The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (136 page)

“Dama!” replied the child, pointing at Lord Akeldama.

“Yes, very good.” Alexia turned back to her husband and the vampire in the doorway. “Do have a care, my lord.”

Lord Akeldama nodded. “Indeed. I must say I had not
anticipated
such a challenge when Professor Lyall first suggested the adoption.”

“Yes, it was foolish of all of us to think that Alexia here would produce a biddable child,” agreed the sire of said child, implying that any flaw was Alexia's fault and that he would have produced nothing but the most mild-mannered and pliant of offspring.

“Or even one that a vampire could control.”

“Or a vampire and a pack of werewolves, for that matter.”

Alexia gave them both a
look
. “I hardly feel I can be entirely at fault. Are you claiming Sidheag is an aberration in the Maccon line?”

Lord Maccon tilted his head, thinking about his great-great-great-granddaughter, now Alpha werewolf of the Kingair Pack, a woman prone to wielding rifles and smoking small cigars. “Point taken.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a tremendous splash as Prudence managed to pull, even without supernatural strength, one of the drones partly into the bath with her. Several of the others rushed to his aid, cooing in equal distress over his predicament and the state of his cuffs.

Prudence Alessandra Maccon Akeldama would have been difficult enough without her metanatural abilities. But having a precocious child who could take on immortality was overwhelming, even for two supernatural households. Prudence actually seemed to steal supernatural abilities, turning her victim mortal for the space of a night. If Alexia had not interfered, Lord Akeldama would have remained mortal, and Prudence a fanged toddler, until sunrise. Her mother, or presumably some other preternatural, was the only apparent antidote.

Lord Maccon had accustomed himself, with much grumbling, to touching his daughter only when she was already in contact with her mother or when it was daylight. He was a man who appreciated a good cuddle, so this was disappointing. But poor Lord Akeldama found the whole situation distasteful. He had officially adopted the chit, and as a result had taken on the lion's share of her care, but he was never actually able to show her physical affection. When she was a small child, he'd managed with
leather gloves and thick swaddling blankets, but even then accidents occurred. Now that Prudence was more mobile, the risk was simply too great. Naked touch guaranteed activation of her powers, but sometimes she could steal through clothing, too. When Prudence got older and more reasonable, Alexia intended to subject her daughter to some controlled analytical tests, but right now everyone in the household was simply trying to survive. The toddler couldn't be less interested in the importance of scientific discoveries, for all her mother tried to explain them. It was, Alexia felt, a troubling character flaw.

With one last glare to ensure Prudence remained at least mostly submerged, Alexia made good her escape, dragging her husband behind her. Conall held his amusement in check until they were inside the carriage and on their way toward the West End. Then he let out the most tremendous guffaw.

Alexia couldn't help it—she also started to chuckle. “Poor Lord Akeldama.”

Conall wiped his streaming eyes. “Oh, he loves it. Hasn't had this much excitement in a hundred years or more.”

“Are you certain they will manage without me?”

“We will be back in only a few hours. How bad can it get?”

“Don't tempt fate, my love.”

“Better worry about our own survival.”

“Why, what could you possibly mean?” Alexia straightened and looked out the carriage window suspiciously. True, it had been several years since someone tried to kill her in a conveyance, but it had happened with startling regularity for a period of time, and she had never gotten over her suspicion of carriages as a result.

“No, no, my dear. I meant to imply the play to which I am being dragged.”

“Oh, I like that. As if I could drag you anywhere. You're twice my size.”

Conall gave her the look of a man who knows when to hold his tongue.

“Ivy has assured me that this is a brilliant rendition of a truly moving story and that the troupe is in top form after their continental tour.
The Death Rains of Swansea
, I believe it is called. It's one of Tunstell's own pieces, very artistic and performed in the new sentimental interpretive style.”

“Wife, you are taking me unto certain doom.” He put his hand to his head and fell back against the cushioned wall of the cab in a fair imitation of theatricality.

“Oh, hush your nonsense. It will be perfectly fine.”

Her husband's expression hinted strongly at a preference for, perhaps, death or at least battle, rather than endure the next few hours.

The Maccons arrived, displaying the type of elegance expected from members of the ton. Lady Alexia Maccon was resplendent, some might even have said handsome, in her new French gown. Lord Maccon looked like an earl for once, his hair
almost
under control and his evening dress
almost
impeccable. It was generally thought that the move to London had resulted in quite an improvement in the appearance and manners of the former Woolsey Pack. Some blamed living so close to Lord Akeldama, others the taming effect of an urban environment, and several stalwart holdouts thought it might be Lady Maccon's fault. In truth, it was probably all three, but it was the iron
fist of Lord Akeldama's drones that truly enacted the change—or should one say, iron curling tongs? One of Lord Maccon's pack merely had to enter their purview with hair askew and handfuls of clucking pinks descended upon him like so many mallard ducks upon a hapless piece of untidy bread.

