Partly hidden behind the piles, Madame Lefoux stood, hands on angular trouser-clad hips, legs wide like a man, glaring down at some species of grubby child. The urchin came complete with grease-smeared face, filthy hands, and jaunty tilt to his newsboy cap. He was clearly in a hot spot of bother but seemed less apologetic than excited about his inadvertent pyrotechnics.
“So, what did you do, Quesnel?”
“I just soaked a bit of rag in ether and tossed it into the flame. Ether catches fire, no?”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Quesnel. Don’t you ever listen?” This came from a new voice, a ghost, who was making a show of sitting sidesaddle on an overturned barrel. She was a very solid-looking specter, which meant her dead body must be relatively close and well preserved. Regent Street was well north of the exorcised zone, so she would have escaped last night’s incident undead. If the ghost’s speech was anything to go by, her body must have traveled over from France, or she had died in London an immigrant. Her face was sharply defined, her visage that of a handsome older woman who resembled Madame Lefoux. Her arms were crossed over her chest in annoyance.
“Ether!” shrieked Madame Lefoux.
“Well, yes,” said the ragamuffin.
“Ether is explosive, you little…” After which followed a stream of unpleasant words, which still managed to sound pleasant in Madame Lefoux’s mellow voice.
“Ah,” replied the boy with a shameless grin. “But it did make a fantastic bang.”
Alexia could not help herself; she let out a little giggle.
All three gasped and looked over at her.
Lady Maccon straightened up, brushed her blue silk walking dress smooth, and entered the cavernous room, swinging her parasol back and forth.
“Ah,” said Madame Lefoux, switching back to her impeccable English. “Welcome to my contrivance chamber, Lady Maccon.”
“You are a woman of many talents, Madame Lefoux, an inventor as well as a milliner?”
Madame Lefoux inclined her head. “As you see, the two more often cross paths than one would think. I should have realized you would deduce the function of the windlass engine and the location of my laboratory, Lady Maccon.”
“Oh,” replied Alexia. “Why should you have?”
The Frenchwoman dimpled at her and bent to retrieve a fallen vial of some silvery liquid, which had managed to escape Quesnel’s explosion unbroken. “Your husband informed me that you were clever. And prone to interfering overmuch.”
“That sounds like something he would say.” Alexia made her way through the shambles, lifting her skirts delicately to keep them from getting caught on fragments of glass. Now that she could see them closer up, the gadgets lying about Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber were amazing. There seemed to be an entire assembly line of glassicals in midconstruction and a massive apparatus that looked to be composed of the innards of several steam engines welded to a galvanometer, a carriage wheel, and a wicker chicken.
Alexia, tripping only once over a large valve, completed her trek across the room and nodded politely to the child and the ghost.
“How do you do? Lady Maccon, at your service.”
The scrap of a boy grinned at her, made an elaborate bow, and said, “Quesnel Lefoux.”
Alexia gave him an expressionless look. “So, did you get the boiler started?”
Quesnel blushed. “Not exactly. But I did get a fire started. That should count for something, don’t you feel?” His English was superb.
Madame Lefoux cast her hands heavenward.
“Indubitably,” agreed Lady Maccon, endearing herself to the child for all time.
The ghost introduced herself as Formerly Beatrice Lefoux.
Alexia nodded to her politely, which surprised the ghost. The undead were often subjected to rudeness from the fully alive. But Lady Maccon always stood on formality.
“My impossible son and my noncorporeal aunt,” explained Madame Lefoux, looking at Alexia as though she expected something.
Lady Maccon filed away the fact that they all had the same last name. Had Madame Lefoux not married the child’s father? How very salacious. But Quesnel did not look at all like his mother. She need not have claimed him. He was a towheaded, pointy-chinned little creature with the most enormous violet eyes and not a dimple in sight.
The lady inventor said to her family, “This is Alexia Maccon, Lady Woolsey. She is also muhjah to the queen.”
“Ah, my husband saw fit to tell you that little fact, did he?” Alexia was surprised. Not many knew about her political position, and, as with her preternatural state, both she and her husband preferred to keep it that way: Conall, because it kept his wife out of danger; Alexia, because it caused most individuals, supernatural or otherwise, to come over all funny about soullessness.
The ghost of Beatrice Lefoux interrupted them. “You are ze muhjah? Niece, you allow an exorcist into ze vicinity of my body? Uncaring, thoughtless child! You are ze worse than your son.” Her accent was far more pronounced than her niece’s. She moved violently away from Alexia, floating back and upward off the barrel upon which she had pretended to sit. As though Alexia could do anything damaging to her spirit. Silly creature.
Lady Maccon frowned, realizing that the aunt’s presence eliminated Madame Lefoux as a suspect in the case of the mass exorcism. She could not have invented a weapon that acted like a preternatural, not here, not if her aunt’s spirit resided in the contrivance chamber.
“Aunt, do not get so emotional. Lady Maccon can only kill you if she touches your body, and only I know where that is kept.”
Alexia wrinkled her nose. “Please do not agitate yourself so, Formerly Lefoux. I prefer not to perform exorcisms in any event: decomposing flesh is very squishy.” She shuddered delicately.
“Oh, well, thank you for that,” sneered the ghost.
“Ew!” said Quesnel, fascinated. “Have you conducted simply masses of them?”
Alexia narrowed her eyes at him in a way she hoped was mysterious and cunning, and then turned back to his mother. “So, in what capacity did my husband see fit to inform you of my nature and my position?”
Madame Lefoux was leaning back slightly, a faint look of amusement on her lovely face. “What could your ladyship possibly mean?”
“Was he in attendance upon you as Alpha, as earl, or as the head of BUR investigations?”
