The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (108 page)

With that, she let herself out into the street and lumbered off, clutching her plunder and feeling very furtive and rather
proud of her afternoon's achievement.

Unfortunately for Lady Maccon, there was absolutely no one to appreciate her endeavors when she returned home. Any werewolves
in town were abed, Felicity was still out (not that Alexia could confide in
her
), and Floote was off tending to some domestic duty or another. Disgruntled, Alexia set herself up in the back parlor to examine
her misappropriated loot.

The back parlor was already her favorite room. It had been made over with quiet card parties in mind: cream and pale gold
walls, ornate dark cherry furniture, and royal blue curtains and coverings. The several small tables were marble topped, and
the large chandelier boasted the very
latest in gas lighting. It was just that kind of soulful elegance that soulless Alexia could never hope to achieve on her
own.

She set the bottles aside to give to BUR for analysis and picked up the ledger and journals with interest. Two hours later,
stomach growling and tea cold and forgotten at her elbow, she put them back down again. They had been as absorbing as only
the highly private musings of a complete stranger can be. They were illuminating as well, in their way, although not with
regards to the current threat to the queen's life. Of that there was no mention at all, nor was there any concrete evidence
to implicate the OBO.

The ledger proved to be a record of transactions, mainly sales the cook had made to various individuals, everything encoded
with symbols, initials, abbreviations, and numbers. After reading the journals as well, Alexia surmised that the cook must
have been an honorary OBO member. Her interests were focused on those concoctions that one could not purchase easily from
apothecary or pharmacist. Such liquids, for example, as Madame Lefoux incorporated into Alexia's parasol and perhaps other
potions even more deadly.

The most recent journal, unfinished and unhelpful, articulated only the increasingly disorientated views of an aging woman
who seemed to be succumbing to a brew of her own fabrication, either involuntarily or out of a derangement of the spirit.
There was no way to determine whether she was, indeed, the ghost who had come to warn Lady Maccon, but it was as good a lead
as any.

However, it was the older journal that drew her attention. One particular entry was dated some twenty years ago. It mused
with interest over a new order—for ingredients to
be sent by post in separate allotments, for sake of security, to a werewolf pack in Scotland. The connection between time
and location caused Alexia to ruminate over her husband's anguished retelling of a certain betrayal. The same betrayal that
would cause him to abandon the Kingair Pack and then take over Woolsey. He had been so very cut up about it. “I caught them
mixing the poison,” he had said. “Poison, mind you! Poison has no place on pack grounds or in pack business. It isna an honest
way to kill anyone, let alone a monarch.” She realized there was no way to prove a connection, but coincidence in date was
good enough for her. This
must
be an accounting of the order for the poison that long ago was meant to kill Queen Victoria.

“Astonishing,” she said into the empty room, rereading the incriminating passage. Absentmindedly, she picked up her teacup
and sipped. The liquid being cold, she placed it back down with a grimace. She quickly ascertained that the remainder under
the cozy was equally tepid and pulled the bell rope.

Floote materialized. “Madam?”

“Fresh tea, please, Floote. There's a dear.”

“Certainly, madam.”

He vanished, reappearing in a miraculously short time with a freshly brewed pot and, much to Lady Maccon's delight, a small
wedge of tempting-looking cake.

“Oh, thank you, Floote. Is that lemon sponge? Marvelous. Tell me, are any of the men awake yet?”

“I believe Mr. Rabiffano and the professor are just rising.”

“Mr. Rabiffano, who is…? Oh, Biffy! Not my husband, then?”

“Difficult to tell, madam, him being in the other house.”

“Ah, yes, of course, how silly of me.” Lady Maccon went back to her perusal of the little journal.

“Will there be anything else, madam?”

“The question is, Floote, why order the toxins from London? Why not patronize the baser elements who supply such pernicious
needs closer to home?”

“Madam?”

“I mean, Floote, hypothetically, why special-order poison from one destination only to eventually transport it back to do
the dastardly deed? Although, I suppose the queen might have been visiting Scotland at the time. But still, why all the way
from town?”

