The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (54 page)

“Precisely. Isn't she simply a curse?” said Felicity unhelpfully.

“Sister, you say the sweetest things,” replied Lady Maccon.

Felicity gave her a dour look.

The pack Gamma seized this as an opportunity to change the subject. “Speaking of which, I was under the impression that Lady
Maccon's former name was Tarabotti. But you are a Miss Loontwill.”

“Oh”—Felicity smiled charmingly—“we have different fathers.”

“Ah, I see.” The Gamma frowned. “Oh, I
see. That
Tarabotti.”

He looked at Alexia with newfound interest. “I should never have thought
he
would marry.”

The Beta also looked at Lady Maccon curiously. “Indeed, and to produce offspring. Civic duty, I suppose.”

“You knew my father?” Lady Maccon was suddenly intrigued, and, it must be admitted, distracted from her course of inquiry.

The two werewolves exchanged a look. “Not personally. We knew
of
him, of course. Quite the traveler.”

Felicity said with a sniff, “Mama always said she could never remember why she leg-shackled herself to an Italian. She claimed
it was a marriage of convenience, although I understand he was very good-looking. It did not last, of course. He died, just
after Alexia was born. Such a terribly embarrassing thing to do, simply to up and die like that. Goes to show, Italians cannot
be trusted. Mama was well rid of him. She married Papa shortly thereafter.”

Lady Maccon turned to look hard at her husband. “Did
you
know my father too?” she asked him in a low voice to keep things private.

“Not as such.”

“At some point, husband of mine, we must have a discussion, you and I, about the proper methods of fully transferring information.
I am tired of feeling consistently behind the times.”

“Except that, wife, I have two centuries on you. I can hardly tell you everything I have learned and about everyone I have
met during all those years.”

“Do not trouble me with such weak excuses,” she hissed.

While they were arguing, the suppertime conversation moved on without them. Madame Lefoux began explaining that she felt the
aethographic transmitter's crystalline valve resonator's magnetic conduction might be out of alignment. Compounded, of course,
by the implausibility ratio of transference during inclement weather.

No one, except the bespectacled claviger, was able to follow a word of her explanation, but everyone was nodding sagely as
though they did. Even Ivy, who had the look of a slightly panicked dormouse on her round face, pretended interest.

Tunstell solicitously passed Miss Hisselpenny the plate of potato fritters, but Ivy ignored him.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Tunstell,” said Felicity, reaching across to take one as though he had offered them to her.

Ivy huffed.

Tunstell, apparently frustrated by Miss Hisselpenny's continued rejection, turned in Miss Loontwill's direction, and began
chatting with her about the recent influx of automated eyelash-curling implements imported from Portugal.

Ivy was more annoyed by this and turned away from the redhead to join in the werewolves' discussion on a possible hunting
outing the next morning. Not that Miss Hisselpenny knew a whit about guns or hunting, but dearth of knowledge on a subject
had never yet kept Ivy from waxing poetical upon it.

“I believe there is considerable range in the bang of most guns,” she said sagely.

“Uh…” The gentlemen about her drifted in confusion.

Ah, Ivy,
thought Alexia happily,
spreading a verbal fog wherever she goes.

“Since we can go out during the day, we might as well take advantage and get a little dawn shooting in for old times' sake,”
said Dubh finally, ignoring Miss Hisselpenny's comment.

“Is Dubh his given name or surname?” Alexia asked her husband.

“Good question,” he replied. “Hundred and fifty years I have had to put up with that blighter and he never told me the which
way of it. I dinna know much about his past before Kingair. Came in as a loner, back in the early seventeen hundreds. Bit
of a troublemaker.”

“Ah, and you wouldn't know anything about secrecy or troublemaking, would you, husband?”

“Touché, wife.”

The dinner drew to a close, and eventually the ladies left the gentlemen to their drinks.

Lady Maccon had never much supported the vampire-derived tradition of after-dinner gender segregation. After all, what had
begun as an honor to the hive queen's superiority and need for privacy now felt like a belittling of the feminine ability
to imbibe quality alcohol. Still, Alexia recognized the opportunity for what it was and made an effort to fraternize with
Lady Kingair.

