The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (13 page)

Alexia wondered what she would weigh on such a scale.
Nothing? Probably, that would be a novel experience.
“Is that why you have come to England? Because of our integration of vampires and werewolves into regular society?”

The scientist shook his head. “Things are not so bad as all that across the pond these days, but, no, I'm here to present
a paper. The Royal Society invited me to inaugurate the opening of their new gentlemen's club, Hypocras. Heard of it?”

Miss Tarabotti had, but she could not remember when, nor could she recall anything further about it. She simply nodded.

The fish course was taken away and the main dish set down before them: roasted beef short ribs with gravy and root vegetables.

At the far end of the table, Lord Maccon's dinner companion let out a tinkling laugh.

Miss Tarabotti asked Mr. MacDougall quite out of the blue, “Miss Wibbley is very attractive, wouldn't you say?” She tipped
her rib from its upright presentation position and sawed away at the meat viciously.

The American, being an American, looked openly over at the girl in question. He blushed and said timorously into his food,
“I prefer ladies with dark hair and a bit more personality.”

Alexia was charmed despite herself. She decided she had wasted enough of the evening, not to mention the delicious meal, agonizing
over Lord Maccon. She proceeded to give the hapless Mr. MacDougall the full force of her attention for the remainder of supper.
A situation he seemed to regard with mixed terror and delight.

Miss Tarabotti, never one to pass up an opportunity to display her bluestocking tendencies, matched wits with the young scientist
on a wide range of subjects. Leaving the weighing of souls for another occasion, the salad course moved them on to recent
innovations in various engine designs. Over fruit and bonbons, they broached the physiological correlation between mental
and behavioral phenomena and how this might affect vampire hive dynamics. By coffee, which was served in the drawing room,
Mr. MacDougall had asked for and received permission to call upon Miss Tarabotti the following day. Lord Maccon was looking
as black as thunderclouds, and Miss Wibbley seemed unable to distract him further. Alexia did not notice the werewolf's disgruntlement;
new techniques in the capture of evanescent reflections were just so riveting.

Miss Tarabotti departed the party still feeling rejected by the earl but secure in the knowledge she could look forward to
further intellectual conversation the following day. She was also pleased with herself, convinced that while she might be
upset by Lord Maccon's behavior, she had given no indication of this to him nor to anyone else who mattered.

Lord Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, paced his office like a caged, well, wolf.

“I do not understand what she is playing at,” he grumbled. He was looking even scruffier than usual. This contrasted sharply
with the fact that he was still in evening dress, having just come from the Blingchesters' dinner party. His cravat was terribly
mussed, as though someone had been pawing at it.

Professor Lyall, sitting at his own small desk in the far corner of the room, looked up from behind a mound of metal scrolls.
He pushed a pile of wax rubbings to one side. He reflected sadly that his Alpha really was a hopeless case so far as fashion
was concerned. He looked to be moving in that direction in the romantic arena as well.

Like most werewolves, they kept nighttime business hours. Essentially, the Blingchesters' dinner had been Lord Maccon's breakfast.

“I have had a report from the Westminster hive of yet another rove appearance,” said Professor Lyall. “At least they
told
us this time. Funny that they should find out before we did; I did not think they concerned themselves so closely with rove
activities.”

His boss did not seem to hear this. “She completely ignored me, blasted female! Spent the entire evening flirting with a scientist.
An
American
scientist, if you ken such an appalling thing!” The Alpha sounded particularly Scottish in his dudgeon.

Professor Lyall ceded to the fact that, for the moment, he was not likely to get any real work done. “Be fair, my lord. You
undertook to ignore her first.”

“Of course I ignored her! It is her responsibility to come to me at this juncture. I made my initial interest perfectly clear.”

Silence.

“
I
kissed
her,
” he explained, aggrieved.

“Mmm, yes, I had the dubious pleasure of witnessing that, ah-hem, overly public occurrence.” Lyall sharpened his pen nib,
using a small copper blade that ejected from the end of his glassicals.

“Well! Why hasn't she done anything about it?” the Alpha wanted to know.

“You mean like whack you upside the noggin with that deadly parasol of hers? I would be cautious in that area if I were you.
I am reasonably certain she had it custom made and tipped with silver.”

Lord Maccon looked petulant. “
I mean
like attempt to talk to me, or perhaps not talk at all but simply drag me off somewhere…” He trailed off. “Somewhere dark
and soft and…” He shook himself like a wet dog. “But, no. Instead she utterly dismissed me, not a single word. I believe I
liked it better when she was yelling at me.” He paused and then nodded to himself. “I know I liked it better.”