Alexia led her husband firmly to their private box. The whites of his eyes were showing in fear.

The Death Rains of Swansea
featured a lovelorn werewolf enamored of a vampire queen and a dastardly villain with evil intent trying to tear them apart. The stage vampires were depicted with particularly striking fake fangs and a messy sort of red paint smeared about their chins. The werewolves sported proper dress except for large shaggy ears tied about their heads with pink tulle bows—Ivy's influence, no doubt.

Ivy Tunstell, Alexia's dear friend, played the vampire queen. She did so with much sweeping about the stage and fainting, her own fangs larger than anyone else's, which made it so difficult for her to articulate that many of her speeches were reduced to mere spitting hisses. She wore a hat that was part bonnet, part crown, driving home the queen theme, in colors of yellow, red, and gold. Her husband, playing the enamored werewolf, pranced about in a comic interpretation of lupine leaps, barked a lot, and got into several splendid stage fights.

The oddest moment, Alexia felt, was a dreamlike sequence just prior to the break, wherein Tunstell wore bumblebee-striped drawers with attached vest and performed a small ballet before his vampire queen. The queen was dressed in a voluminous black chiffon gown with a high Shakespearian collar and an exterior corset of
green with matching fan. Her hair was done up on either side of her head in round puffs, looking like bear ears, and her arms were bare.
Bare!

Conall, at this juncture, began to shake uncontrollably.

“I believe this is meant to symbolize the absurdity of their improbable affection,” explained Alexia to her husband in severe tones. “Deeply philosophical. The bee represents the circularity of life and the unending buzz of immortality. Ivy's dress, so like that of an opera girl, suggests at the frivolousness of dancing through existence without love.”

Conall continued to vibrate silently, as though trembling in pain.

“I'm not certain about the fan or the ears.” Alexia tapped her cheek thoughtfully with her own fan.

The curtain dropped on the first act with the bumblebee-clad hero left prostrate at the feet of his vampire love. The audience erupted into wild cheers. Lord Conall Maccon began to guffaw in loud rumbling tones that carried beautifully throughout the theater. Many people turned to look up at him in disapproval.

Well
, thought his wife,
at least he managed to hold it in until the break
.

Eventually, her husband controlled his mirth. “Brilliant! I apologize, wife, for objecting to this jaunt. It is immeasurably entertaining.”

“Well, do be certain to say nothing of the kind to poor Tunstell. You are meant to be profoundly moved, not amused.”

A timid knock came at their box.

“Enter,” yodeled his lordship, still chuckling.

The curtain was pushed aside, and in came one of the
people Alexia would have said was least likely to visit the theater, Madame Genevieve Lefoux.

“Good evening, Lord Maccon, Alexia.”

“Genevieve, how unexpected.”

Madame Lefoux was dressed impeccably. Fraternization with the Woolsey Hive had neither a deleterious nor improving effect on her attire. If Countess Nadasdy had tried to get her newest drone to dress appropriately, she had failed. Madame Lefoux dressed to the height of style, for a man. Her taste was still subtle and elegant with no vampiric flamboyances in the manner of cravat ties or cuff links. True she sported cravat pins and pocket watches, but Alexia would lay good money that not a one solely functioned as a cravat pin or a pocket watch.

“Are you enjoying the show?” inquired the Frenchwoman.

“I am finding it diverting. Conall is not taking it seriously.”

Lord Maccon puffed out his cheeks.

“And you?” Alexia directed the question back at her erstwhile friend. Since Genevieve's wildly spectacular charge through London and resulting transition to vampire drone, no small measure of awkwardness had existed between them. Two years on and still they had not regained the closeness they had both so enjoyed at the beginning of their association. Madame Lefoux had polluted it through the application of a rampaging octomaton, and Alexia had finished it off by sentencing Genevieve to a decade of indentured servitude.

“It is interesting,” replied the Frenchwoman cautiously. “And how is little Prudence?”

“Difficult, as ever. And Quesnel?”

“The same.”