“You are fully human, yet you seem to act as female Alpha. How is that?” she asked, settling herself on the dusty settee and
sipping a small sherry.

“They lack leadership, and I'm the only one left.” The Scotswoman was blunt to the point of rudeness.

“Do you enjoy leading?” Alexia was genuinely curious.

“It'd work a mite better if I were a werewolf proper.”

Lady Maccon was surprised. “Would you really be willing to try? It's such a grave risk for the gentler sex.”

“Aye. But yon husband of yers didna care for my wishes.” Left unsaid was the fact that Conall's was the only opinion that
mattered. Only an Alpha capable of Anubis Form could breed more werewolves. Alexia had never witnessed a metamorphosis, but
she had read the scientific papers on the subject. Something about soul reclamation needing both forms at once.

“He thinks you would die in the attempt. And it would be at his hand. Well, at his teeth.”

The woman sipped her own sherry and nodded. Suddenly she looked every bit of her forty years and then some.

“And I the last of his mortal line,” said Sidheag Maccon.

“Oh.” Alexia nodded. “I see. And he would have to give you the full bite. It is a heavy burden you ask of him, to end his
last mortal holding. Is that why he left the pack?”

“You think I drove him out with my asking? You dinna ken the truth of it?”

“Obviously not.”

“Then it isna my place to be telling you. You married the blighter; you should be asking him.”

“You think I have not tried?”

“Cagey old cuss, my gramps, that's for pure certain. Tell me something, Lady Maccon, why
did
you cleave to him? 'Cause he's seated right proper in an earldom? 'Cause he heads up BUR and they watchdog your kind? What
could one such as you gain from such a union?”

It was clear what the Lady of Kingair thought. She saw Alexia as nothing more than some kind of pariah who had married Lord
Maccon out of either social or pecuniary avarice.

“You know,” replied Lady Maccon, not playing into her trap, “I ask myself that question daily.”

“It ain't natural, a blending like that.”

Alexia looked over to ensure that the other ladies were out of earshot. Madame Lefoux and Ivy were engaged in complaining
about long-distance travel in the mild manner of those who had thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Felicity stood on the far
side of the room, looking out into the rainy night.

“Of course it is not natural. How could it be natural when neither of us are?” Lady Maccon sniffed.

“I canna make you out, curse-breaker,” replied Sidheag.

“It is really very simple. I am just like you, only without a soul.”

Lady Kingair leaned forward. Those familiar tawny eyes of hers were set in an equally familiar frown. “I was raised by the
pack
, child. 'Twas always intended I become Alpha female and lead them, whether he changed me or not. You merely married into
the role.”

“And in that you have the advantage over me. But then again, instead of adapting, I am simply retraining
my
pack to accept my ways.”

A half-smile appeared on Sidheag's dour face. “I wager Major Channing is cracked over your presence.”

Alexia laughed.

Just when Lady Maccon felt like she might be gaining ground with Lady Kingair, an enormous crash reverberated against the
wall nearest the dining chamber.

The ladies all exchanged startled looks. Madame Lefoux and Lady Maccon immediately leaped to their feet and went swiftly back
toward the supper room. Lady Kingair was but a few steps behind, and all three burst through to find Lord Maccon and the Kingair
Beta, Dubh, grappling fiercely on top of the massive table, rolling about among the remnants of what once had been a most
excellent brandy and plate of sticky meringues. The other members of the pack, the Kingair clavigers in residence, and Tunstell
had arranged themselves well out of the way and seemed to be viewing the fisticuffs in the manner of sportsmen at the races.

Tunstell was running a commentary. “Oh, nice uppercut from Lord Maccon there, and, oh, did Dubh
kick
? Bad form, terribly bad form.”

Alexia paused, regarding the two large Scotsman rolling about among the sticky powder of crushed meringue.

“Lachlan, report!” barked Lady Kingair over the racket. “What's going on?”

The Gamma, who Alexia had thought of as rather sympathetic up until that point, shrugged. “It needs getting out right to the
open, mistress. You know how we like to settle things.”

