The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (44 page)

Alexia tucked the little slip of paper and the crystalline valve into one of the hidden pockets of her new parasol. “Does
any other private residence own one?” she wondered.

“Difficult to know,” replied Lord Akeldama. “The receiver
must
be mounted upon the roof, so one could conceivably hire a dirigible for air reconnaissance and float about looking for them,
but I hardly think that an efficient approach. They are very dear, and there are few private individuals who could see to
the expense. The Crown, of course, has two, but others? I only have the list of official compatibility protocols: that is
a little under one hundred aethographors dotted about the empire.”

Reluctantly, Alexia realized that time was getting on, and if she intended to leave for Scotland, she had much to do in the
space of one night. For one thing, she would have to send round to the queen to alert her to the fact that her muhjah would
be missing meetings of the Shadow Council for the next few weeks.

She made her excuses to Lord Akeldama. Madame Lefoux did the same, so that the two ladies found themselves exiting his residence
at the same time. They paused to take leave of one another on the stoop.

“Do you really propose to float to Scotland tomorrow?” inquired the Frenchwoman, buttoning her fine gray kid gloves.

“I think it best I go after my husband.”

“Should you travel alone?”

“Oh, I shall take Angelique.”

Madame Lefoux started slightly at the name. “A Frenchwoman? Who is that?”

“My maid, inherited from the Westminster Hive. She is a dab hand with the curling iron.”

“I am certain she is, if she was once under Countess Nadasdy,” replied the inventor with a kind of studied casualness.

Alexia felt there was some kind of double meaning to the comment.

Madame Lefoux did not give her the chance for further inquiry, as she nodded her good-bye, climbed into a waiting hackney,
and was gone before Lady Maccon had time to say more than a polite good night.

Professor Randolph Lyall was impatient, but no one would ever guess it to look at him. Partly, of course, because currently
he looked like a slightly seedy and very hairy dog, skulking about the bins in the alley next to Lord Akeldama's town house.

How much time
, he was wondering,
could possibly be required to take tea with a vampire?
A good deal, apparently, if Lord Akeldama and Lady Maccon were involved. Between the two of them, they could talk all four
legs off a donkey. He had encountered them in full steam on only one memorable occasion and ever since had avoided the experience
assiduously. Madame Lefoux had been a surprise addition to the party, although she probably was not adding much to the conversation.
It was odd to see her out of her shop and paying a social call. He made a mental note: this was something his Alpha should
know about. Not that he had orders to watch the inventor. But Madame Lefoux
was
a dangerous person to know.

He shifted about, nose to the wind. Some strange new scent on the air.

Then he noticed the vampires. Two of them, lurking in the shadows well away from Lord Akeldama's house. Any closer and the
effete vampire would sense their alien presence, larvae not of his line in his territory. So, what were they there for? What
were they about?

Lyall lowered his tail between his legs and slunk a quick circle behind them, coming at them from downwind. Of course, vampires
had nowhere near as fine a sense of smell as werewolves but they had better hearing.

He crept in close, trying to be as silent as possible.

Neither of the vampires were BUR agents, that was for certain. Unless Lyall missed his guess, these were Westminster's get.

They did not appear to be doing anything but simply watching.

“Fangs!” said one of them finally. “How bloody long can it take to have tea? Especially if one of them ain't drinking it?”

Professor Lyall wished he had brought his gun. Difficult to carry, though, in one's mouth.

“Remember, he wants it done stealthy; we are simply checking. Don't want to go at it with the werewolves over nothing. You
know…”

Lyall, who did
not
know, wanted to very badly, but the vampire, most unhelpfully, did not continue.

“I think he's paranoid.”

“Ours is not to question, but I believe the mistress agrees with you. Doesn't stop her from humoring—”

The other vampire suddenly held up a hand, cutting his companion off.

Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux emerged from Lord Akeldama's town house and made their good-byes on the stoop. Madame Lefoux
swung herself up into a cab, and Lady Maccon was left alone, looking thoughtful on the front steps.

