The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (52 page)

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Felicity, “what
are
they wearing?”

“Kilts,” explained Alexia, amused at her sister's discomfort.

“Skirts,” replied Felicity, deeply offended, “and short ones at that, as though they were opera dancers.”

Alexia swallowed a giggle. Now there was a funny image.

Miss Hisselpenny did not seem to know where to look. Finally she settled on staring up at the candelabra in abject terror.
“Alexia,” she hissed to her friend, “there are knees positively everywhere. What do I do?”

Alexia's attention was on the faces of the men around her, not their unmentionable leg areas. There seemed to be an equal
mix of disgust and delight at seeing Lord Maccon.

The earl introduced her to those he knew. The Kingair Pack Beta, nominally in charge, was one of the unhappy ones, while the
Gamma was one of those pleased to see Conall. The remaining four members fell two for and two against and ranged themselves
to stand accordingly, as though at any moment fisticuffs might spontaneously break out. Kingair was smaller than the Woolsey
Pack, and less unified. Alexia wondered what kind of man the post-Conall Alpha had been, to lead this contentious lot.

Then, with unseemly haste, Lord Maccon grabbed the surly Beta, who responded in a halfhearted manner to the name of Dubh,
and dragged him off into a private parlor, leaving Alexia to mitigate the tense social atmosphere he left behind.

Lady Maccon was equal to the task. No one of her stalwart character, required since birth to supervise first Mrs. Loontwill
and later two equally improbable sisters, was unprepared for even such trying circumstances as large, kilted werewolves en
masse.

“We heard about you,” said the Gamma, whose name sounded like something slippery to do with bogs. “Knew the old laird had
suckered himself to a curse-breaker.” He paced about Alexia slowly in a circle as though examining her for flaws. It felt
very doglike to Alexia. She was prepared to jump back if he cocked a leg.

Luckily, his statement was misconstrued by both Ivy and Felicity. Alexia was not
known
as a preternatural to either of them and she preferred to keep it that way. Both young ladies seemed to assume that the phrase
curse-breaker
was some queer Scottish term for wife.

Felicity said, sneering at the enormous man in front of her, “Really, can you not speak English?”

Lady Maccon said quickly, ignoring her sister, “You have the upper hand on me. I know nothing of you.” They were all so very
large. She was not used to feeling diminutive.

The Gamma's broad face went pinched at that. “Over a century he was master o' this pack and he na mentioned us to ye?”

“Could be
me
he does not want to know you, rather than you he does not want to talk about,” offered Alexia.

The werewolf gave her a long, assessing look. “I'm thinking 'tis that he never brought us up, did he?”

Sidheag interrupted them. “Enough gossip. We'll show you to your rooms. Lads, go grab in the extras—blasted English canna
travel light.”

The upstairs bedrooms and guest accommodations seemed no better off than the rest of the castle, muted in color and dank in
smell. The room given to Lord and Lady Maccon was tidy enough but musty, with decorations of brownish red some hundred years
or so outdated. There was a large bed, two small wardrobes, a dressing table for Alexia, and a dressing chamber for her husband.
The color scheme and general appearance reminded Lady Maccon of nothing so much as a damp, malcontented squirrel.

She checked about the chamber for a safe place to secrete her dispatch case, with little success. There seemed nowhere acceptably
discreet, so she trundled three doors down to where Miss Hisselpenny was billeted.

As she passed one of the other chambers, she heard Felicity say, in a breathy voice, “Oh, Mr. Tunstell, shall I be safe in
the room right next to yours, do you think?”

Seconds later, she witnessed Tunstell, panic in every freckle, emerge from Felicity's room and dive into the refuge of his
small valet accommodations just off of Conall's dressing chamber.

Ivy was busy unpacking her trunk when Alexia tapped politely on her door and wandered in.

“Oh, thank heavens, Alexia. I was just pondering, do you think there might be ghosts in this place? Or worse, poltergeists?
Please do not think I am at all bigoted against the supernatural set, but I simply cannot withstand an overabundance of ghosts,
especially not those at the final stage of disanimus. I heard they get all over funny in the head and go wafting about losing
bits of their noncorporeal selves. One rounds a corner of some perfectly respectable passageway only to find a disembodied
eyebrow floating halfway between ceiling and potted palm.” Miss Hisselpenny shuddered as she carefully stacked her twelve
hatboxes next to the wardrobe.

