Heartless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Fourth Read online

  “How will allowing him to accompany you help?”

  “Am I not also part of this pack?”

  “Ah.” The earl turned his hand over to grip his wife’s in a compliant caress.

  “If you ask me, it is not so much Biffy who cannot find his place as Woolsey not giving him the right place to find. You are all thinking of him as you would any new werewolf. He’s not, you understand? He’s different.”

  Conall, remarkably, did not jump immediately to the defensive. “Yes, I’m aware. Randolph and I were recently discussing this very thing. But it cannot simply be a matter of Biffy’s preferences. We werewolves are as experimental in our tastes as the vampires, if a little more reserved about the expression of them. And there’s always Adelphus. He’s willing.”

  Alexia made a disgusted noise. “Adelphus is always willing. Biffy does not need a lover, husband—he needs a purpose. This is a matter of culture. Biffy has come to you out of vampire culture. Lord Akeldama’s vampire culture.”

  “So what do you recommend?”

  “Woolsey has managed to accept me into its midst and I am by no means standard werewolf fare.” Alexia played with her husband’s fingers, threading and unthreading them with her own.

  “But you are female.”

  “Exactly!”

  “You are suggesting we treat Biffy as if he were a woman?”

  “I am suggesting that you think about him as if he had married in from the outside.”

  Lord Maccon gave this due consideration and then nodded slowly.

  Lady Maccon realized he must be very troubled by Biffy’s unhappiness to listen to her suggestions with so few protestations.

  Alexia squeezed his hand once more and then let go, returning to her meal of apple fritter and boiled arrowroot pudding with melted butter and currant jelly. Of late, her taste in comestibles had leaned ever more in the saccharine direction. Now she ate almost exclusively of the pudding course at any meal. “You think there’s a chance you might lose him, don’t you?”

  Her husband did not answer her, which was an admission in and of itself. Instead he busily began tackling a veritable heap of fried veal cutlets.

  Lady Maccon chose her next words with care. “How quickly can loner status be established?” She did not want to be perceived as doubting her husband’s Alpha abilities. Men, even immortal ones, had fragile egos on certain subjects. Such egos could be as delicate and as messy as puff pastry. Though rather less palatable with tea. Ooh, tea.

  “Wolves can go solitary at any time, but it is usually for a specific reason and occurs within the first few years of metamorphosis. Howlers say it has something to do with early bonding to the Alpha. Often it means the unbonded is too much Alpha himself. I don’t believe Biffy falls into this category, but that is the only thing currently in our favor.”

  Alexia thought she spotted the real source of her husband’s concern. “If Biffy becomes a loner, you don’t believe he would survive. Do you?”

  “Loners are unstable. They brawl constantly. Our new pup is not a fighter, not like that.” Her husband’s lovely eyes were pained and guilty. This mess with Biffy was his fault. Unintentionally his fault, but Lord Conall Maccon was not the kind of gentleman who shifted blame merely because they were all victims of circumstance.

  Alexia took a breath and then dove for the kill. “Then you really should give him to me for a while. I’ll see what I can do. Remember, I can tame him if I have to, if he loses control and goes to wolf.” She wiggled ungloved fingers at her husband.

  “Very well, wife. But you are to check in with either me or Randolph as to his progress.”

  As the earl said this, Professor Lyall wandered into the dining room. The Beta was his usual unassuming self—his sandy hair neatly combed; his angular features arranged into a nonthreatening expression; his demeanor quiet, self-effacing, and utterly forgettable. It was an aura that Alexia was beginning to suspect Professor Lyall had cultivated for decades.

  “Good evening, my lady, my lord.” The Beta assumed his seat.

  A maid appeared at his elbow with fresh tea and the evening’s paper. Professor Lyall was the type of man to have that kind of relationship with the domestic staff. Even newly hired and after only a day’s residence, they were already providing exactly what he required without need for any time-wasting orders. Between him, Floote, and Biffy, there would never be a single upset in the running of the Maccon household. It was a good thing, too, for the indomitable Lady Maccon had other things to occupy her time and attention. The running of her household was best left to the gentlemen. Although, she did indicate to the maid that she, too, required tea.

