The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (14 page)

Mr. MacDougall nodded. “Wouldn't you like to know? Especially as a woman? I mean, ladies have a high risk of failing to survive
metamorphosis.”

Miss Tarabotti smiled. “I know exactly how much soul I have, thank you, sir. I need no scientist to tell me that.”

Mr. MacDougall laughed, taking her confidence for jest.

A gaggle of dandified young men passed by. All were decked to the height of fashion: three-buttoned swallowtails instead of
frock coats, knotted silk cravats, and high collars. Alexia was certain she knew several of them from somewhere, but she did
not recognize them well enough to name. These tipped their hats to her. One tallish specimen in blueberry satin breeches slowed
to look with inexplicable interest at Mr. MacDougall before being whisked onward by his cohorts. Off to one side, Professor
Lyall took note of their antics with interest.

Alexia glanced at her companion. “If you are successful in the measuring of souls, Mr. MacDougall, shouldn't you be worried
such knowledge might be misused?”

“By scientists?”

“By scientists, by hives, by packs, by governments. Right now, what keeps the power of the supernatural set in check is their
small numbers. If they knew ahead of time who to recruit, they could turn more females and increase their population drastically,
and the very fabric of our social world would be rearranged.”

“Yet the fact that they need us to procreate gives us normal folk some small advantage,” he demurred.

It occurred to Miss Tarabotti that hives and packs had probably been working to uncover a way to measure the human soul for
hundreds of years. This young man stood little chance of success where generations of advanced supernatural researchers had
failed. But she held her tongue. Who was she to destroy a man's dreams?

She pretended interest in a group of swans floating across a pond to one side of the track. In truth, it was Professor Lyall
who had caught her attention. Had he stumbled? It looked as though he had, falling against another gentleman and causing that
man to drop some sort of metal device.

“So what topic will you address at the Hypocras inauguration?” Miss Tarabotti asked.

Mr. MacDougall coughed. “Well”—he looked embarrassed—“primarily what I have found the soul
not
to be. My initial research would seem to indicate that it is not an aura of any kind nor a pigmentation of the skin. There
are several working theories: some think it may reside in part of the brain; others believe it to be a fluid element in the
eyes or perhaps electrical in nature.”

“What do you think?” Alexia was still feigning interest in the swans. Professor Lyall seemed to recover himself. It was hard
to tell at this distance, but, under his John Bull hat, his angular face seemed oddly pale.

“From what I know of metamorphosis—and I have never been privileged enough to observe it in action, mind you—I believe the
conversion to be the result of a blood-borne pathogen. The same kind of pathogen Dr. Snow has suggested resulted in the recent
cholera outbreaks.”

“You oppose the miasmatic hypothesis of disease transfer?”

The scientist inclined his head, delighted to converse with a woman so well educated in modern medical theory.

Miss Tarabotti said, “Dr. Snow suggests cholera transmission occurred through the ingestion of contaminated water. How exactly
would you suggest supernatural transmission occurs?”

“That remains a mystery. As does the reason why some respond positively and others do not.”

“A condition that we currently refer to as the presence or absence of excess soul?” suggested Alexia.

“Exactly.” The scientist's eyes brightened with enthusiasm. “Identifying a pathogen will only show us
what
occurs to drive metamorphosis. It will not tell us
why
or
how.
My research until now has focused on hematology, but I am beginning to think I have been pursuing the wrong hypothetical
angle.”

“You need to deduce what is different between those who die and those who survive?” Alexia tapped the brass handle of her
parasol with her fingertips.

“And what the survivor is like before and after metamorphosis.” Mr. MacDougall drew the horses up so he could turn fully to
face Alexia, animated in his enthusiasm. “If the soul has substance, if it is an organ or part of an organ that some possess
and others do not—the heart, perhaps, or the lungs—”

Miss Tarabotti was equally enthusiastic; she finished the hypothesis for him. “Then it should be quantifiable!” Her dark eyes
sparkled with the very idea of such a thing. Brilliant in concept, but it would require much further study. She understood
now why he had not thought his research appropriate dinner conversation the evening before. “You are undertaking a number
of cadaverous dissections?” she asked.