Alexia thought back to what her husband had said. If the werewolves here could not change, then the plague of humanization
must be infecting Castle Kingair. The castle would have been completely exorcised.

“I have a funny feeling, Ivy,” she said with confidence, “that ghosts will definitely not be frequenting this locale.”

Ivy looked unconvinced. “But, Alexia, really you must admit to the fact that this building seems like the kind of place that
ought
to have ghosts.”

Lady Maccon clicked her tongue in exasperation. “Oh, Ivy, do not be ridiculous. Appearances have nothing to do with it; you
know that. Only in Gothic novels are ghosts linked so, and we both know how utterly fanciful fiction has become recently.
Authors never
do
get the supernatural correct. I mean to say, the last one I read essentially claimed metamorphosis had to do with
magic
, when everyone knows there are perfectly valid scientific and medical explanations for excess soul. Why, just the other day,
I read that—”

Miss Hisselpenny interrupted her hastily before she could go on. “Yes, well, no need to overset me with bluestocking explanations
and Royal Society papers. I shall take your word for it. What time did Lady Kingair say supper was to commence?”

“Nine, I believe.”

Another look of panic suffused her friend's face. “Will they be serving”—she gulped—“haggis, do you think?”

Lady Maccon made a face. “Surely not for our first meal. But best prepare yourself; one never knows.” Conall had described
the disastrous foodstuff, with unwarranted delight, during their carriage ride in. The ladies were living in mortal terror
as a result.

Ivy sighed. “Very well. We had better get dressed, then. Would my periwinkle taffeta be appropriate for the occasion?”

“For the haggis?”

“No, silly, for dinner.”

“Does it have a matched hat?”

Miss Hisselpenny looked up from tidying her stack of hatboxes with a disgusted expression. “Alexia, do not talk such folderol.
It is a
dinner
gown.”

“Then I think it will serve very well. May I ask you a favor? I have a gift for my husband in this case. Do you think I might
conceal it in your room for the time being so he does not accidentally uncover it? I wish it to be a surprise.”

Miss Hisselpenny's eyes shone. “Oh, really! How lovely and wifely of you. I should never have pegged you for a romantic.”

Lady Maccon winced.

“What is it?”

Alexia grappled with her brain for an appropriate answer. What would one possibly buy for a man and then hide in a dispatch
case? “Uh. Socks.”

Miss Hisselpenny was crushed. “Only socks? I hardly think socks cry out for secrecy.”

“They are lucky, special socks.”

Miss Hisselpenny saw no apparent illogicality in that and carefully tucked Lady Maccon's dispatch case behind her stack of
hatboxes.

“I may need to access it from time to time,” said Alexia.

Miss Hisselpenny was bemused. “Why?”

“To, uh, check on the condition of the, uh, socks.”

“Alexia, are you feeling quite the thing?”

Lady Maccon instantly spoke, in order to throw Miss Hisselpenny off the scent. “Did you know, I just passed Tunstell leaving
Felicity's rooms.”

Ivy gasped. “No!” She immediately began furiously arranging her accessories for dinner, tossing gloves, jewelry, and lacy
hair cap on top of the dress already laid out upon the bed.

“Alexia, I do not mean to be at all rude. But I really do believe your sister may be an actual nincompoop.”

“Oh, that is perfectly all right, Ivy dear. I cannot stomach her myself,” replied Lady Maccon. And then, because she felt
guilty for having told her about Tunstell, “Would you like to borrow Angelique this evening to do up your hair? The rain's
ruined mine beyond all repair I'm afraid, so it would be a wasted effort.”

“Oh, really? Thank you, that would be lovely.” Ivy perked up immediately.

With that, Lady Maccon retreated to her own room to dress.

“Angelique?” The maid was busy unpacking when Lady Maccon reentered her bedroom.