The two women exchanged careful smiles. Lady Maccon, despite herself, liked Madame Lefoux. There was just something about her that appealed. And she did owe the Frenchwoman a debt, for it was the inventor who had acted the part of midwife to Prudence's grossly mistimed entrance into the world. Nevertheless, Alexia did not trust her. Madame Lefoux always promoted her own agenda first, even as a drone, with the Order of the Brass Octopus second. What little loyalty and affection for Alexia she still had must, perforce, be a low priority now.

Lady Maccon moved them on from the platitudes with a direct reminder. “And how is the countess?”

Madame Lefoux gave one of her little French shrugs. “She is herself, unchanging, as ever. It is on her behest that I am here. I have been directed to bring you a message.”

“Oh, yes, how did you know where to find me?”

“The Tunstells have a new play, and you are their patroness. I admit I had not anticipated
your
presence, my lord.”

Lord Maccon grinned wolfishly. “I was persuaded.”

“The message?” Alexia put out her hand.

“Ah, no, we have all learned never to do
that
again. The message is a verbal one. Countess Nadasdy has received instructions and would like to see you, Lady Maccon.”

“Instructions? Instructions from who?”

“I am not privy to that information,” replied the inventor.

Alexia turned to her husband. “Who on earth would dare order around the Woolsey Hive queen?”

“Oh, no, Alexia, you misunderstand me. The instructions came
to
her, but they are
for
you.”

“Me? Me! Why…,” Alexia sputtered in outrage.

“I'm afraid I know nothing more. Are you available to call upon her this evening, after the performance?”

Alexia, whose curiosity was quite piqued, nodded her acquiescence. “It is bath night, but Lord Akeldama and his boys must really learn to muddle through.”

“Bath night?” The Frenchwoman was intrigued.

“Prudence is particularly difficult on bath nights.”

“Ah, yes. Some of them don't want to get clean. Quesnel was like that. As you may have noticed, circumstances never did improve.” Genevieve's son was known for being grubby.

“And how is he muddling along, living with vampires?”

“Thriving, the little monster.”

“Much like Prudence, then.”

“As you say.” The Frenchwoman tilted her head. “And my hat shop?”

“Biffy has it marvelously well in hand. You should drop by and visit. He's there tonight. I'm certain he would love to see you.”

“Perhaps I shall. It's not often I get into London these days.” Madame Lefoux began edging toward the curtain, donning her gray top hat and making her good-byes.

She left Lord and Lady Maccon in puzzled silence, with a mystery that, it must be said, somewhat mitigated their enjoyment of the second act, as did the lack of any additional bumblebee courtship rituals.

D
on't you believe this would suit the young miss better?” Biffy was a man of principle. He refused, on principle, to sell a huge tricolored pifferaro bonnet decorated with a cascade of clove pinks, black currants, and cut jet beads to Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher for her daughter. Miss Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher was plain, dreadfully plain, and the bonnet was rather more of an insult than a decoration by contrast. The hat was the height of fashion, but Biffy was convinced a little gold straw bonnet was the superior choice. Biffy was
never wrong about hats
. The difficulty lay in convincing Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher of this fact.

“You see, madam, the refined elegance complements the delicacy of Miss Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher's complexion.”

Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher did not see and would have none of it. “No, young man. The pifferaro, if you please.”

“I'm afraid that is not possible, madam. That hat is promised elsewhere.”

“Then why is it out on the floor?”

“A mistake, Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher. My apologies.”

“I see. Well, clearly we have made a
mistake
in patronizing your establishment! I shall take my custom
elsewhere
. Come, Arabella.” With which the matron marched out, dragging her daughter in her wake. The young lady mouthed an apology behind her mother's back and gave the little gold straw bonnet a wistful look.
Poor creature
, thought Biffy, before returning both hats to their displays.

The silver bells attached to the front of the shop tinkled as a new customer entered. Some evenings those bells never seemed to stop. The store was increasingly popular, despite Biffy's occasional refusal to actually sell hats. He was getting a reputation for being an eccentric. Perhaps not quite so much as the previous owner, but there were ladies who would travel miles in order to have a handsome young werewolf refuse to sell them a hat.

He looked up to see Madame Lefoux. She carried in with her the slightly putrid scent of London and her own special blend of vanilla and machine oil. She was looking exceptionally well, Biffy thought. Life in the country clearly agreed with her. She was not, perhaps, so dandified in dress and manner as Biffy and his set, but she certainly knew how to make the most of somber blues and grays. He wondered, not for the first time, what she might look like in a proper gown. Biffy couldn't help it, he was excessively fond of female fashions and could not quite understand why a woman, with so many delicious options, might choose to dress and live as a man.

“Another satisfied customer, Mr. Biffy?”

“Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher has the taste level of an ill-educated parboiled potato.”

“Revolting female,” agreed the Frenchwoman amiably, “and her gowns are always so well made. Makes her that much more vexing. Did you know her daughter is engaged to Captain Featherstonehaugh?”

Biffy raised one eyebrow. “And he's not the first, I hear.”

“Why, Mr. Biffy, you talk such scandal.”

“You wrong me, Madame Lefoux. I never gossip. I observe. And then relay my observations to practically everyone.”

The inventor smiled, showing her dimples.

“How may I help you this evening?” Biffy put on his shopboy persona. “A new chapeau, or were you thinking about some other fripperies?”

“Oh, well, perhaps.” Madame Lefoux's reply was vague as she looked about her old establishment.

Biffy tried to imagine it through her eyes. It was much the same. The hats still dangled from long chains so that patrons had to push their way through swaying tendrils, but the secret door was now even more well hidden behind a curtained-off back area, and he had expanded recently, opening up a men's hats and accessories section.

The Frenchwoman was drawn into examination of a lovely top hat in midnight blue velvet.

“That would suit your complexion very well,” commented Biffy when she fingered the turn of the brim.

“I am sure you are right, but not tonight. I simply came to visit the old place. You have tended it well.”

Biffy gave a little bow. “I am but a steward to your vision.”

Madame Lefoux huffed in amusement. “Flatterer.”

Biffy never knew where he stood with Madame Lefoux. She was so very much outside his experience: an inventor, a scientist, and middle class, with a marked preference for the company of young ladies and an eccentricity of dress that was too restrained to be unstudied. Biffy didn't like enigmas—they were out of fashion.

“I have recently come from seeing Lord and Lady Maccon at the theater.”

Biffy was willing to play along. “Oh, indeed? I thought it was bath night.”

“Apparently, Lord Akeldama was left to muddle through alone.”

“Oh, dear.”

“It occurred to me that we have switched places, you and I.”

The French
, thought Biffy,
could be very philosophical
. “Come again?”

“I have become a reluctant drone to vampires and you nest in the bosom of the Maccon home and hearth.”

“Ah, were you once in that bosom? I had thought you never quite got all the way inside. Not for lack of trying, of course.”

The Frenchwoman laughed. “Touché.”

The front door tinkled again.
Busy night for new moon
. Biffy looked up, smile in place, knowing he made a fetching picture. He wore his very best brown suit. True, his cravat was tied more simply than he liked—his new claviger needed training—and his hair was slightly mussed. His hair was
always
slightly mussed these days despite liberal application of Bond Street's best pomade. One, apparently, had to bear up under such tribulations when one was a werewolf.

Felicity Loontwill entered the shop and wafted over to him in a flutter of raspberry taffeta and a great show of cordiality. She smelled of too much rose water and too little sleep. Her dress was very French, her hair was very German, and her shoes were quite definitely Italian. He could detect the odor of fish oil.

“Mr. Rabiffano, I was so hoping you would be here. And Madame Lefoux, how unexpectedly delightful!”

“Why, Miss Loontwill, back from your European tour already?” Biffy didn't like Lady Maccon's sister. She was the type of girl who would show her neck to a vampire one moment and her ankle to a chimney sweep the next.

“Yes. And what a bother it was. Two years abroad with absolutely nothing to show for it.”

“No delusional Italian count or French marquis fell in love with you? Shocking.” Madame Lefoux's green eyes twinkled.

The door jingled again and Mrs. Loontwill and Lady Evelyn Mongtwee entered the shop. Lady Evelyn headed immediately toward a spectacular hat of chartreuse and crimson, while Mrs. Loontwill followed her other daughter up to the counter.

“Oh, Mama, do you remember Mr. Rabiffano? He belongs to our dear Alexia's household.”

Mrs. Loontwill looked at the dandy suspiciously. “Oh, does he, indeed? A pleasure to meet you, I'm sure. Come away, Felicity.”

Mrs. Loontwill didn't even glance in Madame Lefoux's direction.

The three ladies then gave their undivided attention to the hats while Biffy tried to comprehend what they were about.

Madame Lefoux voiced his thoughts. “Do you think they are actually here to shop?”

“I believe Lady Maccon is not receiving them at present, so they may be after information.” He looked suspiciously at the Frenchwoman. “Now that Felicity has returned, will she be rejoining the Woolsey Hive?”

Madame Lefoux shrugged. “I don't know, but I shouldn't think so. I can't imagine it holds much appeal, now that the hive is located outside London. You know these society chits—only interested in the glamorous side of immortality. She may find herself another hive. Or a husband, of course.”