Mr. MacDougall nodded, having forgotten her ladylike sensibilities in his excitement. “But I am finding it most difficult
to acquire dead werewolves and vampires for comparison. Particularly in the United States.”

Miss Tarabotti shuddered. No need to ask why. Everyone knew the Americans burned to death any accused of being supernatural,
leaving little behind for any scientist to study. “You think to procure specimens here and transport them back?”

The scientist nodded. “I hope that it will be considered in the best interest of science to pursue this kind of inquiry.”

“Well,” Alexia said, “your speech at Hypocras should pave the way if it at all approaches the conversation we are having.
You have some of the newest and best ideas I have yet heard on the subject. You would have my vote of confidence, were I allowed
to be a member of the club.”

The young man grinned at her praise and began to think ever more fondly of Miss Tarabotti, who possessed enough intelligence
to not only follow his thoughts, but perceive their worth as well. He tsked his horses into motion once more, guiding them
off to one side of the path. “Did I mention how lovely you are looking today, Miss Tarabotti?” He pulled the carriage to a
full stop.

Of course, Alexia could hardly point out the many flaws in his theories after such a compliment. So instead she steered their
conversation on to more general topics. Mr. MacDougall cranked up the mechanical water boiler and brewed a pot of tea. Alexia
used the carriage's monocular distance viewing device while he did so. She tilted the lenses about, commenting on the pleasures
of a sunny day and the statuesque grace of distant dirigibles floating above the park. She also trained them briefly on Professor
Lyall, who was leaning in the shade of a tree a little way away, only to find he had donned his glassicals and was watching
her through them. She hurriedly put the optical magnification device down and turned amiably back to her host and tea.

While she sipped cautiously at the tin mug, surprised to find the offering a delicious Assam, he lit up the small hydraulic
engine she had noticed at the back of the carriage. With much creaking and groaning, a massive parasol pulled itself upright
and then unfolded to shade the open carriage. Alexia snapped her own small parasol shut, glaring at it with an entirely unwarranted
sense of inadequacy. It was a good little parasol and hardly deserving of such a jaundiced look.

They passed a distinctly pleasant additional hour in each other's company, sipping tea and nibbling a box of rosewater and
lemon Turkish delight that Mr. MacDougall had invested in for this occasion especially. In no time, it seemed, Mr. MacDougall
was lowering the gigantic parasol and driving Miss Tarabotti back home.

The young gentleman helped her down from his carriage at the Loontwills' front steps feeling justifiably pleased with the
success of their outing, but Alexia forestalled him when he tried to see her all the way to the door.

“Please do not mistake my refusal for rudeness,” she explained delicately. “But you do not wish to encounter my relations
just now. They are not up to your caliber of intellect, I am ashamed to say.” She suspected her mother and sisters were out
shopping, but she needed some excuse. The way his eyes looked right now, he might make a declaration, and then where would
she be?

The scientist nodded gravely. “I completely understand, my dear Miss Tarabotti. My own relatives are similarly afflicted.
May I call again?”

Alexia did not smile. It would not do to be coy when she had no intention of returning his advances. “You may, but not tomorrow,
Mr. MacDougall. You will be preparing for your speech.”

“The next day?” He was persistent. “That way I can tell you how the opening celebrations went.”

Very forward, American men.
Alexia sighed inwardly but nodded her acquiescence.

Mr. MacDougall assumed the driver's seat, tipped his hat, and urged his chestnut beauties into a sedate withdrawal.

Miss Tarabotti pretended she was remaining on the stoop to wave him off. Once he was out of sight, however, she nipped furtively
back down the front steps and round the side of the house.

“You certainly kept a close watch,” she accused the man lurking there.

“Good afternoon, Miss Tarabotti,” he said in a polite if mild voice—milder than usual, even for Professor Lyall, almost weak
sounding.

