The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (31 page)

She sat back. “Was that so hard?”

He raised both eyebrows and shifted his protective hand so she could partly see the result of her teasing.

Miss Tarabotti cleared her throat. “Was that so difficult?” She rephrased her question.

“I suspect you are much better at paperwork than I am anyway,” he admitted grudgingly.

Miss Tarabotti had a brief horrific flashback to the state of his office last she had visited. “I am certainly more organized.”

“You and Lyall are going to run me ragged, aren't you?” grumbled the earl, sounding most put-upon.

After that, cleanup proceeded with remarkable rapidity. Miss Tarabotti was beginning to understand how Lord Akeldama always
seemed to know so much. His young men were amazingly efficacious. They managed to be everywhere at once. She wondered how
many occasions in her past had contained some young fop, apparently too silly or too drunk, watching everything.

By the time the five BUR agents—two vampires, two humans, and a ghost—arrived, everything was basically in order. The premises
had been searched thoroughly, vampire statements taken, prisoners and werewolves secured, and someone had even managed to
find Lord Maccon a pair of ill-fitting knickerbockers. Above and beyond the call of duty, Biffy, utilizing a few stray metal
coils from one of Dr. Neebs's machines, had twisted Miss Tarabotti's hair into a beautiful rendition of the latest updo out
of Paris.

Lord Akeldama, now sitting on one of the platforms, watching, with the eyes of a proud parent, his boys work, said approvingly
to Biffy, “Lovely job, my
dear
.” Then to Alexia, “Do you see, my little marshmallow, you simply
must
get yourself a nice French maid.”

Mr. Siemons was carted off to prison by two of the BUR agents. Miss Tarabotti had to speak most severely to Lord Maccon about
not paying him a call when she was no longer around.

“Justice must take its course,” she insisted. “If you are going to work for BUR and support the system, you must do so all
the time, not simply when you find it convenient.”

Eyes riveted on the line of congealed blood across the lower part of her neck, he wheedled, “Just a short visit, enough for
a mild dismemberment?”

She gave him a dour look. “No.”

The rest of the BUR agents and a competent-looking sweeps crew bustled about, scribbling notations and passing things to the
earl to sign. At first they had been entirely shocked to find him in human form, but the sheer mountain of cleanup to be done
at the Hypocras Club made them quickly more grateful than surprised to have him available and competent.

Miss Tarabotti tried to be helpful, but her eyes were becoming scratchy, and she was leaning more and more heavily against
Lord Maccon's broad side. Eventually, the earl shifted his operation to the entry room of the club and sat them both down
on the red couch there. Someone made tea. Lord Akeldama enthroned himself in the brown leather studded armchair. Despite the
indignity, Miss Tarabotti soon found herself curled up on the couch, head pillowed on Lord Maccon's hard thigh, snoring softly.

The earl, issuing orders and signing forms, stroked her hair with one hand, in defiance of Biffy's protestations that this
would mess up her new hairdo.

Miss Tarabotti, dreaming of brass octopuses, slept through the remains of the night. She did not awaken upon the arrival or
the departure of the potentate and his argument with Lord Maccon, whose growls of annoyance at the politician's obtuseness
only seemed to lull her further into dreamland. Nor was she awake to see Lord Maccon square off against Dr. Caedes over the
disposition of the Hypocras Club's gadgetry and research notes. She slept through Lord Akeldama and his young men leaving,
the sunrise, the release of the werewolves—now back in human form—and Lord Maccon's explanation of events to his pack.

She even slept through the earl gently transferring her into Professor Lyall's arms and the Beta carrying her rapidly past
the arriving press, her head, and thus identity, covered by one of Lord Akeldama's ever-present lace handkerchiefs.

She did not, however, sleep through her mother's shrieks upon her arrival back at the Loontwill town house. Mrs. Loontwill
was waiting up for them in the front parlor. And she was
not
pleased.

“Where have you been all night, young lady?” said her mother in the sepulchral tones of the deeply put-upon.

