The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (66 page)

“
How?
” he barked at his wife, backing away from her as though she were infected with some terrible disease.

“What do you mean, how? The
how
should be perfectly obvious, even to you, you impossible man!” Alexia shot back, becoming angry herself. Shouldn't he be
delighted? This was evidently a scientific miracle. Wasn't it?

“We only
call
it ‘being human' when I touch you, for lack of a better term. I'm still dead, or mostly dead. Have been for hundreds of years.
No supernatural creature has ever produced an offspring.
Ever.
It simply isna possible.”

“You believe this can't be your child?”

“Now, hold on there, my lord, don't be hasty.” Madame Lefoux tried to intervene, placing one small hand on Lord Maccon's arm.

He shook her off with a snarl.

“Of course it's your child, you pollock!” Now Alexia was livid. If she hadn't still been feeling weak, she would have stood
and marched about the room. As it was, she groped for her parasol. Maybe whacking her husband atop his thick skull would drive
some sense into him.

“Thousands of years of history and experience would seem to suggest you are lying, wife.”

Lady Maccon sputtered in offense at that. She was so overset she couldn't even find the words, a remarkably novel experience
for her.

“Who was he?” Conall wanted to know. “What daylight-dependent dishtowel did you fornicate with? One of my clavigers? One of
Akeldama's poodle-faking drones? Is that why you're always visiting him? Or just some milk-curling mortal blowhard?”

Then he began calling her things, names and words, dirtier and harsher than she had ever heard before—let alone been called—and
Alexia had encountered more than her fair share of profanity over the past year. They were horrible, cruel things, and she
could comprehend the meanings of most, despite her lack of familiarity with the terminology.

Conall had committed many a violent act around Alexia during their association, not the least of which was savage a woman
into metamorphosis at the supper table, but Alexia had never been actually afraid of him before.

She was afraid of him now. He did not move toward her—in fact, he'd backed farther away toward the door—but his hands were
fisted white at his thighs, his eyes had changed to wolf yellow, and his canines were long and extended. She was immeasurably
grateful when Madame Lefoux physically interposed herself between Alexia and the earl's verbal tirade. As though, somehow,
the inventor could provide a barrier to his horrible words.

He stayed there, on the other side of the room, yelling at Alexia. It was as though he'd placed the distance between them,
not because he didn't want to come at her and tear her apart, but because he really thought he might. His eyes were such a
pale yellow they were almost white. Alexia had never seen them that color before. And, despite the filthy words coming out
of his mouth, those eyes were agonized and bereft.

“But I didn't,” Alexia tried to say. “I wouldn't. I'd never do those things. I am no adulteress. How could you even think?
I would never.” But her protestations of innocence only seemed to injure him. Eventually, his big, good-natured face crumpled
slightly about the mouth and nose, drawing down into lines of pain, as though he might actually cry. He strode from the room,
slamming the door behind him.

The silence he left behind was palpable.

Lady Kingair had, during the chaos, managed to change back into human form. She came around the front of the couch and stood
a moment before Alexia, entirely naked, shielded only by her long gray-brown hair, loose over her shoulders and chest.

“You will understand,
Lady
Maccon,” she said, eyes cold, “if I ask you to leave Kingair territory at once. Lord Maccon may have abandoned us once, but
he is still pack. And pack protects its own.”

“But,” Alexia whispered, “it is his child. I swear it. I was never with anyone else.”

Sidheag only stared at her, hard. “Come now, Lady Maccon. Shouldna you come up with a better story than that? 'Tis na possible.
Werewolves canna breed children. Never have done, never will do.” Then she turned and left the room.

Alexia turned to Madame Lefoux, shock written all over her face. “He really believes I was unfaithful.” She herself had reflected
recently how much Conall valued loyalty.

Madame Lefoux nodded. “I'm afraid it is a belief most will share.” Her expression sympathetic, she placed a small hand on
Alexia's shoulder and squeezed.

“I wasn't, I swear I wasn't.”

The Frenchwoman winced. “I believe that, Lady Maccon. But I will be in the minority.”

“Why would you trust me when even my husband does not?” Alexia looked down at her own stomach and then rested shaking hands
upon it.

“Because I know how very little we understand about preternaturals.”

“You are interested in studying me, aren't you, Madame Lefoux?”

“You are a remarkable creature, Alexia.”

Alexia widened her eyes, trying not to cry, her mind still vibrating with Conall's words. “Then how is this possible?” She
pressed hard against her stomach with both hands, as though asking the tiny creature inside to explain itself to her.

“I imagine that is something we had best figure out. Come on, let's get you out of this place.”

The Frenchwoman helped Alexia to stand and supported her weight out into the hallway. She was surprisingly strong for such
a delicate-looking creature, probably all that lifting of heavy machinery.