Madame Lefoux dimpled once more at that. “Ah, yes, the many faces of Conall Maccon.”
Alexia bridled at the Frenchwoman’s use of Conall’s first name. “And how long, exactly, have you known my husband?” Abnormal dress was one thing, but loose morals were an entirely different matter.
“Calm yourself, my lady. My interest in your husband is purely professional. He and I know each other through BUR transactions, but he visited me here a month ago as the earl and your husband. He wished me to make you a special gift.”
“A gift?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, where is it?”
Madame Lefoux looked to her son. “Scat, you. Go find the cleaning mechanicals, hot water, and soap. Listen to your former great-aunt; she will tell you what can take water immersion and what will need to be cleaned and repaired by some other means. You have a very long night ahead of you.”
“But, Maman, I simply wanted to see what would happen!”
“So, now you see. What happens is it makes your maman angry and gets you nights and nights of cleaning as punishment.”
“Aw, Maman!”
“Right this very minute, Quesnel.”
Quesnel sighed loudly and scampered off with a “nice to meet you” directed over his shoulder at Lady Maccon.
“That will teach him to run experiments without some valid hypothesis. Go after him, please, Beatrice, and keep him away for at least a quarter of an hour while I finish my business with Lady Maccon.”
“Fraternizing with a preternatural! You run a far more dangerous game than I did in my day, niece,” grumbled the ghost, but she dispersed easily enough, presumably after the boy.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Formerly Lefoux,” said Alexia defiantly to the now-empty air.
“Please do not concern yourself with her attitude. Even when alive, my aunt was difficult. Brilliant, but difficult. An inventor like me, you see, but less socially indoctrinated, I am afraid.”
Lady Maccon smiled. “I have met many such scientists, and most of them could not claim brilliance as an excuse. That is not to say they didn’t claim it, of course, just that…” She trailed off. She was babbling. She wasn’t certain why, but something about the beautiful, strangely dressed Frenchwoman made Alexia nervous.
“So.” The inventor moved closer to her. Madame Lefoux smelled of vanilla and mechanical oil. “We find ourselves alone. It is a genuine pleasure to meet you, Lady Maccon. The last time I was in the company of a preternatural, I was but a small child. And, of course, he was nowhere near as striking as you.”
“Well, uh, thank you.” Alexia was a little taken aback by the compliment.
The inventor took her hand gently. “Not at all.”
The skin of the inventor’s palm was callused. Lady Maccon could feel the roughness even through her gloves. At the contact, Alexia experienced certain slight palpitations that had, heretofore, been associated only with the opposite sex and, more specifically, her husband. Not much truly shocked Alexia. This did.
As soon as was seemly, she withdrew her hand, blushing furiously under her tan. Considering it a rude betrayal by her own body, Alexia ignored the phenomenon and grappled ineffectually for a moment, trying to remember the direction of her inquiry and the reason they were now alone together. Which was? Ah, yes, at her husband’s insistence.
“I believe you may have something for me,” she said at long last.
Madame Lefoux doffed her top hat in acknowledgment. “Indeed I do. One moment, please.” With a sly smile, she moved off to one side of the lab and rummaged about for a moment in a large steamer trunk. Eventually, she emerged with a long skinny wooden box.
Lady Maccon held her breath in anticipation.
Madame Lefoux carried it over and flipped open the lid.
Inside was a not-very-prepossessing parasol of outlandish shape and indifferent style. Its shade was slate gray in color, edged in embroidered lace, with a thick cream ruffle trim. It had a peculiarly long spike at its tip, decorated with two egg-sized metal globules, like seedpods, one near the fabric and another closer to the tip. Its ribs were oversized, making it bulky and umbrella-like, and its shaft was extremely long, ending in a chubby, knobby, richly decorated handle. The handle looked like something that might top an ancient Egyptian column, carved with lotus flowers—or a very enthusiastic pineapple. The parasol’s parts were entirely of brass, in what looked to be variable alloys, giving it a wide-ranging coloration.
“Well, Conall’s taste strikes again,” commented Alexia, whose own taste, while not particularly imaginative or sophisticated, at least did not tend toward the bizarre.
Madame Lefoux dimpled. “I did my best, given the carrying capacity.”
Alexia was intrigued. “May I?”
The inventor offered her the box.
Lady Maccon lifted out the monstrosity. “It’s heavier than it looks.”
“That is one of the reasons I made it so very long. I thought it might serve double as a walking stick. Then you would not have to carry it everywhere.”
Alexia tested it. The height was ideal for just that. “Is it likely to be something I must carry everywhere?”
“I believe your esteemed husband would prefer it so.”
Alexia demurred. It leaned heavily toward the ugly end of the parasol spectrum. Many of her favorite day dresses would clash most horribly with all that brass and gray, not to mention the decorative elements.
“Also, of course, it had to be tough enough to serve as a defensive weapon.”
“A sensible precaution, given my proclivities.” Lady Maccon had destroyed more than one parasol through the application of it against someone else’s skull.
“Would you like to learn its anthroscopy?” Madame Lefoux became gleeful as she made the offer.
“It has anthroscopy? Is that healthy?”
“Why, certainly. Do you believe I would design an object so ugly without sufficient cause?”
Alexia passed her the heavy accessory. “By all means.”
Madame Lefoux took hold of the handle, allowing Alexia to maintain a grip on the top spire. Upon closer examination, Alexia realized the tip had a tiny hydraulic hinge affixed to one side.
“When you press here”—Madame Lefoux indicated one of the lotus petals on the shaft just below the large handle—“that tip opens and emits a poisoned dart equipped with a numbing agent. And if you twist the handle so…”