Felicity and Evylin appeared in the doorway of the parlor, wearing nightdresses and draped in heavy pelisses and shocked expressions.
Upon noticing Professor Lyall, they squeaked in alarm and dashed back up to their rooms to dress as quickly as possible, horrified
that decorum dictate they miss any part of the undoubted drama occurring downstairs.

Miss Tarabotti blinked at her mother sleepily. “Uh…” She could not think.
I was off meeting with a vampire, got abducted by scientists, attacked by a werewolf, and then spent the remainder of the
night holding hands with a naked peer of the realm.
She said, “Uh…” again.

“She was with the Earl of Woolsey,” said Professor Lyall firmly, in a tone of voice that brooked no objection, as though that
settled the matter.

Mrs. Loontwill ignored his tone entirely and made a move as if to strike her daughter. “Alexia! You wanton hussy!”

Professor Lyall twisted fast so that his charge, still held in his arms, was well out of the woman's reach and glared furiously.

Mrs. Loontwill turned her wrath on him, like a rabid poodle. “I will have you know, young man, no daughter of mine spends
an entire night away from home with a gentleman without being securely married to that gentleman first! I do not care if he
is
an earl. You werewolf types may have different rules for this kind of affair, but this
is
the nineteenth century, and we do not hold with such shenanigans. Why, I ought to have my husband call your Alpha out right
now!”

Professor Lyall raised one refined brow. “He is welcome to the attempt. I would not recommend that particular course of action.
To the best of my recollection, Lord Maccon has never actually lost a fight.” He looked down at Alexia. “Except to Miss Tarabotti,
of course.”

Alexia grinned up at him. “You can put me down now, Professor. I am quite awake and able to stand. Mama will do that to a
person. She is like a glass of cold water.”

Professor Lyall did as she requested.

Miss Tarabotti found that she had not actually spoken the truth. Her whole body ached most awfully, and her feet did not seem
to wish to work as instructed. She stumbled heavily to one side.

Professor Lyall made to grab her and missed.

With the majestic efficiency of all good butlers, Floote appeared at her side and took her arm, preventing her from falling.

“Thank you, Floote,” said Alexia, leaning gratefully against him.

Felicity and Evylin, both properly attired in cotton day dresses, reappeared and went immediately to sit on the chesterfield
before they could be told to leave.

Alexia looked about and noticed one family member still absent. “Where
is
the squire?”

“Never you mind that, missy. What is going on? I demand an immediate explanation,” insisted her mother, waggling a finger.

Just then, there came the most imperious knocking on the front door. Floote transferred Alexia back to Professor Lyall and
went to answer it. Lyall ushered Miss Tarabotti over to the wingback chair. With a nostalgic smile, Alexia sat down in it.

“We are
not
at home!” yelled Mrs. Loontwill after Floote. “To anyone!”

“You are at home to me, madam,” said a very autocratic voice.

The Queen of England swept into the room: a petite woman, in late middle life but wearing it very well.

Floote trailed in after and said, in tones of shock Alexia had never thought to hear from her unflappable butler, “Her Most
Royal Highness, Queen Victoria, to see Miss Tarabotti.”

Mrs. Loontwill fainted.

Alexia thought it the best, most sensible thing her mama had done in a very long while. Floote uncorked a bottle of smelling
salts and went to revive her, but Alexia shook her head firmly. Then she made to rise and curtsy, but the queen raised her
hand.

“No formality, Miss Tarabotti. I understand you have had an interesting night,” she said.

Miss Tarabotti nodded mutely and made a polite gesture for the queen to sit. She was mortified by what now seemed the shabby
clutter of her family's front parlor. Her Most Royal Highness did not seem to notice, sitting down on a mahogany side chair
next to Alexia, moving it so her back was to the collapsed form of Mrs. Loontwill.

Miss Tarabotti turned to her sisters. Both had their mouths open and were flapping about like ineffectual fish.

“Felicity, Evylin, out, now,” she ordered quite curtly.

Professor Lyall helped hustle the two girls from the room and would have followed, but the queen said curtly, “Stay, Professor.
We may need your expertise.”

Floote glided out with an expression that said he would keep all prying ears at bay, although probably not his own.