They ran into Felicity, looking remarkably somber.

“Sister, there was the most awful to-do,” she said as soon as she saw them. “I believe your husband just smashed one of the
hall tables into a thousand pieces with his fist.” She cocked her head. “It
was
an astonishingly ugly table, but still, one could always give it to the deserving poor, couldn't one?”

“We must pack and leave immediately,” said Madame Lefoux, keeping one arm supportively about Alexia's waist.

“Good Lord, why?”

“Your sister is pregnant, and Lord Maccon has cast her out.”

Felicity frowned. “Well,
that
does not follow.”

Madame Lefoux had clearly had enough. “Quickly, girl, run off and gather your things together. We must quit Kingair directly.”

Three-quarters of an hour later, a borrowed Kingair carriage sped away toward the nearest train station. The horses were fresh
and made good time, even in the slush and mud.

Alexia, still overcome with the most profound shock, opened the small window above the carriage door and poked her head out
into the rushing wind.

“Sister, come away from the window. That will wreak havoc with your hair. And, really, your hair doesn't need the excuse,”
Felicity jawed on. Alexia ignored her, so Felicity looked to the Frenchwoman. “What
is
she doing?”

Madame Lefoux gave a sad little grimace of a smile—no dimples. “Listening.” She put a gentle hand on Alexia's back, rubbing
it softly. Alexia did not appear to notice.

“For what?”

“Howling, running wolves.”

And Alexia was listening, but there was only the damp quiet of a Scottish night.

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This book really wouldn't have happened without Kristin, Devi, and Francesca. No, really, you'd be reading a big fat collection
of blank pages right now. Thanks, ladies, I owe you all wine and cheese! Lots of cheese. And a million hugs to J. Daniel Sawyer,
who was more helpful, more often, than he realized.

               

H
ow much longer, Mama, must we tolerate this gross humiliation?”

Lady Alexia Maccon paused before entering the breakfast room. Cutting through the comfortable sounds of chinking teacups and
scrunching toast shrilled her sister's less-than-dulcet tones. In an unsurprising morning duet of well-practiced whining,
Felicity's voice was soon followed by Evylin's.

“Yes, Mumsy darling, such a scandal under our roof. We really shouldn't be expected to put up with it any longer.”

Felicity championed the cause once more. “This is ruining our chances”—
crunch, crunch
—“beyond all recuperation. It isn't to be borne. It really isn't.”

Alexia made a show of checking her appearance in the hall mirror, hoping to overhear more. Much to her consternation, the
Loontwill's new butler, Swilkins, came
through with a tray of kippers. He gave her a disapproving glare that said much on his opinion of a young lady caught eavesdropping
on her own family. Eavesdropping was, by rights, a butler's proprietary art form.

“Good morning, Lady Maccon,” he said loudly enough for the family to hear even through their chatting and clattering, “you
received several messages yesterday.” He handed Alexia two folded and sealed letters and then waited pointedly for her to
precede him into the breakfast room.

“Yesterday! Yesterday! And why, pray tell, did you not
give
them to me yesterday?”

Swilkins did not reply.

Nasty bit of bother, this new butler.
Alexia was finding that little was worse in life than existing in a state of hostility with one's domestic staff.

Entering the breakfast room, Alexia actually flounced slightly in her annoyance and turned her ire upon those seated before
her. “Good morning, dearest family.”

As she made her way to the only empty chair, four pairs of blue eyes watched her progress with an air of condemnation. Well,
three pairs—the Right Honorable Squire Loontwill was entirely taken with the correct cracking of his soft-boiled egg. This
involved the application of an ingenious little device, rather like a handheld sideways guillotine, that nipped the tip off
the egg in perfect, chipless circularity. Thus happily engrossed, he did not bother to attend to the arrival of his stepdaughter.

Alexia poured herself a glass of barley water and took a piece of toast from the rack, no butter, trying to ignore the smoky
smell of breakfast. It had once been her favorite meal; now it invariably curdled her stomach. So far,
the infant-inconvenience—as she'd taken to thinking of it—was proving itself far more tiresome than one would have thought
possible, considering it was years away from either speech or action.

Mrs. Loontwill looked with manifest approval at her daughter's meager selection. “I shall be comforted,” she said to the table
at large, “by the fact that our poor dear Alexia is practically wasting away for want of her husband's affection. Such fine
feelings of sentimentality.” She clearly perceived Alexia's breakfast-starvation tactics as symptoms of a superior bout of
wallowing.

Alexia gave her mother an annoyed glance and inflicted minor wrath upon her toast with the butter knife. Since the infant-inconvenience
had added a small amount of weight to Alexia's already substantial figure, she was several stone away from “wasting.” Nor
was she of a personality inclined toward wallowing. In addition, she resented the fact that Lord Maccon might be thought to
have anything whatsoever to do with the fact—aside from the obvious, of which her family was as yet unaware—that she was off
her food. She opened her mouth to correct her mother in this regard, but Felicity interrupted her.