Professor Lyall sighed, put down his quill, turned his entire attention upon his boss, and attempted to explain. Ordinarily,
Lord Maccon was not quite so thickheaded. “Alexia Tarabotti is not going to behave in accordance with pack dynamics. You are
enacting the traditional courting ritual for Alpha females. It may be instinct for you, but this is the modern age; many things
have changed.”

“That woman,” Lord Maccon spat, “is definitely alpha and most certainly female.”

“But not a werewolf.” Professor Lyall's voice was aggravatingly calm.

Lord Maccon, who had been behaving entirely on instinct, looked suddenly crestfallen. “Have I handled this situation entirely
wrong?”

Professor Lyall was reminded of his Alpha's origins. He might be a relatively old werewolf, but he had spent much of that
time in a barely enlightened backwater city in the Scottish Highlands. All the London ton acknowledged Scotland as a barbaric
place. The packs there cared very little for the social niceties of daytime folk. Highland werewolves had a reputation for
doing atrocious and highly unwarranted
things,
like wearing smoking jackets to the dinner table. Lyall shivered at the delicious horror of the very idea.

“Yes. You have behaved, I would go so far as to say, badly. I suggest a well-crafted apology and an extended session of abject
groveling,” said the Beta. His expression remained mild, but the look in his eyes was flinty. His Alpha would find no sympathy
there.

Lord Maccon stood up very straight. He would have towered over his second even if Lyall were not sitting down. “I am
not
a groveler!”

“It is possible to learn many new and interesting skills in one lifetime,” advised Professor Lyall, unimpressed by the posturing.

Lord Maccon looked mutinous.

Professor Lyall shrugged. “Well, you had best give up now, then. I never quite understood your interest in the young lady
to begin with. I am convinced the dewan would have much to say on the subject of unsanctioned intimacy between a werewolf
and a preternatural regardless of your mistake with Miss Tarabotti.” Of course, he was baiting his Alpha, perhaps unwisely.

Lord Maccon went red and sputtered. To tell the truth, he could not quite fathom his interest in her either. There was just
something about Alexia Tarabotti that made her immensely appealing. Perhaps it was the turn of her neck or the secret smile
she sometimes got when they argued that said she might be yelling at him for the pure fun of it. As far as Lord Maccon was
concerned, nothing was worse than a timid woman. He was often prone to lamenting the loss of all those stalwart Highland lasses
of his misspent youth. Alexia, he often felt, would adapt well to rough Scottish cold, and rock, and plaid. Was that the source
of the fascination? Alexia in plaid? His mind carried that image one or two steps further, taking her out of the plaid and
then on top of it.

He sat down with a sigh at his desk. Silence descended for about half an hour; nothing disturbed the night's stillness but
the shuffling of papers, the tink of metal slates, and an occasional sip of tea.

Finally Lord Maccon looked up. “Grovel, you say?”

Lyall did not glance away from the latest vampire report he was perusing. “Grovel, my lord.”

M
r. MacDougall arrived promptly at eleven-thirty the next morning to whisk Miss Tarabotti away for a drive. His appearance
caused quite a tizzy in the Loontwill household. Alexia was, naturally, expecting the gentleman. She sat awaiting his arrival
calmly in the front parlor, wearing a forest green carriage dress with gold filigree buttons down the front, an elegant new
broad-brimmed straw hat, and a cagey expression. The family surmised her imminent departure from the hat and gloves, but they
had no idea who might be calling to take her out. Aside from Ivy Hisselpenny, Alexia did not entertain callers often, and
everyone knew the Hisselpennys owned only one carriage, and it was not of sufficient quality to merit gold filigree buttons.
The Loontwills were left to assume that Alexia was awaiting a
man.
There was little in the world at that moment that any of them could find more surprising. The possible reintroduction of
the crinoline would have caused less shock. They had pestered her throughout the morning's activities to reveal the gentleman's
name, but to no avail. So the Loontwills had finally settled into waiting with her, agog with curiosity. By the time the long-awaited
knock came, they were quite frenzied with anticipation.

Mr. MacDougall smiled shyly at the four ladies who all seemed to have tried to open the front door at the same time. He issued
a round of polite salutations to Mrs. Loontwill, Miss Evylin Loontwill, and Miss Felicity Loontwill. Miss Tarabotti introduced
them with only minimal grace and an air of embarrassment before grabbing onto his proffered arm in a pointed manner and with
an undisguised air of desperation. Without further ado, he helped her down the stairs and into his carriage, and settled on
the box next to her. Alexia deployed her trusty brass parasol and tilted it in such a way she would not have to look any more
at her family.