“Everyone orders from London, madam,” replied Floote most decidedly, even though he had no idea as to the specifics of her
question. “It is the fashion.”

“Yes, but if one were afraid of being caught?”

Floote seemed to feel he might participate in the discussion even without full possession of the necessary facts. “Perhaps
one wanted to be caught, madam.”

Lady Maccon frowned. “Oh, no, I hardly think—” She was cut off by the arrival of Professor Lyall, who looked his normal unremarkably
dapper self, despite having just arisen.

He stuck his head around the corner of the door in some surprise, evidently unsure of what to make of his mistress's encampment.

“Lady Maccon, good evening. How are you?”

“Professor Lyall. Oh, Floote, do carry on.”

Floote wafted away, giving Lyall a very significant look, as though to say,
She is in one of her moods—tread with caution.

Heeding the unspoken advice, the werewolf let himself in hesitantly. “You are in the back parlor, Lady Maccon?”

“Just as you see. “

“Not the front?”

“I like the wallpaper. I have had a most illuminating day, Professor Lyall.”

“Oh, dear. Have you, indeed?” The gentleman settled down into a chair near his Alpha female. At a nod from Lady Maccon, he
helped himself to tea. Floote, being Floote, had thought to provide more than one cup. “I have not yet read the evening papers.
Is that going to signify, my lady?”

Lady Maccon frowned. “I doubt it. I don't think the constabulary were alerted to my activities.”

Professor Lyall forbore to mention that this indicated there might have been a need for such action. “Well?”

In as flattering a manner as possible, Lady Maccon detailed her afternoon's shenanigans. As she did so, Professor Lyall's
face creased with worry.

“On your own? In your state?”

“I'm perfectly capable.”

“Yes, indeed. You even managed to use your condition to your advantage. But I thought you were meant to take Biffy with you
on these jaunts. Himself ordered it.”

“Well, yes, but this couldn't wait for evening. And such interesting evidence I have uncovered. Now where did I put my pen?”
She began patting about her lap—what there was left of it—in annoyance.

Professor Lyall produced a stylographic pen from his waistcoat and passed it to her. Alexia nodded her thanks.

“You really believe that this new threat has some con
nection to the old Kingair attempt?” he asked while she made a note in the margin of one of the journals.

“It seems likely.”

“Your evidence appears to be circumstantial at best.”

“Never discount serendipity. Would you be so kind as to have some of these potions analyzed? Also, I should like to see BUR's
report regarding the Kingair failed assassination and my husband's subsequent challenge for Woolsey Alpha, plus any corresponding
postings in the popular press.”

Professor Lyall looked rather pained. “If you insist, my lady.”

“I do.”

“Give me a few hours to organize everything? The laboratory will take some time with those samples—several days, at least—but
I shall bring the other items you requested back with me.”

“Oh, no need. I shall jaunt to BUR after I call on Madame Lefoux and file the appropriate requisition forms myself.”

“Ah, had you intended—?”

“Not until I traced this OBO connection. Of course, Genevieve would have had nothing to do with OBO operations twenty years
ago, being only a small child, but still it is worth making inquiries. She knows
things.
Not to mention the fact that Ivy ran into a ghost in that area the other night. Can't possibly be the same ghost—no tether
stretches so far—but there must be a connection to our mysterious messenger.”

“If you must, my lady. But this time do please take Biffy with you.”

“Of course. I shall be glad of the company. Shall we go in to supper?”

Professor Lyall nodded gratefully and they arose to make their way to the dining room.

“What ho, wife?”

Conall Maccon thumped down the stairs looking far more pulled together than Alexia had ever seen him in all their acquaintance.
His cravat, a becoming ethereal azure that perfectly complemented his tawny eyes, was tied Nabog style over unusually high
collar points. His shirt was tucked to perfection, his waistcoat seamless, and the sleeves of his jacket just so. As a direct
result, he was also looking rather uncomfortable.

“My goodness, husband. How handsome you are this evening! Did the drones get hold of you?”