The two vampires moved forward toward her. Lyall did not know what they intended, but he guessed it was probably not good.
It certainly was not worth risking his Alpha's wrath to find out. Quick as a flash, he slithered underneath one of the vampires,
tripping him up, in the next movement lunging for the other, teeth snapping hard around anklebone. The first vampire, reacting
rapidly, jumped so fast to one side as to be almost impossible to follow, at least for normal sight. Lyall, of course, was
not normal.

He leaped, meeting the vampire halfway, lupine body slamming into the man's side, throwing him off. The second vampire lunged
toward him, grabbing for his tail.

The entire scuffle took place in almost complete silence, only the sound of snapping jaws marking the activity.

It gave Lady Maccon just enough time, although she did not know she needed it, to climb into the Woolsey carriage and set
off down the street.

The two vampires both stilled as soon as the vehicle was out of sight.

“Well, that's a sticky wicket,” said one.

“Werewolves,” said the other in disgust. He spat at Lyall, who paced, hackles raised, between them, forestalling any idea
of pursuit. Lyall paused to sniff delicately at the wad of spit—eau de Westminster Hive.

“Really,” said the first to Lyall, “we weren't going to harm one hair of that swarthy Italian head. We simply had a little
test in mind. No one would have even known.”

The other elbowed him, hard. “Hush you, that's Professor Lyall, that is. Lord Maccon's Beta. The less he knows about anything,
the better.”

With that, the two doffed their hats at the still growling, still bristling wolf in front of them and, turning, took off at
a leisurely pace toward Bond Street.

Professor Lyall would have followed, but he decided on more precautionary measures and set a brisk trot to follow Alexia and
ensure she arrived home safely.

Lady Maccon caught Professor Lyall when he came in, just before dawn. He looked exhausted, his already lean face pinched and
drawn.

“Ah, Lady Maccon, you have waited up for me? How kind.”

She searched for the sarcasm in his words, but if it was there, it was cleverly disguised. He was good. Alexia often wondered
if Professor Lyall had been an actor before metamorphosis and somehow managed to hold on to his creativity despite sacrificing
most of his soul for immortality. He was so very skilled at doing, and being, what was expected.

He confirmed her suspicions. Whatever it was that had caused the wide-scale lack of supernatural was definitely heading north.
BUR had determined that the hour of London's return to supernatural normal correlated with the departure of the Kingair Pack
toward Scotland. He was not surprised that Lady Maccon had arrived at the same conclusion.

He was, however, decidedly against the idea that she should go trailing after.

“Well, who else should go? I, at least, will remain entirely unaffected by the affliction.”

Professor Lyall glared at her. “
No one
should go after it. The earl is perfectly capable of handling the situation, even if he doesn't yet know he has two problems
to deal with. You seem to have failed to realize we all wandered around undamaged for centuries before you appeared in our
lives.”

“Yes, but look what a mess you have made of things prior to my arrival.” Lady Maccon was not to be dissuaded from her chosen
course of action. “Someone has to tell Conall that Kingair is to blame.”

“If none of them are changing, he'll find out as soon as he arrives. His lordship would not like you following him.”

“His lordship can eat my fat—” Lady Maccon paused, thought the better of her crass words, and said, “—does not have to like
it. Nor do you. The fact remains that this morning Floote will secure for me passage on the afternoon's dirigible to Glasgow.
His lordship can take it up with me when I arrive.”

Professor Lyall had no doubt that his poor Alpha would do just that and be similarly humbled. Still, he would not give in
so easily. “You shall have to take Tunstell with you, at the very least. The lad has been pining to visit the north ever since
his lordship left, and he will be able to keep an eye on you.”

Lady Maccon was truculent. “I do not need him. Have you seen my new parasol?”

Lyall had seen the purchase order and been suitably impressed, but he was no fool. “A woman, even a married woman, cannot
float without proper escort. It is simply not done. You and I are both well aware of that fact.”

