The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (84 page)

“Nasty little bloodsuckers. I shall set them to rights. Why haven't Lord Akeldama and his boys been able to counteract the
gossip? And why hasn't Lord Akeldama explained away my wife's pregnancy, for that matter? I bet he knows. He is quite the
little know-it-all. May even be Edict Keeper, unless I miss my guess.”

“That is the other problem: he has disappeared along with all of his drones. Apparently, they are off searching for something
the potentate stole. I have been trying to find out what and why and where, but it has been a tad hectic recently. Both BUR
and the pack keep interfering. Not to mention the fact that the vampires really aren't saying anything of interest. Why, if
it weren't for Mrs. Tunstell and the hat shop, I might not even know the little I do.”

“Hat shop? Mrs. Tunstell?” Lord Maccon blinked at this diatribe from his normally quietly competent Beta. “You mean Ivy Hisselpenny?
That
Mrs. Tunstell? What hat shop?”

But his Beta was on a verbal flyaway and unwilling to
pause. “What with you constantly sloshed and Channing gone, I am at my wit's end. I really am. You, my lord, cannot simply
dash off to Italy. You have responsibilities
here.
”

Lord Maccon frowned. “Ah, yes, Channing. I forgot about him.”

“Oh, yes? I didn't think that was possible. Some people have all the luck.”

Lord Maccon caved. Truth be told he was rather worried to see his unflappable Randolph so, well, flapped. “Oh, very well,
I shall give you three nights help sorting out this mess
you
have gotten us into, and then I'm off.”

Professor Lyall emitted the sigh of the long-suffering but knew it was the closest he was likely to get to victory with Lord
Maccon and counted his blessings. Then he gently but firmly put his Alpha to work.

“Rumpet,” he addressed the frozen and confused butler, “call the carriage. We are going into the city for the night.”

Lord Maccon turned to Professor Lyall as the two made their way through the hallway, collecting their greatcoats on the way.

“Any other news I should be made aware of, Randolph?”

Professor Lyall frowned. “Only that Miss Wibbley has become engaged.”

“Should that information mean something to me?”

“I believe you were once fond of Miss Wibbley, my lord.”

“I was?” A frown. “How astonishing of me. Ah, yes, skinny little thing? You misconstrued—I was simply using her to needle
Alexia at the time. Engaged, did you say? Who's the unfortunate fellow?”

“Captain Featherstonehaugh.”

“Ah, now that name does sound familiar. Didn't we serve with a Captain Featherstonehaugh on our last tour in India?”

“Ah, no, sir, I believe that was this one's grandfather.”

“Really? How time flies. Poor man. Not much to hold on to with that chit. That's what I like about my lass—she's got a bit
of meat on her bones.”

Professor Lyall could do nothing but say, “Yes, my lord.” Although he did shake his head over the obtuseness of his Alpha.
Who, having decided all would once more be blissful in his marriage, already referred to Alexia as his again. Unless Lyall
was wrong, and circumstances had already proved how improbable that outcome, Lady Maccon was unlikely to see the situation
in the same light.

They swung themselves up easily into the grand crested coach and four that served as Woolsey's main mode of transport when
the wolves weren't running.

“Now, what is this about Mrs. Tunstell and a hat shop?” Lord Maccon wanted to know, adding before Professor Lyall could answer,
“Sorry about drinking your specimen collection, by the way, Randolph. I wasn't quite myself.”

Lyall grunted softly. “I shall hide it better next time.”

“See that you do.”

               

L
ady Alexia Maccon did not, of course, realize that they were Templars until she awoke, and even then there was a lengthy adjustment
period. It took her several long moments to discover that she was, in fact, not exactly a prisoner but relaxing in the guest
quarters of a lavish residence located in, if the view from the window was to be believed, some equally lavish Italian city.
The room had a delightful southern aspect, and a cheerful spray of sunlight danced over plush furnishing and frescoed walls.

Alexia tumbled out of bed, only to find she had been stripped and redressed in a nightgown of such frilliness as might have
given her husband conniption fits under other circumstances. She wasn't comfortable with either the notion of a stranger seeing
her in the buff nor the copious frills, but she supposed a silly nightgown was better than nothing at all. She soon discovered
she had
also been provided with a dressing gown of velvet-lined brocade and a pair of fluffy bed slippers. Her dispatch case and parasol,
apparently unmolested, sat on a large pink pouf to one side of her bed. Figuring that any person of refined sensibility would
have burned her unfortunate claret-colored gown by now and finding no more respectable attire anywhere in the room, Alexia
donned the robe, grabbed her parasol, and stuck her head cautiously out into the hallway.

The hall proved itself to be more of a large vestibule, covered in thick carpets and lined with a number of religious effigies.
The humble cross appeared to be a particularly popular motif. Alexia spotted a massive gold statue of a pious-looking saint
sporting jade flowers in his hair and ruby sandals. She began to wonder if she was inside some kind of church or museum.
Did churches have guest bedrooms?
She had no idea. Having no soul to save, Alexia had always considered religious matters outside her particular sphere of
influence and therefore interest.