He drove a pair of elegant chestnuts: calm and quiet beasts, but well matched for pace and color, and goers even though they
lacked a certain spirited fire in the eye. The carriage was equally unassuming, not a high flyer but a tidy little buggy well
appointed with all modern conveniences. The chubby scientist handled all three like he owned them, and Alexia reassessed her
opinion of him. Everything about the equipage was in tip-top condition, and he had clearly spared no expense, even though
he was only visiting England for a short while. The carriage included a crank-operated water-boiling canteen for tea on-the-go,
a long-distance monocular optical viewing device for the better appreciation of scenery, and even a small steam engine linked
to a complex hydraulic system the purpose of which Alexia could not begin to fathom. Mr. MacDougall was a scientist, certainly,
and an American, no doubt, but he also seemed to possess taste and the means by which to inventively display it properly.
Miss Tarabotti was suitably impressed. As far as she was concerned, it was one thing to have wealth and quite another to know
how to show it off appropriately.

Behind them, Alexia's family huddled in a delighted clucking mass. Thrilled upon seeing that it was, indeed, a
man
who had come to take the eldest daughter out, they were doubly delighted to find out that he was the respectable young scientist
of the evening before. New heights of euphoria had been reached (especially by Squire Loontwill) once it was deduced that
he seemed to possess more capital than was to be hoped for in any standard member of the intellectual set (even an American).

“He may actually be a very good catch,” said Evylin to her sister as they stood on the stoop waving Alexia off. “A little
portly for my tastes, but she cannot afford to be choosey. Not with her age and appearance.” Evylin tossed one of her golden
ringlets carelessly behind her shoulder.

“And we all thought her marriage prospects exhausted.” Felicity shook her head at the wonders of the universe.

“They are suited,” said their mother. “He is clearly bookish. I did not follow a single word of their conversation at dinner
last night, not one jot of it. He must be bookish.”

“You know what the best of this situation is?” added Felicity, catty to the last. Her father's murmur of “All that money”
going either unheard or unacknowledged, she answered her own question. “If they do marry, he will take her all the way back
to the Colonies with him.”

“Yes, but we will have to put up with the fact that everyone important will know we have an
American
in the family,” pointed out Evylin, her eyes narrowing.

“Needs must, my darlings, needs must,” said their mother, ushering them back inside and closing the door firmly behind them.
She wondered how little they could get away with spending on Alexia's future wedding and retreated to the study with her husband
to consult on the matter.

Of course, Miss Tarabotti's relations were getting well ahead of themselves. Alexia's intentions toward Mr. Mac-Dougall were
of an entirely platonic nature. She simply wanted to get out of the house and talk with a person, any person, in possession
of an actual working brain, for a change. Mr. MacDougall's intentions might have been less pure, but he was timid enough for
Miss Tarabotti to easily ignore any verbal forays in the romantic direction. She did so initially by inquiring after his scientific
pursuits.

“How did you get interested in soul measuring?” she asked pleasantly, delighted to be out of doors and disposed to be kind
to the facilitator of her freedom.

It was an unexpectedly beautiful day, pleasantly warm with a light and friendly little breeze. Miss Tarabotti's parasol was
actually being put to its intended use, for the top was down on Mr. MacDougall's buggy, and she certainly needed no more sun
than was strictly necessary. The mere whiff of daylight and her tan deepened to mocha and her mama went into hysterics. With
both hat and parasol firmly in place, her mama's nerves were assured complete safety—from that quarter at least.

Mr. MacDougall tsked to his horses, and they assumed a lazy walk. A vulpine-faced sandy-haired gentleman in a long trench
coat left his station beneath the lamppost outside the Loontwills' front door and followed at a discreet distance.

Mr. MacDougall looked at his driving companion. She was not one to be considered fashionably pretty, but he liked the strong
tilt to her jaw and determined glint in her dark eyes. He had a particular partiality for firm-willed ladies, especially when
they came coupled with a jaw that was shapely, eyes that were large and dark, and a handsome figure to boot. He decided she
seemed resilient enough for the real reason he wanted to measure souls, and it made for a nicely dramatic story anyway. “It's
not bad to admit here, I suppose,” he said to start, “but you should understand, in my country I'd not speak of it.” Mr. MacDougall
had a bit of flare for the dramatic well hidden behind the receding hairline and spectacles.

Miss Tarabotti placed a sympathetic hand on his arm. “My dear sir, I did not intend to be nosy! You are of a mind to think
of my question as officious?”

The gentleman blushed and pushed at his spectacles nervously. “Oh no, of course not! No such thing. It's just that my brother
was turned. Vampire you see. My older brother.”

Alexia's response was characteristically British. “Felicitations on a successful metamorphosis. May he make his mark on history.”

The American shook his head sadly. “Here, as your comment implies, it is generally thought a good thing. In this country,
I mean to say.”