Alexia frowned in concern. She tried to get a good look at his face under the ostentatious hat. “How came you to be on duty
today, sir? I would have thought Lord Maccon required your expertise elsewhere.”

The professor looked pale and drawn, normal in a vampire but not in a werewolf. The lines on his face had deepened with strain,
and his eyes were bloodshot. “Miss Tarabotti, it is getting on to full moon; his lordship has to be careful who he puts out
to guard you come daylight. The young ones are not very stable at this time of the month.”

Alexia sniffed. “I appreciate his concern for my well-being. But I had thought there were others in BUR who might not be so
taxed by daylight service. When is the moon?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Miss Tarabotti frowned. “Same time as Mr. MacDougall's speech at the Hypocras Club,” she said softly to herself.

“What?” The professor looked too tired to be interested.

Alexia waved a hand in the air. “Oh, nothing of import. You should go home, Professor, get some rest. You look absolutely
awful. He should not work you so hard.”

The Beta smiled. “It is part of my purpose.”

“To exhaust yourself protecting me?”

“To safeguard his interests.”

Miss Tarabotti gave him a horrified look. “I hardly think that an apt description.”

Lyall, who'd seen the crested carriage parked just the other side of the Loontwill house, did not reply to that.

There was a pause.

“What did he do?” Alexia asked.

“Who?” replied Professor Lyall, although he knew perfectly well what she was asking about.

“The man you pretended to stumble into.”

“Mmm.” The werewolf was cagey. “It was more what he had.”

Miss Tarabotti tilted her head and looked inquiring.

“I wish you a pleasant evening, Miss Tarabotti,” said Professor Lyall.

Alexia gave him an exasperated look, then marched back up the front stairs and inside her house.

The family was clearly out, but Floote was waiting for her in the foyer with a most un-Floote-like expression of perturbation
on his face. The door to the front parlor was open, a certain sign of visitors. Alexia was shocked. The Loontwills could not
possibly have been expecting company, otherwise they would never have left the premises.

“Who is here, Floote?” she asked, fumbling with her hatpin.

The butler raised both eyebrows at her.

Alexia swallowed, suddenly nervous. She removed her hat and gloves and put them carefully on the hall table.

She took a moment to compose herself, checking her hair in the framed gilt hallway mirror. The dark mass was arranged a tad
long for daytime, but she had a bite mark to cover up, and it was too hot for high necklines. She twitched several curls into
place to better cover her bruise. Her own face looked back at her: firm chin, dark eyes, militant expression. Alexia touched
her nose.
Mr. Mac-Dougall thinks you are lovely,
she told her reflection.

Then she set her spine as straight as possible and marched into the front parlor.

Lord Conall Maccon whirled about from where he stood. He had been facing the closed velvet curtains of the front window, staring
at them as though he might be able to see right through the heavy material. In the dim light of the room, his eyes looked
accusatory.

Miss Tarabotti paused on the threshold. Without a word, she turned back around, reached out, and slammed the parlor door shut
firmly behind her.

Floote gave the closed door a long, hard look.

Outside in the street, Professor Lyall set his bone-weary self toward the BUR offices—just a few more records to check before
bed. With one free hand, he patted a new bulge in his many-pocketed waistcoat. Why, he wondered, was a man with a syringe
wandering Hyde Park? He turned back once to look at the Loontwills' house. A sudden smile creased his angular face as he noted
the Woolsey Castle carriage waiting nearby. Its crest shone in the late afternoon sun: a quartered shield, two parts a moon-backed
castle, two parts a moonless starry night. He wondered if his lord and master would, in fact, grovel.

The Earl of Woolsey wore a suit of dark chocolate, a cravat of caramel silk, and an air of ill-disguised impatience. He had
been holding his kid gloves in one hand and slapping them rhythmically into the other when Miss Tarabotti entered the front
parlor. He stopped instantly, but she had noted the fidget.

“What bee has gotten into your britches?” Miss Tarabotti asked without any attempt at a formal greeting. Formality was wasted
on Lord Maccon. She took up position, arms akimbo, standing on the round primrose rug before him.