  “Professor Lyall, how are you this evening?” Alexia saw no reason why familiarity with an individual ought to breed familiarity of manner, except with her husband, of course. Even though she had been living, off and on, among the Woolsey Pack for almost a year, she never relaxed on courtesy.

  “Tolerably well, my lady, tolerably well.” Nor, indeed, did Professor Lyall, who was remarkably civilized for a werewolf and seemed particularly respectful of all codes of politeness and gracefulness of manner.

  Now that she had both of them at her table, Lady Maccon directed the two werewolves back onto the weighty matter of the queen’s life. “So, gentlemen, anything come out of BUR on the threat?”

  “Not an aetheric sausage,” complained the earl.

  Professor Lyall shook his head.

  “Must be the vampires,” said Lord Maccon.

  “Now, husband, why would you say that?”

  “Isn’t it always the vampires?”

  “No, sometimes it’s the scientists.” Lady Maccon was referring obliquely to the disbanded Hypocras Club. “And sometimes it’s the church.” Now she was thinking of the Templars. “And sometimes it’s the werewolves.”

  “Well, I say!” Lord Maccon stuffed another cutlet into his mouth. “I can’t imagine you actually defending the vampires. They’ve been trying to kill you for months.”

  “Oh, Conall, do swallow first. Then speak. What kind of example is that for our child?”

  The earl looked around as though trying to see if the little being had somehow been born without his notice and was now staring at him with an eye toward modeling its behavior upon his.

  Lady Maccon continued. “Simply because the vampires are perennially trying to murder me doesn’t mean they are trying to murder the queen as well, now, does it? One would think their resources would be somewhat taxed, if nothing else. Besides, what could possibly be their motive? The queen is a progressive.” She was moved to defend her stance further. “I thought your lot was supposed to have long memories. Correct me if I’m wrong, Professor Lyall, but didn’t the last major threat to Queen Victoria’s life emanate from the Kingair Pack?”

  “Really, Lady Maccon, couldn’t it wait until I’ve at least finished my first cup of tea?” The Beta looked put upon.

  Alexia said nothing.

  Professor Lyall put down his tea pointedly. “There was that overeager Pate fellow with the walking stick some twenty years ago or so. Completely mutilated Her Majesty’s favorite bonnet. Shocking behavior. And there was that disgruntled Irishman with the unloaded pistol before that.” He helped himself to a small serving of smoked kipper but paused before digging in. “And the reputed incident a few years back with John Brown.” The Beta considered his kipper as though it held all the answers. “Come to think on it, they’ve all been remarkably ineffective.”

  Her husband snorted. “Notoriety mongers, the lot of them.”

  Alexia puffed out her cheeks. “You know what I mean. Those were all isolated incidents. I mean planned cohesive plots backed by serious intent.”

  The maid reappeared with more tea and an extra cup for Lord Maccon. Who sneered at it.

  Professor Lyall’s face sobered. “Then, no, Kingair was the last.”

  A delicate subject, indeed, as Kingair was Lord Maccon’s former pack, and they had betrayed him in order to att
empt the ghastly deed. He had killed his Beta and moved to London to challenge for Woolsey as a result. Like politics, or personal dressing habits, this was not proper meal-time conversation.

  Professor Lyall, a man of much delicacy, seemed to find the subject particularly uncomfortable. After all, Woolsey had ultimately benefited from the assassination attempt. Their previous Alpha was reputed to be a man of petty disposition and profound temper, and Lord Maccon was considered one of the better werewolf leaders. The best, if Alexia had anything to say on the subject. Which she did. Often.

  The bell sounded in the front entranceway, and Professor Lyall glanced up gratefully. There came a rumble of voices as Floote answered the door. Alexia couldn’t make out who it was, but her husband and his Beta had werewolf hearing and their reactions—a slight smile from Lyall and a disgusted frown from Conall—gave her a pretty decent idea.

  “Peaches!” Lord Akeldama wafted in on a wave of Bond Street’s best pomade and a lemon-scented eau de toilette. Alexia’s pregnancy had had a strange effect on her sense of smell, rendering it far more acute. She imagined she was getting some limited idea of how werewolves felt with their supernatural abilities in that arena.