The woman shook her head, gray-streaked plait flying back and forth. “We settle things by teeth and claw, na fist and flesh.
This isna our way. This isna pack protocol!”

Lachlan shrugged again. “Having na teeth possible, this be the next best option. You canna stop it, mistress, challenge was
issued. We all witnessed the wording of it.”

The other pack members nodded gravely.

Dubh landed a good right punch to Lord Maccon's chin, sending him flying backward.

Lady Kingair stepped hastily to one side to avoid a silver platter as it skidded off the table toward her.

“Oh my goodness!” came Ivy's voice from the doorway. “I do believe they are actually skirmishing!”

Tunstell immediately sprang into action. “This is not a thing a lady should witness, Miss Hisselpenny,” he exclaimed, rushing
over and shepherding her out of the room.

“But…” came Ivy's voice.

Lady Maccon smiled proudly at the fact that the redhead hadn't considered her sensibilities. Madame Lefoux, noting that Felicity
still stood watching with wide, interested eyes, gave Alexia a look and left the room, shutting the door behind her and sweeping
Felicity in her wake.

Lord Maccon slammed into Dubh's stomach with his head, propelling the werewolf backward into the wall. The whole room shook
at the impact.

Now
, thought Alexia maliciously,
Kingair will have to remodel.

“At least take the disagreement outside!” yelled Lady Kingair.

There was blood everywhere, as well as spilled brandy, broken glass, and crushed meringues.

“For goodness' sake,” said Lady Maccon, exasperated, “don't they realize that as humans, they could seriously injure one another
if they carry on like this? They do not have the supernatural strength to take those kinds of blows, nor the supernatural
healing to recover from them.”

Both men rolled to the side and fell off the tabletop with a loud thud.

Good Lord
, thought Lady Maccon, noting that a good deal of the blood seemed to be emerging from her husband's nose,
I do hope Conall has brought a spare cravat.

She was not particularly worried, for she had little doubt in her husband's pugilistic skills. He boxed regularly at Whites,
and he was
her
chosen mate. Of course, he would win the fight, but still, the disarray being generated was unacceptable. Things could not
be allowed to continue much longer. Imagine, the poor Kingair staff, having to clean up such a mess.

With that thought, Lady Maccon whirled about and went purposefully to fetch her parasol.

She need not have bothered. By the time she returned, numbing darts loaded and parasol ready to fire, both men were slumped
in opposite corners of the room. Dubh was clutching his head and coughing in sharp painful little gasps, and Lord Maccon was
listing to one side, blood dribbling out of his nose and one eye nearly swollen shut.

“Well don't you two look a picture,” Alexia said, resting her parasol against the wall and crouching down to examine Conall's
face with gentle fingers. “Nothing a spot of vinegar won't put to rights.” She turned to one of the clavigers. “Run and get
me some cider vinegar, my good man.” Lord Maccon looked at her over the top of his cravat, which he was now holding to his
nose. Ah well, the cravat was ruined already.

“Didna ken you cared, wife,” he grumbled, but leaned in against her gentle ministrations nevertheless.

So as not to seem too sympathetic, Alexia began vigorously brushing off the meringue crumbs covering his jacket.

At the same time, she looked over at the Kingair Beta and said, “Settle the issue to your mutual satisfaction, did you, gentlemen?”

Dubh gave her a deadpan expression that still managed to indicate a certain profound level of deep disgust in her very existence,
let alone her question. Alexia only shook her head at such petulance.

The Kingair claviger returned bearing a flask of cider vinegar. Lady Maccon immediately began to copiously douse her husband
about the face and neck with it.

“Ouch! Steady on, that stings!”

Dubh made to rise.

Lord Maccon instantly struggled to his feet. He would have to, Alexia surmised, to maintain dominance. Or it could be that
he was trying to get away from her vinegar-riddled attentions.

“I know it stings,” she said. “Not nice to have to heal the old-fashioned way, now, is it, my brave table warrior? Perhaps
you will pause to consider next time before you commence fighting in a confined space. I mean really, look at this room.”
She tutted. “You both should be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.”