The earl give his wife a very telling stare before sweeping down upon her and planting a kiss on her lips right in front of
the embarrassed gazes of Lyall, Floote, and a small number of household staff.

Alexia's limited mobility prevented her from any evasive maneuvers. Like some wanton hussy, she could do nothing but endure
his amorous attentions with blushes and sputterings of delighted horror.

He pulled back finally. “Excellent, best way to start one's evening. Wouldn't you agree, gentlemen?”

Professor Lyall rolled his eyes at his Alpha's antics, and Floote bustled quickly off about his business.

They entered the dining room. During the course of Alexia's conversation with Professor Lyall, most of the rest of the current
town residents—two werewolves and a few assorted clavigers—had arisen and assembled around the table. They all stood politely
as Lady Maccon seated herself before returning to prior conversation or consumption, depending upon personality. Biffy, seated
slightly
apart from the others, was pretending deep absorption in the latest issue of
Le Beaux Assemblée,
otherwise known as
Beau's Court and Fashionable Magazine Addressed Particularly to the Gentleman of Leisure.
Lord Maccon frowned at him, but the dandy didn't seem to notice.

Alexia helped herself to a bowl of stewed fruit, plum pudding, and custard. After some conversation with her husband on domestic
matters, she turned his attention to her own recent investigations.

“You didn't!”

“I most assuredly did. And now I have need of the carriage. I should like to visit Madame Lefoux before calling at BUR for
the documentation Professor Lyall promised me.”

Lord Maccon gave his Beta a repressive look.

Professor Lyall shrugged, as though to say,
You married her.

“Alexia,” Lord Maccon said in a drawn-out growl, “you know I am not comfortable with that particular incident resurfacing.
I shouldn't like you to be stirring up trouble over an event well and truly settled.”

Lady Maccon, perfectly understanding that the nature of his growl was not one of anger but of distress, put down her fork
and placed her hand over his. “But you must acknowledge that if there is a connection, we should pursue all avenues of investigation.
I promise to keep my attention focused on the relevant details and not be distracted by personal curiosity.”

Lord Maccon sighed.

Lady Maccon lowered her voice, although she was perfectly well aware that she was surrounded by beings with supernatural hearing
who could discern every word she
said. “I know this is a subject that pains you, my love, but if we are to get to the root of this matter, you must see that
there may indeed be a correlation.”

He nodded. “But have a care, please, my heart? I fear you are messing with matters best left undisturbed.”

A stillness in the crinkling of Professor Lyall's evening paper seemed to indicate the Beta was entirely in agreement with
his Alpha on this point.

Alexia nodded and let go of her husband. She glanced up and across the table. “Biffy, would you be amenable to accompanying
me this evening as I make my rounds? I should appreciate the companionship of one more mobile than myself.”

“Of course, my lady, delighted. What hat should I wear?”

“Oh, your town topper should suit us well enough. We shan't be going into society.”

His face fell slightly at that. “Very good, my lady. Should I retrieve it now?”

“Oh, no, please finish your meal. No sense in wasting food in the pursuit of information. The one is far more vital than the
other, despite what Lord Akeldama may think.”

Biffy smiled slightly and continued on with the consumption of his raw steak and fried egg.

Madame Genevieve Lefoux was a woman of style and understanding. If that style leaned toward gentlemen's dress and mannerisms
and if that understanding leaned toward scientific theory and practice, Lady Maccon was certainly not the kind of person so
in want of sensibility that she would critique a friend for such eccentricities.
Some considerable intimacy had left Alexia with the distinct feeling that Madame Lefoux liked her and that she liked Madame
Lefoux, but not a great deal more. Trust, for example, seemed still in question. Between them existed a friendship quite different
from the one she shared with Ivy Tunstell. There was no discussion of the latest fashions or societal events. If asked, Alexia
might say that she could not recall precisely what it was she and the French inventor did discuss, but whatever it was, it
always left Alexia feeling intellectually stretched and vaguely exhausted—rather like visiting a museum.