Blameless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Third Page 2

  Everyone looked at Alexia and began talking at once.

  Evylin snapped the paper closed, the crisp noise silencing her family. “Well, that explains that! Captain Featherstonehaugh must have read this. Which is why he broke off our engagement this morning. Felicity was right! This really is your fault! How could you be so thoughtless, Alexia?”

  “No wonder she’s been off her feed,” commented Squire Loontwill unhelpfully.

  Mrs. Loontwill rose to the occasion. “This is simply too much for a mother to endure. Too much! Alexia, how did you manage to bungle matters so completely? Didn’t I raise you to be a good, respectful girl? Oh, I don’t know what to say!” Words failed Mrs. Loontwill. Luckily, she did not try to strike her daughter. She had done that once, and it hadn’t worked out well for anyone. Alexia had ended up married as a result.

  Alexia stood. Angry again. I spend a considerable time out of temper these days, she reflected. Only four people had known of her unseemly condition. Three of them would never even consider talking to the press. Which left only one option, an option that was currently wearing the most reprehensible blue lace dress, sporting a suspiciously red face, and sitting across from her at the breakfast table.

  “Felicity, I should have realized you wouldn’t be able to keep your trap shut!”

  “It wasn’t me!” Felicity instantly leaped to the defensive. “It must have been Madame Lefoux. You know how these Frenchwomen are! They’ll say anything for a modicum of fame and money.”

  “Felicity, you knew about Alexia’s condition and did not inform me?” Mrs. Loontwill recovered from her shock just in time to be shocked again. That Alexia would keep a secret from her own mother was to be expected, but Felicity was supposed to be on Mrs. Loontwill’s side. The chit had been bribed with enough pairs of shoes over the years.

  Lady Alexia Maccon slammed one hand down on the tabletop, causing teacups to rattle ominously, and leaned forward toward her sister. It was an unconscious application of intimidation tactics learned during several months spent living with a werewolf pack. She was nowhere near as hairy as was generally required for the maneuver, but she still managed to execute it flawlessly. “Madame Lefoux would do no such thing. I happen to know for a fact she is the soul of discretion. Only one person would talk, and that person is not French. You promised me, Felicity. I gave you my favorite amethyst necklace to keep silent.”

  “Is that how you got it?” Evylin was envious.

  “Who is the father, then?” asked Squire Loontwill, apparently feeling he ought to try and steer the conversation in a more productive direction. The ladies, fluttering agitatedly all around the table, entirely ignored him. This was a state comfortable to them all. The squire sucked his teeth in resignation and went back to his breakfast.

  Felicity went from defensive to sulky. “It was only Miss Wibbley and Miss Twittergaddle. How was I to know they would go running off to the press?”

  “Miss Twittergaddle’s father owns the Chirrup. As you are very well aware!” But then Alexia’s anger simmered off slightly. The fact that Felicity had held her tongue for several weeks was practically a miracle of the third age of mankind. Undoubtedly, Felicity had told the young ladies in order to garner attention, but she probably also knew such gossip would effectively dissolve Evylin’s engagement and ruin Alexia’s life. Sometime after Alexia’s wedding, Felicity had evolved from frivolous to outright spiteful, which, combined with a gooseberry-sized brain, resulted in her being an acutely disastrous human being.

  “After all this family has done for you, Alexia!” Mrs. Loontwill continued to heap recriminations on her daughter. “After Herbert permitted you back into the safety of his bosom!” Squire Loontwill looked up at that turn of phrase, then down at his portly frame with disbelief. “After the pains I went through to see you safely married. To go outside of all standards of decency like a common strumpet. It is simply intolerable.”

  “Exactly my point all along,” stated Felicity smugly.

  Driven to heights of exasperation, Alexia reached for the plate of kippers and, after due consideration of about three seconds, upended it over her sister’s head.

  Felicity shrieked something fierce.

  “But,” Alexia muttered under the resulting pandemonium, “it is his child.”

  “What was that?” Squire Loontwill brought a hand down sharply on the tabletop this time.