“Oh, Mama, I hardly think Alexia is the type to die of a broken heart.”

“Nor is she the type to be gastronomically challenged,” shot back Mrs. Loontwill.

“I, on the other hand,” interjected Evylin, helping herself to a plateful of kippers, “may jolly well do both.”

“Language, Evy darling, please.” Mrs. Loontwill snapped a piece of toast in half in her distress.

The youngest Miss Loontwill rounded on Alexia, pointing a forkful of egg at her accusingly. “Captain
Featherstonehaugh has thrown me over! How do you like that? We received a note only this morning.”

“Captain Featherstonehaugh?” Alexia muttered to herself. “I thought he was engaged to Ivy Hisselpenny and you were engaged
to someone else. How confusing.”

“No, no, Evy's engaged to him now. Or was. How long have you been staying with us? Nearly two weeks? Do pay attention, Alexia
dear,” Mrs. Loontwill admonished.

Evylin sighed dramatically. “And the dress is already bought and everything. I shall have to have it entirely made over.”

“He did have very nice eyebrows,” consoled Mrs. Loontwill.

“Exactly,” crowed Evylin. “Where will I find another pair of eyebrows like that? Devastated, I tell you, Alexia. I am utterly
devastated. And it is all
your
fault.”

Evylin, it must be noted, did not look nearly so bothered as one rightly ought over the loss of a fiancé, especially one reputed
to possess such heights of eyebrow pre-eminence. She stuffed the egg into her mouth and chewed methodically. She had taken
it into her head recently that chewing every bite of food twenty times over would keep her slender. What it did was keep her
at the dinner table longer than anyone else.

“He cited philosophical differences, but we all know why he really broke things off.” Felicity waved a gold-edged note at
Alexia—a note that clearly contained the good captain's deepest regrets, a note that, judging from the stains about itself,
had received the concerted attention of everyone at the breakfast table, including the kippers.

“I agree.” Alexia calmly sipped her barley water. “Philosophical differences? That cannot be true. You
don't actually have a philosophy about anything, do you, Evylin dear?”

“So you admit responsibility?” Evylin was moved to swallow early so she could launch the attack once more. She tossed her
blond curls, only one or two shades removed from the color of her egg.

“Certainly not. I never even met the man.”

“But it is still
your
fault. Abandoning your husband like that, staying with us instead of him. It is outrageous. People. Are. Talking.” Evylin
emphasized her words by stabbing ruthlessly at a sausage.

“People do tend to talk. I believe it is generally considered one of the better modes of communication.”

“Oh, why must you be so impossible? Mama, do something about her.” Evylin gave up on the sausage and went on to a second fried
egg.

“You hardly seem very cut up about it.” Alexia watched as her sister chewed away.

“Oh, I assure you, poor Evy is deeply effected. Shockingly overwrought,” said Mrs. Loontwill.

“Surely you mean
a
ffected?” Alexia was not above a barb or two where her family was concerned.

At the end of the table, Squire Loontwill, the only one likely to understand a literary joke, softly chortled.

“Herbert,” his wife reprimanded immediately, “don't encourage her to be pert. Most unattractive quality in a married lady,
pertness.” She turned back to Alexia. Mrs. Loontwill's face, that of a pretty woman who had aged without realizing it, screwed
itself up into a grimace Alexia supposed was meant to simulate motherly concern. Instead she looked like a Pekingese with
digestive complaints. “Is that what the estrangement with
him
is
over, Alexia? You weren't… brainy… with
him,
were you, dear?” Mrs. Loontwill had refrained from referring to Lord Maccon by name ever since her daughter's marriage, as
if by doing so she might hold on to the fact that Alexia
had
married—a condition believed by most to be highly unlikely right up until the fateful event—without having to remember
what
she had married. A peer of the realm, it was true, and one of Her Majesty's finest, to be certain, but also a werewolf. It
hadn't helped that Lord Maccon loathed Mrs. Loontwill and didn't mind who knew it, including Mrs. Loontwill.
Why,
Alexia remembered,
once, he had even
—She stopped herself from further thought of her husband, squashing the memory ruthlessly. Unfortunately, she found that,
the agitation of her thoughts had resulted in toast mutilated beyond all hope of consumption. With a sigh, she helped herself
to another piece.

“It seems clear to me,” interjected Felicity with an air of finality, “that your presence here, Alexia, has somehow overset
Evy's engagement. Even you cannot argue your way out of that, sister dear.”