  The vampire, resplendent in a silver tailcoat and bright yellow waistcoat only one or two shades darker than his hair, paused in the doorway. “Isn’t this delightfully cozy? How perfectly splendid that I can simply pop next door and visit you all à la table!”

  “And how nice that you are not a hive queen to be so entirely confined to your own home,” replied Alexia. She gestured for the vampire to draw up a chair. He did so with a flourish, shaking out his napkin and placing it in his lap, although he would, everyone knew, take no food.

  Professor Lyall tilted his head at the teapot. When Lord Akeldama nodded, the Beta poured him out a cup. “Milk?”

  “Lemon, if you would be so kind.”

  Lyall raised his eyebrows in shock but signaled one of the maids to run and see to this odd request. “I thought most vampires didn’t tolerate citrus.”

  “Dolly, my pet, I am most assuredly not most vampires.”

  Professor Lyall did not pursue this, as he had a more pressing question in mind. “It has occurred to me to worry about this scheme of ours. I understand it is a delicate subject, but this last winter you did swarm, did you not? Because of that spot of bother with Biffy being stuck under the Thames.”

  “Yes, poppet, what of it?”

  “That swarming isn’t going to hinder the effectiveness of your residency now, is it? You understand I ask only with a mind toward the safety of the child and because I’ve no records pertaining to the consequences of a rove swarming. No insult is intended.”

  Lord Akeldama grinned. “Dolly, such a careful little creature, aren’t you? But fret not—my house isn’t technically a hive. I’m not bound by the same kinds of instincts. I can return to my previous residence without psychological upset. Besides, that was half a year ago. I’m well recovered from the experience by now.”

  Lyall did not look entirely convinced.

  Lord Akeldama changed the subject. “So what say you, all my lupine darlings, to this new threat?”

  Lord Maccon looked with shock at his Beta. “Randolph, you didn’t!”

  Professor Lyall did not flinch. “Of course not.”

  “Wife?”

  Alexia swallowed her bit of pudding. “He knows because, well, this is Lord Akeldama. You are going to have to get accustomed to it, my dear.”

  “Thank you, darling plum nubbin, for your faith in my meager resources.”

  “Of course, my lord. So?”

  “Ah, dandelion fluff, I regret that I have not yet formed a ready opinion as to the nature and origin of these latest twitterings.”

  A footman appeared with the lemon, and Lyall poured the vampire a cup of tea. Lord Akeldama sipped it delicately.

  Lord Maccon snorted. “You haven’t lacked for a ready opinion in the whole of your very long life.”

  The vampire tittered at that. “True, but those expressed traditionally concern matters of dress, not politics.”

  Floote came in with Alexia’s dispatch case. “You’re due at the palace shortly, madam.”

  “Oh, my, yes, look at the time. Thank you, Floote. My parasol?”

  “Here, madam.”

  “And perhaps a bite to take along?”

  Floote handed her a sausage roll wrapped in checked cloth, having anticipated just such a request.

  “Oh, thank you, Floote.”

  The earl looked up hopefully. Wordlessly Floote handed him another sausage roll. The earl downed it in two satisfied bites, even though he had just finished a rather large meal. Floote and Lyall exchanged knowing looks. It had become quite the task to keep both Lord and Lady Maccon fed these days.

  Lady Maccon leaned forward onto the table, bracing against it with both hands, pleased to live in a household that did not favor the spindly furniture so in vogue with ladies of quality. By dint of some sizable effort, she managed to almost hoist herself to her feet before losing her balance and lurching back down.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she cried out in abject frustration. The gentlemen all leaped to her assistance. Lord Maccon made it to her first. Which was probably a good thing. With her preternatural touch, none of the others present would have been of any use. They were all too slight in their mortal forms to handle her clumsiness.

  Having gained her feet and some measure of her dignity, Alexia said, “I really must say, I am finding my own proportions quite vulgar.”

  Lord Maccon hid his smile. “Not all that much longer, my dear.”

  Alexia hated it when he called her his dear. “Really, it can’t occur soon enough.” She waved off Floote’s offer of a cloak and accepted a light shawl instead. It was plenty warm enough even without the wrap, but formalities must be observed. Then she gathered up her case and parasol.