  “It is his bloody child. I have not been with anyone else.” Alexia yelled it over Felicity’s whimpering.

  “Alexia! Don’t be crass. There is no need for specifics. Everyone is well aware that is not possible. Your husband is basically dead, or was basically dead and is mostly dead now.” Mrs. Loontwill appeared to be confusing herself. She shook her head like a wet poodle and sallied stoically on with her diatribe. “Regardless, a werewolf fathering a child is like a vampire or a ghost producing offspring—patently ridiculous.”

  “Well, so is this family, but you all appear to exist in accordance with the natural order.”

  “What was that?”

  “In this case, ‘ridiculous’ would seem to require a redefinition.” Blast this child to all four corners of hell, anyway, thought Alexia.

  “You see how she is?” interjected Felicity, picking kipper off herself and glowering murderously. “She just keeps talking like that. Won’t admit to doing a single thing wrong. He has chucked her over—are you aware of that? She is not returning to Woolsey because she cannot return. Lord Maccon cast her out. That is why we left Scotland.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Herbert! Herbert, did you hear that?” Mrs. Loontwill looked about ready to have the vapors.

  Alexia wasn’t certain if this was manufactured distress at Conall publicly booting Alexia or if it was genuine horror at the prospect of having to board her eldest for the foreseeable future.

  “Herbert, do something!” Mrs. Loontwill wailed.

  “I have died and gone to the land of bad novels,” was Squire Loontwill’s response. “I am ill-equipped to cope with such an occurrence. Leticia, my dear, I leave it entirely in your capable hands.”

  A more inappropriate phrase had never yet been applied to his wife, whose hands were capable of nothing more complex than the occasional, highly stressful, bout of embroidery. Mrs. Loontwill cast said hands heavenward and sagged back into her chair in a partial faint.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, Papa.” An edge of steel entered Felicity’s tone. “Forgive me for being autocratic, but you must understand Alexia’s continued presence under our roof is entirely untenable. Such a scandal as this will substantially hinder our chances of matrimony, even without her actual attendance. You must send her away and forbid her further contact with the family. I recommend we quit London immediately. Perhaps for a European tour?”

  Evylin clapped her hands, and Alexia was left wondering how much planning Felicity had put into this little betrayal. She looked hard into her sister’s unexpectedly pitiless face. Deceitful little plonker! I should have hit her with something harder than kippers.

  Squire Loontwill was taken aback by Felicity’s forthright talk, but always a man to take the path of least resistance, he took stock of his collapsed wife and fierce-faced daughter and rang the bell for the butler.

  “Swilkins, go upstairs immediately and pack Lady Maccon’s things.”

  Swilkins remained motionless, impassive in his surprise.

  “Now, man!” snapped Felicity.

  Swilkins retreated.

  Alexia made a little huffing noise of exasperation. Just wait until she told Conall about this latest familial absurdity. Why he’d… Ah, yes, never mind. Her anger once again died, buckling under the ache of a werewolf-sized hole. Attempting to fill up the void with something, she helped herself to a dollop of marmalade and, because she had nothing left to lose, ate it directly off the spoon.

  At that, Mrs. Loontwill actually did faint.

  Squire Loontwill gave his wife’s limp form a long look and then, with due consideration, left
her there for the time being and retreated to the smoking room.

  Alexia remembered her mail, and since she needed a distraction and would rather do anything other than converse further with her sisters, she picked up the first letter and broke the seal. Until that moment, she had actually thought things couldn’t get any worse.

  The seal on the letter was unmistakable—a lion and a unicorn with a crown in between. The message on the interior was equally forthright. Lady Maccon’s presence was no longer welcome at Buckingham Palace. The Queen of England would henceforth be unable to receive her. Lady Maccon’s duties as a member of the Shadow Council were suspended until further notice. She no longer carried Her Majesty’s confidence or authority. The position of muhjah was once more vacant. She was thanked kindly for her previous services and wished a pleasant day.