All unbidden, her stomach registered its utter emptiness and the infant-inconvenience sloshed about sympathetically. Alexia
sniffed the air. A delicious smell emanated from somewhere close by. Alexia had decent eyesight and adequate hearing—although
she had been remarkably capable of tuning out her husband's voice—but it was her sense of smell that set her apart from ordinary
mankind. She attributed this to her oversized nose. Whatever the case, it stood her in good stead this particular day, for
it led her unerringly down a side hallway, through a wide reception chamber, and out into a massive courtyard where a multitude
of men were gathered about long tables to eat.
Imagine that, eating
outside
and not for a picnic!

Alexia paused on the threshold, unsure. An assembly of masculinity, and her in only a dressing gown. Such a danger as this
she had never before had to face. She braced herself against the horror of it all.
Here's hoping my mother never gets wind of this.

The seated masses made for a bizarrely silent assembly. Hand gestures were the main method of communication. Seated at the
head of one of the tables, a single somberly dressed monk read unintelligible Latin out of a Bible in a monotonous tone. To
a man, the silent eaters were darkly tan and dressed respectably but not expensively in the kind of tweed-heavy country garb
young men about the hunt might favor—knickerbockers, vests, and boots. They were also armed to the teeth. At breakfast. It
was disconcerting to say the least.

Alexia swallowed nervously and stepped out into the courtyard.

Strangely enough, none of the men seemed to notice her. In fact, none of them registered her existence at all. There were
one or two very subtle sideways glances, but, by and large, Alexia Maccon was entirely and utterly ignored by everyone there,
and there were at least a hundred assembled. She hesitated.

“Uh, hallo?”

Silence.

True, prior familial experiences had prepared Alexia for a life of omission, but this was ridiculous.

“Over here!” A hand waved her over to one of the tables. In among the gentlemen sat Madame Lefoux and Floote, who, Alexia
saw with a profound feeling of relief, also wore robes. She had never seen Floote in anything less than professional attire,
and he seemed, poor man,
even more embarrassed than she by the informality of the dress.

Alexia wended her way over to them.

Madame Lefoux appeared comfortable enough, although startlingly feminine in her dressing gown. It was strange to see her without
the customary top hat and other masculine garb. She was softer and prettier. Alexia liked it.

Floote looked drawn and kept darting little glances at the silent men around them.

“I see they absconded with your clothing as well.” Madame Lefoux spoke in a low voice so as not to interfere with the biblical
recitation. Her green eyes glittered in evident approval of Alexia's informal attire.

“Well, did you see the hem on my gown—mud, acid, dog drool? I cannot say I blame them. Are these the famous Templars, then?
Well, Floote, I can see why you do not like them. Highly dangerous, mute clothing thieves. Ruthless providers of a decent
night's sleep.” She spoke in English but had no doubt that at least some of the men around them could entirely understand
her language, and could speak it, too, if they ever did speak.

Madame Lefoux went to make room for Alexia, but Floote said firmly, “Madam, you had best sit next to me.”

Alexia went to do so, only to find that the continued complete disregard for her presence extended to offering her a seat
on the long bench.

Floote solved this problem by pushing hard against one of his neighbors until the man shifted over.

Alexia squeezed into the space provided to find, once she had settled, that the gentleman nearest her had suddenly found himself
needed elsewhere. In an organic manner, and without any obvious movement, her immediate
area became entirely vacant of all personnel save Floote and Madame Lefoux.
Odd.

No one brought her a plate of any kind, nor, indeed, any other means by which she could partake of the food currently being
passed about the tables.

Floote, who had already completed his meal, shyly offered her his dirty trencher. “Apologies, madam, it is the best you'll
get.”

Alexia raised both eyebrows but took it. What an odd thing to have to do. Were all Italians this rude?

Madame Lefoux offered Alexia the platter of sliced melon. “Three nights of decent sleep. That's how long you've been out.”

“What!”

Floote intercepted the melon when Alexia would have served herself. “Let me do that for you, madam.”

“Why, thank you, Floote, but that is not necessary.”

“Oh, yes, madam, it is.” After which he proceeded to serve her anything she wished. It was as though he was trying to keep
her from touching any of the utensils. Peculiar behavior, even for Floote.

Madame Lefoux continued with her explanation. “Don't ask me what they drugged us with. My guess is a concentrated opiate of
some kind. But we were all asleep for three full nights.”

“No wonder I am so hungry.” This was rather worrying. Alexia glanced again at the silent, weapon-riddled men around her. Then
shrugged. Food first, ominous Italians second. Alexia tucked in. The fare was simple but delicious, although entirely lacking
in any meat. In addition to the melon, chunks of crunchy, salted bread, white with flour, were on offer, as well as a hard,
sharp
yellow cheese, apples, and a pitcher of some dark liquid that smelled like heaven. Floote poured a portion for her into his
cup.

Alexia took a tentative sip and was quite overwhelmed by an acute sense of betrayal. It was absolutely vile tasting, a mixture
of quinine and burnt dandelion leaves.

“That, I am to assume, is the infamous coffee?”

