Professor Lyal let his Alpha out of the cel and then spent a few minutes fussing about the earl’s shirt and cravat, tidying up the mauling Lord Maccon had inflicted while attempting to clothe himself.
The earl withstood the grooming manful y, knowing it for what it was: Lyal ’s unspoken sympathy. Then he batted his Beta away. Lord Maccon was, when al was said and done, a wolf of action.
“So, what do I have to do to win her back? How do I convince her to come home?”
“You are forgetting that, given your treatment of her, she may not want to come home.”
“Then I shal make her forgive me!” Lord Maccon’s voice, while commanding, was also anguished.
“I do not believe that is quite how forgiveness works, my lord.”
“Wel ?”
“You remember that groveling business we once discussed during your initial courtship of the young lady?”
“Not that again.”
“Oh, no, not precisely. I was thinking, given her flight from London and the general y slanderous gossip that has resulted and permeated the society papers ever since, that public groveling is cal ed for under such circumstances.”
“What? No, I absolutely refuse.”
“Oh, I don’t believe you have a choice, my lord. A letter to the Morning Post would be best, a retraction of sorts. In it you should explain that this was al a horrible misunderstanding. Hail the child as a modern miracle. Claim you had the help of some scientist or other in its conception. How about using that MacDougal fel ow? He owes us a favor, doesn’t he, from that incident with the automaton? And he is an American; he won’t protest the resulting attention.”
“You have given this much thought, haven’t you, Randolph?”
“Someone had to. You, apparently, were not putting thought very high up on your list of priorities for the past few weeks.”
“Enough. I stil outrank you.”
Professor Lyal reflected he may have, just possibly, pushed his Alpha a little much with that last statement, but he held his ground.
“Now, where is my greatcoat? And where is Rumpet?” Lord Maccon threw his head back. “Rumpet!” he roared, bounding up the steps.
“Sir?” The butler met him at the top of the staircase. “You yel ed?”
“Send a man into town to book passage on the next possible channel crossing. It’s probably first thing in the morning. And from there a French train to the Italian border.” He turned to look at Lyal , who made his own more sedate way up the stairs from the dungeon. “That is where she has gone, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but how did you—?”
“Because that is where I would have gone.” He turned back to the butler. “Should take me a little over a day to cross France. I shal run the border tomorrow night in wolf skin and hang the consequences. Oh, and—”
This time it was Professor Lyal ’s turn to interrupt. “Belay that order, Rumpet.”
Lord Maccon turned around to growl at his Beta. “Now what? I shal go by the Post on my way out of town, get them to print a public apology. She is very likely in danger, Randolph, not to mention pregnant. I cannot possibly win her back by dawdling around London.”
Professor Lyal took a deep breath. He should have known having Lord Maccon in ful possession of his faculties might result in rash action. “It is more than just the regular papers. The vampires have been mudslinging and slandering your wife’s character in the popular press, accusing her of al manner of indiscretions, and unless I miss my guess, it al has to do with Alexia’s pregnancy. The vampires are not happy about it, my lord, not happy at al .”
“Nasty little bloodsuckers. I shal 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-al . May even be Edict Keeper, unless I miss my guess.”
“That is the other problem: he has disappeared along with al 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 real y aren’t saying anything of interest. Why, if it weren’t for Mrs. Tunstel and the hat shop, I might not even know the little I do.”
“Hat shop? Mrs. Tunstel ?” Lord Maccon blinked at this diatribe from his normal y quietly competent Beta. “You mean Ivy Hisselpenny? That Mrs. Tunstel ? What hat shop?”
But his Beta was on a verbal flyaway and unwil ing to pause. “What with you constantly sloshed and Channing gone, I am at my wit’s end. I real y 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 al the luck.”
Lord Maccon caved. Truth be told he was rather worried to see his unflappable Randolph so, well , flapped. “Oh, very well , I shal give you three nights help sorting out this mess you have gotten us into, and then I’m off.”
Professor Lyal 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, “cal the carriage. We are going into the city for the night.”
Lord Maccon turned to Professor Lyal as the two made their way through the hal way, col ecting their greatcoats on the way.
“Any other news I should be made aware of, Randolph?”
Professor Lyal 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 fel ow?”
“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.”
“Real y? 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 Lyal could do nothing but say, “Yes, my lord.” Although he did shake his head over the obtuseness of his Alpha. Who, having decided al would once more be blissful in his marriage, already referred to Alexia as his again. Unless Lyal 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. Tunstel and a hat shop?” Lord Maccon wanted to know, adding before Professor Lyal could answer, “Sorry about drinking your specimen col ection, by the way, Randolph. I wasn’t quite myself.”
Lyal grunted softly. “I shal hide it better next time.”
“See that you do.”
CHAPTER TEN
In Which Alexia Meddles with Silent Italians
Lady 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 equal y lavish Italian city. The room had a delightful southern aspect, and a cheerful spray of sunlight danced over plush furnishing and frescoed wal s.
Alexia tumbled out of bed, only to find she had been stripped and redressed in a nightgown of such fril iness 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 fril s, but she supposed a sil y nightgown was better than nothing at al . 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 hal way.
The hal 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.
Al unbidden, her stomach registered its utter emptiness and the infant-inconvenience sloshed about sympathetical y. Alexia sniffed the air. A delicious smel 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 smel 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 hal way, 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 al . 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 unintel igible 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 swal owed 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 al . 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, hal o?”
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.
“Wel , 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.