  Alexia Maccon stood up very decidedly, left the breakfast room, and walked directly into the kitchen, ignoring the startled servants. With barely a pause, she marched over and stuffed the official missive into the huge iron range that dominated the room. It caught fire and immolated instantly. Craving solitude, she went from the kitchen into the back parlor, rather than back to the breakfast room. She wanted to retire to her room and crawl back under the bed covers in a tiny—well, not that tiny—ball. But she was already dressed, and principles must be maintained even in the direst of times.

  She should not have been surprised. For all her progressive politics, Queen Victoria was morally conservative. She still wore mourning for her husband, dead, ghosted, and gone for over a decade. And if any woman didn’t look good in black, it was Queen Victoria. There was no way that the queen would allow Lady Maccon to continue in her clandestine role of preternatural advisor and field agent, even if it remained an entirely secret and classified position. Lady Maccon could not possibly have even a hint of an association with the queen, not now that she had become a social pariah. The morning’s news was probably already common knowledge.

  Alexia sighed. The potentate and the dewan, fellow members of the Shadow Council, would be delighted to see her gone. She hadn’t exactly made life easy for them. That, too, had been part of the job requirements. She experienced a shiver of apprehension. Without Conall and the Woolsey Pack to protect her, there were probably quite a number of individuals who would count her as better off deceased. She rang the bell for one of the maids and sent her to retrieve her parasol-cum-weapon before the butler packed it away. The maid returned shortly, and Alexia felt slightly comforted by having her favorite accessory on hand.

  Her thoughts, unbidden, returned once more to her husband, who had so thoughtfully gifted her with the deadly ornament. Damn and blast Conall. Why didn’t he believe her? So what if all known history contradicted her? History wasn’t precisely revered for its accuracy at the best of times. Nor was it overflowing with female preternaturals. Scientifically, no one understood how she was what she was or did what she did even now, with all England’s vaunted technology. So what if he was mostly dead? Her touch turned him mortal, didn’t it? Why couldn’t it also turn him human enough to be able to give her a child? Was that so impossible to believe? Horrible man. So like a werewolf to get overly emotional and fluff up the duster like that.

  Just thinking about him and Alexia became overcome with sentiment. Annoyed at her own weakness, she dabbed the tears away and looked to her other note, expecting more bad news. However, the writing on this one, bold and entirely too flowery, made her give a watery smile. She’d sent a card ’round shortly after she returned to London. She wouldn’t be so rude as to ask, but she had hinted at her uncomfortable domestic situation, and he, of course, would know what had happened. He always knew what was happening.

  “My darling Chamomile Button!” he wrote. “I received your card, and given certain recent intelligence, it has occurred to me that you may be in ever-increasing need of accommodation but were far too polite to request it openly. Let me tender my most humble offer, to the only person in all of England currently thought more outrageous than myself. You would be welcome to share my unworthy domicile and hospitality, such as they are. Yours, et cetera, Lord Akeldama.”

  Alexia grinned. She had been hoping he would read the appeal behind her formal social nicety. Even though his card had been written before her condition had become public knowledge, she suspected her vampire friend would still be amenable to an extended visit and had probably already known about the pregnancy. Lord Akeldama was a rove of such consistently shocking dress and manner that his reputation could only be amplified by taking in the now-ruined Lady Maccon. In addition, he would have her at his mercy and disposal, thus able to extract all truths from her ad nauseam. Of course, she intended to accept his offer, hoping that, as the invitation had been made yesterday—damn the irascible Swilkins—she was not too late. She was rather looking forward to the prospect. Lord Akeldama’s abode and table were quite the opposite of humble, and he kept the companionship of a large collective of such shining paragons of foppishness as to make any sojourn in his company one of unending visual delight. Relieved that she was no longer homeless, Lady Maccon sent a note to that effect. She took pains to ensure that the missive was carried by the Loontwills’ most attractive footman.