Madame Lefoux nodded, pouring herself a splash and then adding a good deal of honey and milk. Alexia could not believe a whole
hive of honey capable of rescuing the foul drink. Imagine preferring
that
to tea!

A bell sounded and, in a shifting rustle, most of the gentlemen departed and a new crowd entered. These men were slightly
less well dressed and a little less refined in their movements, although they, too, ate in complete silence to the sound of
the Bible being read aloud. And they, too, were covered in weaponry. Alexia noticed with annoyance that clean utensils were
set before
them
without bother. But the staff, milling about with platters of food and additional coffee, ignored Alexia with as much thoroughness
as the men seated around her. Really, it was beginning to make her feel quite invisible. She attempted a subtle sniff of her
arm. Did she stink?

Just to test a theory, and because she was never one to take anything sitting down—even when she was, in fact, sitting down—Alexia
scooted along the bench toward her nearest Italian neighbor, stretching out a hand in his direction, pretending to reach for
the bread. In a flash, he was up off the bench and backing away, still not exactly looking at her but warily watching her
movements out of the corner of his eye. So it wasn't just that they were ignoring her; they were actively avoiding her as
well.

“Floote, what
is
going on? Do they think I am contagious? Should I assure them I was born with a nose this size?”

Floote frowned. “Templars.” He intercepted another platter that would have bypassed Alexia and offered her some steamed greens.

Madame Lefoux frowned. “I did not know their reaction to a soulless would be quite so extreme. This is bizarre, but I suppose
given their beliefs…” She trailed off, looking at Alexia thoughtfully.

“What? What did I do?”

“Something highly offensive, apparently.”

Floote snorted in a most un-Floote-like manner. “She was born.”

For the moment, Alexia decided to follow the Templars' lead and so ignored them in turn, eating her meal with gusto. The infant-inconvenience
and she appeared to have reached an agreement. She was now allowed to eat in the mornings. In return, Alexia was beginning
to think upon the little being if not with affection, then at least with tolerance.

At the sound of a second bell, all of the men rose and began filing out of the courtyard, going off about their business without
a by-your-leave. Even the Bible reader departed, leaving Alexia, Floote, and Madame Lefoux alone in the massive courtyard.
Although Alexia managed to complete her meal before the staff were done cleaning up, no servant took her now-twice-dirty trencher.
At a loss, Alexia began to gather up her eating utensils herself, thinking she would take them into the kitchen, but Floote
shook his head.

“Allow me.” He picked up the trencher, stood, took
three quick steps, and hurled it over the courtyard wall, where it shattered loudly in the city street beyond. Then he did
the same with Alexia's cup.

Alexia stared at him with her mouth open. Had he gone completely mad? Why destroy perfectly good pottery?

“Floote, what
are
you doing? What has the crockery done to offend?”

Floote sighed. “You are an anathema to the Templars, madam.”

Madame Lefoux nodded her understanding. “Like being one of the untouchables in India?”

“Very like, madam. Anything in contact with a preternatural's mouth must be destroyed or ritually cleansed.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake. Then why bring me here?” Alexia frowned. “And one of them must have carried me down the Alpine pass
and then put me into bed.”

“A professional handler,” answered Floote curtly, as though that were explanation enough.

Madame Lefoux gave Floote a very long look. “And how long
did
Alessandro Tarabotti work for the Templars?”

“Long enough.”

Alexia gave Floote a stern look. “And how long did you?”

Floote came over all inscrutable at that. Alexia was familiar with that attitude; he got it when he was about to clam up and
become his most cagey. She faintly recalled from her nightmare time locked away in the Hypocras Club, some scientist saying
something to the effect of Templars using soulless as agents. Had her father really been so bad as that? To work for a people
who would have regarded him as not human.
No. Could he really?

Alexia did not have an opportunity, however, to try and crack Floote's hard, curmudgeonly shell, for someone
came out into the courtyard and began walking purposefully toward them. A Templar, but this one seemed perfectly capable of
looking Alexia full in the face.

The man wore practical middle-class dress twisted into absurdity through the presence of a white sleeveless smock with a red
cross embroidered on the front. This absurdity was somewhat mitigated by the sinister presence of a particularly large sword.
At his approach, Alexia and Madame Lefoux extracted themselves from the bench seats. Alexia's nightgown ruffles got caught
on the rough wood in a most annoying manner. She tugged them away and drew the robe closed more securely.

Looking down at her attire and then back up at the man approaching, Alexia grinned.
We are all dressed for bed.

This Templar also wore a hat of such unsightliness as to rival one of Ivy's more favored investments. It was white and peaked,
boasting yet another red cross emblazoned on the front and gold brocade about the edge.

Floote stood at Alexia's side. Leaning over, he whispered in her ear, “Whatever you do, madam, please do not tell him about
the child.” Then he straightened to his stiffest and most butlerlike pose.

The man bared his teeth when he reached them, bowing slightly. It could not possibly be a smile, could it? He had very straight
white teeth, and a lot of them. “Welcome to Italy, daughter of the Tarabotti stock.”