corner, older members of the pack were out running, hunting, or working in the moonlight hours and the youngsters were now locked in with Biffy. This meant only the household staff really had to suffer the yoke of Lady Maccon’s impatience, and Floote, ever saintly, undertook the bulk of her amusement.
No one was particularly surprised when on the evening of the fifth day, even Floote’s powers failed and Lady Maccon threw off her covers, put weight upon her ankle, which seemed perfectly functional, if a tad achy, and pronounced herself fit enough for a carriage ride into London. No, what surprised everyone was that she had lasted that long.
She had just persuaded a blushing claviger to help her dress when Floote appeared in the doorway clutching several pieces of paper and looking thoughtful. So thoughtful that he did not, initially, attempt to prevent her from her planned departure.
“Madam, the most interesting series of aetherograms have just come in through the transmitter. I believe they are intended for you.”
Alexia looked up with interest. “You believe?”
“They are directed to the Ruffled Parasol. I doubt someone would actually attempt to communicate with an accessory.”
“Indeed.”
“From someone calling himself Puff Bonnet.”
“Herself. Yes, go on.”
“From Scotland.”
“Yes, yes, Floote, what does she say?”
Floote cleared his throat and began to read. “ ‘To Ruffled Parasol. Vital information regarding super-secret subject of confabulation.’ ” He moved on to the next bit of paper. “ ‘Past persons of Scottishness in contact with mastermind of supernatural persuasion in London, aka Agent Doom.’ ” Floote moved on to the third bit of paper. “ ‘Lady K says Agent Doom assisted depraved Plan of Action. May have all been his idea.’ ” Moving on to the last one, he read out, “ ‘Summer permits Scots to expose more knee than lady of refinement should have to withstand. Hairmuffs much admired. Yours etc., Puff Bonnet.’ ”
Lady Maccon put out her hand for Ivy’s correspondence. “Fascinating. Floote, send a message back thanking her and telling her she can return to London. Would you, please? And call up the carriage. My husband is at BUR tonight? I must consult with him immediately on the subject.”
“It’s no good, Floote. The fate of the nation may be at stake.”
Floote, who knew well when he had no chance of winning an argument, turned to do as ordered.