At which juncture Felicity returned to them, in clear defiance of her mother's wishes. “Mr. Rabiffano, how is my
dear
sister? I can hardly believe how long it has been since I saw her last.”

“She is well,” replied Biffy, utterly passive.

“And that child of hers? My darling little niece?”

Her face sharpened when she was being nosy, noted Biffy, rather like that of an inquisitive trout. “She, too, is well.”

“And how is Lord Maccon? Still doting upon them both?”

“Still, as you say, doting.”

“Why, Mr. Rabiffano, you have grown so dreary and terse since your accident.”

With a twinkle to his eye, the dandy gestured at the little gold straw bonnet. “What do you think of this one, Miss Loontwill? It is very subtle and sophisticated.”

Felicity backed away hurriedly. “Oh, no, mine is too bold a beauty for anything so insipid.” She turned away. “Mama, Evy, have you seen anything to your taste?”

“Not tonight, my dear.”

“No, sister, although that green and red toque makes quite the statement.”

Felicity looked back at Madame Lefoux, on point. “How unfortunate that you are no longer in charge here, madame. I do believe that the quality may have fallen.”

Madame Lefoux said nothing and Biffy took the hit without flinching.

“Do, please, give my sister and her husband my best regards. I do hope they remain blissfully enamored of one another, although it is terribly embarrassing.” Felicity whirled to the French inventor. “And give the countess my compliments as well, of course.”

With that, the rose-scented blonde led her mother and her sister out into the night with nary a backward glance.

Biffy and Madame Lefoux exchanged looks.

“What was
that
about?” wondered the inventor.

“A warning of some kind.”

“Or an offer? I think I should return to Woolsey.”

“You are turning into a very good drone, aren't you, Madame Lefoux?”

As she made her way out, the Frenchwoman gave him a look that suggested she preferred it if everyone thought that. Biffy hoarded away that bit of information. He had much to tell Lady Maccon when he saw her next.

Alexia and Conall arrived home from the theater prepared to go out immediately to call on the Woolsey Hive. One did not ignore an invitation from Countess Nadasdy, even if one was a peer of the realm. Alexia alighted from her gilded carriage in a flutter of taffeta and intrigue, marching into her town residence with strides of such
vigor as to make the bustle of her dress sway alarmingly back and forth. Lord Maccon eyed this appreciatively. The tuck-in at his wife's waist was particularly appealing, emphasizing an area ideally suited to a man's hand, particularly if one had hands as large as his. Alexia turned in the doorway and gave him a look.

“Oh, do hurry.” They were still making a show of living in their own house and so had to move swiftly up the stairs and across the secret gangplank into Lord Akeldama's residence in order to effect a change of attire.

Floote's dapper head emerged from the back parlor as they did so. “Madam?”

“Not stopping, Floote. We have been
summoned
.”

“Queen Victoria?”

“No, worse—a queen.”

“Will you go by rail or shall I have the groom switch to fresh horses?”

Alexia paused halfway up the grand staircase.

“Train, I think, please.”

“At once, madam.”

Prudence, much to everyone's delight, was down for her nap, nested with her head atop Lord Akeldama's cat and her feet tucked under the Viscount Trizdale's lemon-satin-covered leg. The viscount was looking strained, obviously under orders not to move for fear of waking the child. Prudence was wearing an excessively frilly dress of cream and lavender plaid. Lord Akeldama had changed into an outfit of royal purple and champagne to complement it and was sitting nearby, a fond eye to his drone and adopted daughter. He appeared to be reading a suspiciously embossed novel, but Alexia could not quite countenance such an activity in Lord Akeldama. To her certain
knowledge, he never read anything, except perhaps the society gossip columns. She was unsurprised when, upon catching sight of them lurking in the hallway, the vampire put his book down with alacrity and sprang to meet them.

Together they looked at the lemony drone, calico feline, and plaid pile of infant.

“Isn't that just a
picture
?” Lord Akeldama was adrift on a sea of candy-colored domestic bliss.

“All is well?” Alexia spoke in hushed tones.

The vampire tucked a lock of silvery blond hair behind his ear in an oddly soft gesture. “
Excessively
. The puggle behaved herself after you departed, and as you can see, we had no further incidents of note.”

“I do hope she grows out of this dislike for soap suds.”

Lord Akeldama gave Lord Maccon a significant sort of once-over where he lurked behind his wife in the hallway. “My
darling
chamomile bud, we can but hope.”