The queen looked at Alexia a long moment. “You are not at all what I expected,” she said at last.

Miss Tarabotti refrained from saying, “Neither are you.” Instead she said, “You knew to expect something?”

“Dear girl, you are one of the only preternaturals on British soil. We approved your father's immigration papers all those
many years ago. We were informed the moment of your birth. We have watched your progress since then with interest. We even
considered interfering when all this folderol with Lord Maccon began to complicate matters. It has gone on quite long enough.
You will be marrying him, I understand?”

Alexia nodded mutely.

“Good, we approve.” She nodded as though she had somehow had a hand in this outcome.

Professor Lyall said, “Not everyone does.”

The queen actually snorted at that. “
We
are the one whose opinion counts, are we not? The potentate and the dewan are trusted advisors, but they are only that: advisors.
No legal records for our empire or any previous one forbid marriage between supernatural and preternatural outright. Yes,
the potentate informs us hive tradition bans such a union, and werewolf legend warns against fraternization, but we require
this business settled. We will not have our best BUR agent distracted, and we need this young lady married.”

“Why?” Alexia asked, confused that her single state should concern the Queen of England.

“Ah, that. You are aware of the Shadow Council?” The queen settled herself in the hard chair, as much as queens do, which
is to say her shoulders relaxed slightly.

Alexia nodded. “The potentate acts as your official vampire consultant and the dewan in the werewolf capacity. Rumors are
that most of your political acumen comes from the potentate's advice and your military skill from the dewan's.”

“Alexia,” Professor Lyall growled a warning.

The queen looked more amused than insulted at this. She even dropped the royal “we” for the space of a few moments. “Well,
I suppose my enemies must blame somebody. I will say that those two are invaluable, when they are not bickering with each
other. But there is a third post that has been vacant since before my time. An advisor meant to break the stalemate between
the other two.”

Miss Tarabotti frowned. “A ghost?”

“No, no. We have plenty of those flitting around Buckingham Palace; cannot keep them quiet half the time. We certainly do
not need one in any official capacity. Not when they cannot maintain solidity that long. No, what we require is a muhjah.”

Alexia looked confused.

The queen explained. “Traditionally the third member of the Shadow Council is a preternatural, the muhjah. Your father declined
the post.” She sniffed. “Italians. Now, there simply is not enough of your set left to vote on your nomination, so it will
have to be an appointed position. But voting is mostly a formality, even for the positions of dewan and potentate. At least
it has been during my reign.”

“No one else wants the job,” said Professor Lyall with feeling.

The queen gave him a reproving look.

He leaned forward and explained further. “It is a political post,” he said. “Lots of arguing and paperwork and books being
consulted all the time. It is not at all like BUR, you understand?”

Miss Tarabotti's eyes positively sparkled. “Sounds delightful.” Yet she remained suspicious. “Why me? What could I possibly
offer against two such experienced voices?”

The queen was not used to being questioned. She looked at Professor Lyall.

He said, “I told you she was difficult.”

“Aside from breaking a stalemate, our muhjah is the only truly mobile unit of the three councilors. Our potentate is confined
to a narrow territory, like most vampires, and cannot function during the day. Our dewan is more mobile, but he cannot travel
by dirigible and is incapacitated every full moon. We have relied upon BUR to make up for the Shadow Council's weakness in
this regard, but we would prefer a muhjah whose attention is solely on the Crown's concerns and who can come to us directly.”

“So there
will
be some active duty?” Miss Tarabotti was even more intrigued.

“Uh-oh,” muttered Professor Lyall, “I do not think Lord Maccon fully comprehended this aspect of the position.”

“The muhjah is the voice of the modern age. We have faith in our potentate and our dewan, but they are old and set in their
ways. They require balance from someone who keeps up with current lines of scientific inquiry, not to mention the interests
and suspicions of the daylight world. We are concerned that this Hypocras Club is a symptom of greater unrest. We are worried
that our BUR agents did not uncover it sooner. You have proven yourself an able investigator and a well-read young woman.
As Lady Maccon, you would also possess the standing needed to infiltrate the highest levels of society.”