  Maybe Lord Akeldama would know something that would explain the presence of a child parasiting about inside her. He was a very old vampire; perhaps he could help prove to Conall her upstanding virtue. The ludicrousness of that thought—Lord Akeldama and virtue in the same sentence—made her smile.

  Her luggage packed and her hat and cape in place, Alexia was preparing to quit her family’s house, probably for the last time, when yet more mail arrived addressed to her. It was in the form of a suspicious package accompanied by a message. This time she intercepted it before Swilkins could get his mitts on it.

  The package contained a hat of such unparalleled biliousness that Alexia had no doubt as to its origin. It was a felt toque, bright yellow in color and trimmed with fake black currants, velvet ribbon, and a pair of green feathers that looked like the feelers from some unfortunate sea creature. The accompanying note boasted remarkably exclamatory grammar and, if possible, attained new heights of flowery penmanship above and beyond that of Lord Akeldama. It was, admittedly, a tad harrowing to read.

  “Alexia Tarabotti Maccon, how could you behave so wickedly! I just read the morning paper. You had my heart in my chest, you really did! Of course, I should never have believed such a thing in all my born days! Never! In fact, I do not believe a word of it now. You understand that we—Tunny and I—would love to have you to stay, but circumstances being, as they say, indefensible—or it is indefatigable?—we cannot possibly tender the offer. You understand? I’m certain you do. Don’t you? But I thought you might require some consoling, and I remembered how much attention you paid this adorable hat last time we were out shopping together—ah, these many months ago, in our careless youth, or do I mean carefree youth?—so I picked this out for you at Chapeau de Poupe. I had intended it to be a Christmas gift, but such an emotional crisis as you must be suffering clearly indicates that now is obviously a far more important time for hats. Wouldn’t you say? Love, love, love, Ivy.”

  Alexia perfectly understood all the things Ivy hadn’t written, if such a thing was to be believed possible given the length of the missive. Ivy and her new husband were committed theatricals and, quite frankly, could not afford to lose patronage through association with the now-besmirched Lady Maccon. Alexia was relieved she would not have to turn them down. The couple lived in the most horrible little set of apartments imaginable, down in the West End. They had, for example, only one parlor. Lady Maccon shuddered delicately.

  Tucking the repulsive hat under her arm and grabbing her trusty parasol, Alexia made her way down to the waiting carriage. She gave Swilkins a haughty sniff as he handed her up and directed the driver on to Lord Akeldama’s town house.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In Which Lord Maccon Is Likened to a Small Cucumber

 
Lord Akeldama’s house was located in one of the most fashionable parts of London. A part that had probably become fashionable because it was fortunate enough to host said town house. Lord Akeldama did everything fashionably, sometimes to the exclusion of all else, including common sense. If Lord Akeldama were to take up wrestling in vats of jellied eels, it would probably become fashionable within a fortnight. The exterior of his house had been recently redecorated to the height of modern taste and the worshipful approval of the ton. It was painted pale lavender with gold trim swirling and flouncing around every window and aperture. An herbaceous border of lilac bushes, sunflowers, and pansies had been planted as a complement, forming a pleasing three-level effect as visitors wandered up to the front steps, even in winter. The house stood as a solo bastion of cheer, battling valiantly against the London sky, which had undertaken its customary stance halfway between an indifferent gray and a malnourished drizzle.

  No one responded to Lady Maccon’s knock, nor to her tug on the bell rope, but the gilded front door had been left unlocked. Waving at the driver to wait, Alexia made her way cautiously inside, parasol up and at the ready. The rooms lay in unabashed splendor—fluffy carpets depicting romantically inclined shepherds, paired with arched ceilings playing host to equally amorous cherubs painted a la Roma.

  “Halloo. Anybody home?”

  The place was completely and utterly deserted, obviously in exceptional haste. Not only was there no Lord Akeldama, but there was no Biffy, nor any other drone. Lord Akeldama’s abode was normally a carnival of delights: discarded top hats and piles of playbills, the scent of expensive cigars and French cologne, and it boasted a background hum of chatter and hilarity. The silence and stillness were all the more noticeable by comparison.