Lady Maccon frowned. He was right, bother it. She sighed and figured that at least Tunstell was a pushover.

“Oh, very well, if you insist,” she conceded with ill grace.

The intrepid Beta, older than most werewolves still living in the greater London environs—Lord Maccon and the dewan included—did
the only thing he could under the circumstances. Pulled his cravat aside to expose his neck, gave a little bow, and took himself
off to bed without another word, leaving Lady Maccon in possession of the field.

Her ladyship sent the hovering Floote to rouse poor Tunstell from his bed and give him the unexpected news that he would be
departing for Scotland. The claviger, who had only just climbed into bed, having spent the better part of the night looking
at ladies' hats, wondered a tad about the sanity of his mistress.

Just after sunrise, having gotten very little sleep, Lady Maccon commenced packing. Or, it should be said more precisely that
Lady Maccon commenced arguing with Angelique over what should be packed. She was interrupted by a visit from the only person
on the planet capable of consistently routing her in verbal skirmishes.

Floote brought up the message.

“Good gracious, what on earth is
she
doing here? And at such an early hour!” Alexia put the calling card back down on the little silver tray; checked her appearance,
which was only just passable for receiving; and wondered if she should take the time to change. Should one risk keeping a
caller waiting or face criticism for being dressed in attire unbecoming to a lady of rank? She chose the latter, deciding
to get the encounter over and done with as quickly as possible.

The woman waiting for her in the front parlor was a diminutive blond with a rosy complexion that owed more to artifice than
nature, wearing a visiting dress of pink and white stripes that would better suit a lady half her age.

“Mama,” said Lady Maccon, presenting her cheek for the halfhearted kiss her mother wafted in her direction.

“Oh, Alexia,” cried Mrs. Loontwill, as though she had not seen her eldest in years. “I am quite overset with the most nervous
misery; such a to-do is afoot. I require your immediate assistance.”

Lady Maccon was dumbfounded—a state that did not afflict her often. Firstly, her mother had not insulted her appearance. Secondly,
her mother actually seemed to be seeking her help in some matter.
Her
help.

“Mama, do sit. You are quite discombobulated. I shall order tea.” She gestured to a chair, and Mrs. Loontwill sank into it
gratefully. “Rumpet,” Alexia addressed the hovering butler, “tea, please. Or would you prefer sherry, Mama?”

“Oh, I am not
that
overset.”

“Tea, Rumpet.”

“However, the situation
is
very dire. Such poopitations of the heart as you would not
believe.
”

“Palpitations,” corrected her daughter softly.

Mrs. Loontwill relaxed slightly, and then all of a sudden sat up straight as a poker, looking wildly about. “Alexia, none
of your husband's
associates
are in residence, are they?”

This was her mother's delicate way of referring to the pack.

“Mama, it is full daylight. They are all in residence, but they are also all abed. I, myself, have been up most of the night.”
She said this last as a subtle hint, but her mother existed well beyond subtlety.

“Well, you
would
marry into the supernatural set. Not that I am complaining about your catch, my dear, far from it.” Mrs. Loontwill puffed
up her chest like a pink-striped quail. “My daughter, Lady Maccon.”

It was a constant source of amazement to Alexia that the only thing she had ever done in her entire life that pleased her
mama was marry a werewolf.

“Mama, I really have a great deal to accomplish this morning. And you indicated you were visiting regarding a matter of some
considerable urgency. What has happened?”

“Well, you see, it is your sisters.”

“You finally comprehend what intolerable little ninnies they both are?”

“Alexia!”

“What about them, Mama?” Lady Maccon was wary. It wasn't that she did not love her sisters; it was simply that she did not
like
them very much. They were half sisters to be precise: Misses Loontwills the pair of them, while Alexia had been a Miss Tarabotti
before her marriage. They were as blond, as silly, and as nonpreternatural as their pink-striped mama.

“They are in the most terrible argument at the moment.”

“Evylin and Felicity are fighting? How surprising.” The sarcasm was entirely lost on Mrs. Loontwill.