“Immortality is immortality.” Alexia did not mean to be unsympathetic, but there it was.

“Not when it comes at the price of the soul.”

“Your family keeps the old faith?” Alexia was surprised. Mr. MacDougall, after all, was a scientist. Scientists were generally
not given to overly religious backgrounds.

The scientist nodded. “Puritans to the very core. Not a progressive bone among them: so
supernatural
means ‘undead' to them. John survived the bite, but they repudiated and disinherited him anyway. The family gave him three
days' grace and then hunted him down like a rabid dog.”

Miss Tarabotti shook her head in sorrow. The narrow-mindedness of it all! She knew her history. The puritans left Queen Elizabeth's
England for the New World because the queen sanctioned the supernatural presence in the British Isle. The Colonies had been
entirely backward ever since: religious fingers in all their dealings with vampires, werewolves, and ghosts. It made America
into a deeply superstitious place. Fates only knew what they'd think of someone like her!

Curious that any man from a conservative family might opt to try for metamorphosis, she asked, “Why on earth did your brother
turn in the first place?”

“It was against his will. I think the hive queen did it to prove a point. We MacDougalls have always voted against change—antiprogressive
to the last breath and influential in government where it counts most.”

Miss Tarabotti nodded. She had surmised his family's influence from the money he obviously possessed. She touched the fine
leather of the buggy seat with one hand. Here was a scientist who needed no patronage. Strange place, that overseas land,
where religion and wealth did the talking and history and age held so little sway.

Mr. MacDougall continued. “I think the hive thought that turning the eldest might make us MacDougalls all think differently.”

“Did it?”

“None except me. I loved my older brother, you see? I saw him once after he'd changed. He was still the same person: stronger,
paler, night-born, yes, but essentially the same. He probably still would have voted conservative, if they'd let him vote.”
He smiled slightly, and then his face fell back to round pudding blandness. “So I switched from banking to biology and have
been studying the supernatural ever since.”

Miss Tarabotti shook her head unhappily. Such a sad beginning. She contemplated the sunny day: the lovely green of Hyde Park,
the bright hats and dresses of ladies walking arm in arm across the grass, the two plump dirigibles gliding sedately overhead.
“BUR would never allow such behavior from any vampire—to bite without permission! Let alone for a hive queen to bite the unwilling
with the intent to metamorphose! Such shocking behavior.”

Mr. MacDougall sighed. “Yours is a very different world, my dear Miss Tarabotti. Very different. Mine is a land still at war
with itself. The fact that the vampires sided with the Confederates still has not been forgiven.”

Alexia did not wish to insult her new friend, so she refrained from criticizing his government. But what did the Americans
expect if they refused to integrate the supernatural set into their society in any way? When they forced vampires and werewolves
to hide and skulk about in a shoddy imitation of the European Dark Ages?

“Have you rejected your family's puritanical tenets?” Miss Tarabotti looked inquiringly at her companion. Out of the corner
of her eye, she caught a flash of tan trench coat. It must be tough on Professor Lyall to be outside in all this sun, especially
when full moon was soon due. She felt a moment's pity but was pleased to know that it was he who had relieved the night watch
guard. It meant Lord Maccon was still thinking of her. Of course, he was thinking of her as a problem… but that was better
than not thinking of her at all, was it not? Alexia touched her lips softly with one hand and then forcibly stopped all ruminations
on the mental state of the Earl of Woolsey.

Mr. MacDougall answered her question. “You mean, have I abandoned the belief that supernatural folk have sold their souls
to Satan?”

Miss Tarabotti nodded.

“Yes. But not necessarily because of my brother's misfortune. The idea was never scientific enough for me. My parents knew
not what they risked, sending me to Oxford. You know, I studied for some time in this country? Several of the dons are vampires.
I have come 'round to the Royal Society's way of thinking, that the soul must formulate a quantifiable entity. Some individuals
have less of this soul-matter, and some have more. And those who have more can be changed into immortals, and those who have
less cannot. Thus it is not lack of soul but overabundance that the puritans feared. And that very concept is heresy in my
family.”

Alexia agreed. She kept abreast of the Society's publications. They had yet to find out about preternaturals and the truly
soulless. BUR was content to let daylight scientists blunder about without access to that particular knowledge. But Miss Tarabotti
felt it was only a matter of time in this enlightened age before her kind were analyzed and dissected.

“You have been devising a way to measure the soul ever since?” She checked about casually for her supernatural shadow. Professor
Lyall paced them several yards away, doffing his hat to ladies walking by: an everyday middle-class gentleman apparently unaware
of their buggy nearby. But Alexia knew he was watching her the entire time. Professor Lyall knew his duty.