“My darling Chamomile Button!” he wrote. “I received your card, and given certain recent intel igence, 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 stil 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 al 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 col ective 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 Loontwil s’ 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 Conal 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 unparal eled biliousness that Alexia had no doubt as to its origin. It was a felt toque, bright yel ow 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 real y did! Of course, I should never have believed such a thing in al 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 al 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 al else, including common sense. If Lord Akeldama were to take up wrestling in vats of jel ied 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 bel 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 romantical y inclined shepherds, paired with arched ceilings playing host to equal y amorous cherubs painted a la Roma.
“Hal oo. 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 normal y a carnival of delights: discarded top hats and piles of playbil s, the scent of expensive cigars and French cologne, and it boasted a background hum of chatter and hilarity. The silence and stil ness were al the more noticeable by comparison.
Alexia made her way slowly through the empty rooms, as though she were an archaeologist visiting an abandoned tomb. Al she found was evidence of departure, certain items of importance taken down from places of honor. The gold pipe was missing, the one that normal y sat atop the mantelpiece in the drawing room like some revered item of plumbing but that—Alexia knew from personal experience—hid two curved blades. The fact that Lord Akeldama saw fit to take that particular item with him did not bode well for the reason behind his departure.
The only living thing on the premises, aside from Alexia, appeared to be the resident cat. The feline in question was a fat calico that possessed the disposition of a placid narcoleptic and that roused only periodical y to enact potent and vicious revenge upon the nearest tasseled throw pil ow. Currently, the animal lay sprawled across a puffy hassock, the remains of three decapitated tassels nestled near her chin. Cats, as a general rule, were the only creatures that tolerated vampires. Most other animals had what the scientists termed a well -developed prey response behavior pattern. Felines, apparently, didn’t consider themselves vampire prey. This one, however, was so utterly indifferent to any non-tassel-related creature, she could probably have tolerated residency among a pack of werewolves.
“Where has your master disappeared to, Fatty?” Alexia inquired of the creature.
The cat had no definitive answer but graciously al owed herself to be scratched under the chin. She was sporting a most peculiar metal col ar, and Lady Maccon was just bending down to examine it closer when she heard muffled footsteps in the hal way behind her.
Lord Conal Maccon was drunk.
He was not drunk in the halfhearted manner of most supernatural creatures, wherein twelve pints of bitter had final y turned the world slightly fuzzy. No, Lord Maccon was rip-roaring, tumble down, without a doubt, pickled beyond the gherkin.
It took an enormous quantity of alcohol to get a werewolf that inebriated. And, reflected Professor Lyal as he steered his Alpha around the side of an inconvenient potshed, it was almost as miraculous a feat to attain such quantities as it was to ingest them. How had Lord Maccon finagled such an arrangement? Not only that, how had he managed to acquire said booze so consistently over the past three days without visiting London or tapping into Woolsey Castle’s well -stocked cel ar? Really, thought the Beta in annoyance, such powers of alcoholism could almost be thought supernatural.
Lord Maccon lurched heavily into the side of the potshed. The meat of his left shoulder and upper arm crashed against the oak siding. The entire building swayed on its foundation.
“Pardon,” apologized the earl with a smal hiccough, “didna see ya there.”
“For Pete’s sake, Conal ,” said his Beta in tones of the deeply put-upon, “how did you manage to get so corned?” He tugged his Alpha away from the abused shed.
“Na drunk,” insisted his lordship, throwing one substantial arm across his Beta’s shoulders and leaning heavily upon it. “Jush a tiny little slightly smal bit’a squiffy.” His lordship’s accent got distinctly more Scottish in times of great stress, strong emotion, or, apparently, under the influence of vast amounts of liquid intoxicants.
They left the safety of the potshed.
The earl pitched forward suddenly, his grip on his Beta the only thing that managed to keep him upright. “Whoa! Watch that bit’o ground there, would ya? Tricky, tricky, jumps right up at a man.”
“Where did you acquire the alcohol?” Professor Lyal asked again as he tried valiantly to get his Alpha back on track across the wide lawn of Woolsey’s extensive grounds, toward the castle proper. It was like trying to steer a steamboat through a tub of turbulent molasses. A normal human would have buckled under the strain, but Lyal was lucky enough to have supernatural strength to cal upon at times of great difficulty. Lord Maccon wasn’t simply big; he was also tremendously solid, like a walking, talking Roman fortification.
“And how did you get al the way out here? I distinctly remember tucking you into bed before leaving your room last night.” Professor Lyal spoke very clearly and precisely, not entirely sure how much was seeping into his Alpha’s thick skul .
Lord Maccon’s head bobbed slightly as he attempted to fol ow Professor Lyal ’s words.
“Went for a wee nightly run. Needed peace and quiet. Needed air in my fur. Needed fields under my paws. Needed, oh I canna— hic—explain… needed the company of hedgehogs.”
“And did you find it?”
“Find what? No hedgehogs. Stupid hedgehogs.” Lord Maccon tripped over a daphne bush, one of the many that lined the pathway leading up to a side entrance of the house. “Who bloody well put that there?”
“Peace, did you find peace?”
Lord Maccon stopped and drew himself upright, straightening his spine and throwing his shoulders back. It was an action driven by memory of military service. It caused him to positively tower over his second. Despite his ramrod-straight back, the Alpha managed to sway side to side, as if the aforementioned molasses-bound steamboat was now weathering a violent storm.
“Do I,” he enunciated very careful y, “look like I have found peace?”
Professor Lyal had nothing to say in response to that.
“Exactly!” Lord Maccon made a wide and flailing gesture. “She is wedged”—he pointed two thick fingers at his head as though they formed a pistol—“here.” Then rammed them at his chest. “And here. Canna shake her. Stickier than”—his powers of metaphor failed him—“stickier than… cold porridge getting al gloopy on the side of a bowl,” he final y came up with triumphantly.
Professor Lyal wondered what Lady Alexia Maccon would say to being compared to such a pedestrian foodstuff. She would probably compare her husband to something even less agreeable, like haggis.
Lord Maccon looked at his Beta with wide, soulful eyes, the color of which changed with his mood. Currently they were a watered-down caramel and highly unfocused.
“Why’d she have ta go an do a thing like that?”
“I don’t think she did.” Professor Lyal had been meaning to have this out with his Alpha for some time. He had simply hoped the discussion would occur during one of Lord Maccon’s rare moments of sobriety.
“Wel , then, why’d she lie about it?”
“No. I mean to say, I do not believe she was lying.” Lyal stood his ground. A Beta’s main function within the werewolf pack was to support his Alpha in al things—publicly, and to question him as much as possible—privately.
Lord Maccon cleared his throat and looked at his Beta in myopic seriousness from under fierce eyebrows. “Randolph, this may come as a shock, but I am a werewolf.”