Felicity and Evylin were Alexia's younger half-sisters by birth and were entirely unrelated if one took into account any other
factors. They were short, blond, and slender, while Alexia was tall, dark, and, quite frankly, not so very slender. Alexia
was known throughout London for her intellectual prowess, patronage of the scientific community, and biting wit. Felicity
and Evylin were known for their puffed sleeves. The world, as a result, was generally more peaceful when the three were not
living under the same roof.

“And we are all aware of how considered and unbiased
your opinion is on the matter, Felicity.” Alexia's tone was unruffled.

Felicity picked up the scandal section of the
Lady's Daily Chirrup,
clearly indicating she wanted nothing more to do with the conversation.

Mrs. Loontwill dove courageously on. “Surely, Alexia, darling, it is high time you returned home to Woolsey? I mean to say,
you've been with us nearly a week, and, of course, we do love having you, but
he
is rumored to be back from Scotland now.”

“Bully for
him.
”

“Alexia! What a shocking thing to say!”

Evylin interjected. “No one has seen him in town, of course, but they say he returned to Woolsey yesterday.”

“Who says?”

Felicity crinkled the gossip section of the paper explanatorily.

“Oh,
they.
”

“He must be pining for you, my dear,” Mrs. Loontwill resumed the attack. “Pining away, miserable for want of your…” She flailed.

“For want of my
what,
Mama?”

“Uh, scintillating companionship.”

Alexia snorted—at the dining table. Conall may have enjoyed her bluntness on rare occasion, but if he missed anything, she
doubted her wit was top of the list. Lord Maccon was a werewolf of hearty appetites, to say the least. What he would miss
most about his wife was located substantially lower than her tongue. An image of her husband's face momentarily broke her
resolve. That look in his eyes the last time they saw each other—so betrayed. But what he believed of her, the fact that he
doubted her
in such a way, was inexcusable. How dare he leave her remembering some lost-puppy look simply to toy with her sympathies!
Alexia Maccon made herself relive the things he had said to her, right then and there. She was
never
going to go back to that—her mind grappled for a description—that untrusting nitwit!

Lady Alexia Maccon was the type of woman who, if thrown into a briar patch, would start to tidy it up by stripping off all
the thorns. Over the past few weeks and throughout the course of an inexcusably foul train journey back from Scotland, she
thought she had come to terms with her husband's rejection of both her and their child. She was finding, however, at the oddest
and most irregular moments, that she hadn't. She would feel the betrayal, like some writhing ache just under her ribs, and
become both incredibly hurt and transcendently angry without warning. It was exactly like an acute attack of indigestion—only
with one's finer feelings involved. In her more lucid moments, Alexia reasoned that the cause of this sensation was the unjustness
of it all. She was quite accustomed to defending herself for having done something inappropriate, but defending herself when
completely innocent made for a dissimilar, and far more frustrating, experience. Not even Bogglington's Best Darjeeling succeeded
in soothing her temper. And if tea wasn't good enough, well, what
was
a lady to do? It was not, certainly not, that she still loved the man. That was entirely illogical. But the fact remained
that Alexia's temper was tender about the edges. Her family ought to have recognized the signs.

Felicity snapped the paper closed suddenly, her face an uncharacteristic red color.

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Loontwill fanned herself with a starched doily. “What
now
?”

Squire Loontwill glanced up and then took refuge in close examination of his egg.

“Nothing.” Felicity tried to shove the paper under her plate.

Evylin was having none of it. She reached over, snatched it away, and began scanning through it, looking for whatever juicy
tittle-tattle had so disturbed her sister.

Felicity nibbled on a scone and looked guiltily at Alexia.

Alexia had a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She finished her barley water with some difficulty and sat
back in her chair.

“Oh, golly!” Evylin seemed to have found the troublesome passage. She read it out for all to hear. “‘London was flabbergasted
last week when news reached this reporter's ears that Lady Maccon, previously Alexia Tarabotti, daughter of Mrs. Loontwill,
sister to Felicity and Evylin, and stepdaughter to the Honorable Squire Loontwill, had quit her husband's house, after returning
from Scotland without said husband. Speculation as to the reason has been ample, ranging from suspicions as to Lady Maccon's
intimate relationship with the rove vampire Lord Akeldama, to suspected family differences hinted at by the Misses Loontwill'—oh
look, Felicity, they mentioned us twice!—‘and certain lower-class social acquaintances. Lady Maccon cut quite a fashionable
swath through London society after her marriage'—la, la, la… Ah! Here it picks up again—‘but it has been revealed by sources
intimately connected to the noble couple that Lady Maccon is, in fact, in a most delicate condition. Given Lord Maccon's
age, supernatural inclination, and legally recognized postnecrosis status, it must be assumed that Lady Maccon has been
indiscreet.
While we await physical confirmation, all signs point to The Scandal of the Century.'”