“I have told Ivy she may have you for her hair this evening. Not a thing could possibly be done to help mine at this point.”
Alexia's dark locks were a mass of frizzy curls in reaction to the unpleasant Scottish climate. “I shall simply pop on one
of those horrible lace matron's caps you are always trying to get me to wear.”

“Yez, my lady.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and went to do as she was bid. She paused in the doorway, looking back at her mistress.
“Please, my lady, why is Madame Lefoux still with us?”

“You really do not like her, do you, Angelique?”

A quintessentially French shrug met that statement.

“It was my husband's idea, I am afraid to say. I do not trust her either, mind you. But you know how Conall gets. Apparently,
Kingair has a malfunctioning aethographic transmitter. I know, you might well look surprised. Who would have thought a backwater
place like this could possess anything so modern? Apparently they do, and it has been having difficulties. Secondhand goods,
I understand. Well, what do you expect? Anyhow, Conall brought Madame Lefoux along to give it the old once-over. Nothing I
could do to stop him.”

Angelique looked blank at that and bobbed a quick curtsy, and went off to see to Ivy.

Alexia ruminated over the outfit the maid had selected for her to wear. And then, because she really could not count on her
own sense of style to do any better, put it on.

Her husband came in just as she was struggling to fasten the buttons up the back of the bodice.

“Oh, good, there you are. Do this up for me, would you, please?”

Entirely ignoring her command, Lord Maccon strode over to her in three quick steps and buried his face in the side of her
neck.

Lady Maccon emitted an exasperated sigh but at the same time swiveled around to wrap her arms about his neck.

“Well, that is very helpful, darling. You do realize we are due for—”

He kissed her.

When breathing eventually became a necessity, he said, “Well, wife, been wanting to do that the entire carriage ride here.”
He moved his large hands down to her posterior and hoisted her against his big, firm body.

“And here I thought you were thinking about politics most of the ride; you sported such a terrible frown,” replied his wife
with a grin.

“Well, that too. I
can
do two things at once. For example, right now I am talking to you and also devising a means by which to extract you from
this gown.”

“Husband, you cannot take it off of me. I just put it on.”

He seemed disinclined to agree with that statement, instead putting a concerted effort into undoing all her careful work and
shoving the dress aside.

“Did you really like the parasol I gave you?” he asked, sweetly hesitant, drifting his fingertips up over her now-bare shoulders
and upper back.

“Oh, Conall, such a lovely gift, with magnetic disruption field generator, poison darts, and everything. So very thoughtful.
I was delighted to find I had not lost it during the fall.”

The fingers stopped drifting abruptly. “Fall? What fall?”

Lady Maccon knew that burgeoning roar well. She squirmed against him in an effort to distract him. “Uh,” she hedged.

Lord Maccon pushed her slightly away, holding her by the shoulders.

She patted him as best she could on the chest. “Oh, it was nothing, dear—simply a little tumble.”

“Little tumble! Little tumble off of what, wife?”

Alexia looked down and away and tried to mumble. Since she had a naturally assertive voice, this did not work at all well.
“A dirigible.”

“A dirigible.” Lord Maccon's tone was hard and flat. “And did that dirigible happen to be floating in the air at the time?”

“Umm, well, possibly, not quite air… more in the region of, well, aether…”

A hard glare.

Alexia hung her head and peeked at him through her eyelashes.

Lord Maccon steered his wife, as though she were an unwieldy rowboat, backward toward the bed and forced her to sit down upon
it. Then he flopped down next to her.

“Start at the beginning.”

“You mean the evening I woke up to find you had taken yourself off to Scotland without even speaking to me about it?”

Lord Maccon sighed. “It was a serious family matter.”

“And what am I, a nodding acquaintance?”

Conall actually had the grace to look slightly shamefaced at that. “You must allow me some little time to get used to having
a wife.”

“You mean you did not acclimatize to it the last time you were wed?”

He frowned at her. “
That
was a long time ago.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Before I changed. And it was a matter of duty. In those days, one simply didna turn werewolf without leaving an heir behind.
I was to be laird; I could not possibly become supernatural without first ensuring the prosperity of the clan.”