  Biffy appeared at her elbow, bloodred tailcoat in place, pure white cravat emphasizing his pleasant features, and matched red top hat on his head. He may have had to sacrifice a good many things to take up his new role as a werewolf, but he had refused to sacrifice his tailor.

  “I am to act as escort this evening, my lady?”

  “Oh, yes, Biffy dear. How did you know?”

  Biffy gave her a look remarkably similar to the one always worn by Lord Akeldama when he was asked such a question.

  Alexia nodded her understanding and then looked to the vampire. “Share a carriage, my lord potentate?”

  “Why not?” Lord Akeldama sucked down the last of his tea, stood, performed an exaggerated bow to the two werewolves still at the dining table, and offered his arm to Alexia. She took it and they swept from the room, Biffy trailing faithfully after.

  As they left, Lady Maccon heard her husband say to Lyall, “How long do you imagine we are going to have to keep up this place of residence?”

  “Until the child is grown, I suppose,” responded the Beta.

  “God’s teeth, it’s going to be a long sixteen years.”

  “I imagine you’ll survive it relatively unscathed, my lord.”

  “Randolph, you and I both know there are things far worse than death.”

  Alexia and Lord Akeldama exchanged smiles.

  * * *

  “Did you tell her?” asked the first ghost, stretched as far as she could, shimmering in and out of existence with the strain of her extended tether.

  “I told her.” The second ghost bobbed up and down in the air above the street. She was a little more substantial, a little closer to home. “I told her what I could remember. I told her to put a stop to it. Are we done now?”

  They were both lucid, strangely lucid, for two so near the end of enmatterment. It was as though the afterlife were giving them this one chance to fix things.

  “We’re done,” said the first ghost. Both of them knew she wasn’t referring to their plan or to their relationship but to their inevitable demise. “Now only I must wai
t.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Where Tethered Specters Meet

  Lady Maccon, muhjah, and Lord Akeldama, potentate, were allowed through the entrance to Buckingham Palace with very little ceremony. It was not one of their scheduled visits, but Lord Akeldama and Lady Maccon were regulars and, as such, required only minimal perusal. They were also favorites, or Lady Maccon was. Lord Akeldama was generally regarded by members of both the military and the constabulary with whom he had congress as challenging in large doses. However, the castle guards were diligent, hardworking lads with a care to their royal duties. Lady Maccon’s neck was checked for bite marks and her dispatch case for illegal steam devices. She yielded up her parasol without question. Alexia would rather have them confiscate it than have to explain how it worked. Lord Akeldama’s clothing was far too tight for any hidden weaponry, but the guards did check his top hat before allowing him to proceed.

  Biffy was not permitted entrance, despite the extraordinarily royal color of his jacket. He was pronounced, with much forcefulness, as being not on the register. However, Biffy was of such a pleasant disposition that he was content to remain behind at the entrance for the duration of the council. Alexia distinctly heard him say, in lilting tones, “Such a big hat you have, Lieutenant Funtington!” to one of the stoic-faced palace guards.

  “Incorrigible child,” she said to Lord Akeldama with a smile of affection.

  “I would say I taught him everything he knows, but Biffy’s a natural.” Lord Akeldama nodded his approval.

  They made their way into the meeting chamber to find the dewan already pacing about in a tizzy. Queen Victoria was not there. The queen did not attend most Shadow Councils. She expected to be informed of anything significant but otherwise was uninterested in the minutiae.

  “Threat to the queen, I hear.” The dewan was a large gruff individual who reminded Alexia of her husband, in character if not in appearance or manner. Not that she would ever tell this to either of them. He held state as the Earl of Upper Slaughter but no longer boasted the country seat to accompany the title. Similarly, he had the demeanor of a leader without a pack. This freedom from responsibility both as lord and Alpha made the dewan the most powerful autonomous werewolf in all England. And, even though he was not quite as big as Conall Maccon, it was generally acknowledged by all—including said Conall Maccon—that Lord Slaughter could give even that most feared of Alphas a fight for his fur. Thus, the dewan and Lord Maccon tended to circle each other, both in and out of polite company, rather like two tugboats drawing freight—widely and with much tooting.