The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (115 page)

“Yes, dear.”

Alexia twisted her lips together in contemplation, trying to come up with something else to gripe about. “Oh, I do hate being
cooped up.” She picked at the blanket draped over her belly.

“Now you know how Biffy feels.”

Lady Maccon's temper softened at the mention of the dandy. “How is he?”

“Well. I have taken your suggestion under advisement, my dear, and I am trying a gentler approach—less firmness of manner.”

“Now
that
I should like to see.”

“I have been sitting and talking him through the change at sunset. Rumpet suggested some light music might help as well. So
I have Burbleson—you remember Catogan Burbleson, that new musically minded claviger we recruited last month?—playing violin
all the while. A nice soothing piece of European fluff. Hard to tell if any of this is helping, but my efforts don't seem
to be making the poor boy feel any worse.”

Alexia was suspicious. “Is young Catogan any good on the violin?”

“Rather.”

“Well, perhaps he could come play a bit for me, then? I must say, Conall, it is exceedingly dull being bedridden.”

Her husband grunted at that—his version of a sympathetic murmur.

Eventually, the earl resorted to pulling Floote back from London in order to cater to Alexia's whims. No one could manage
Lady Maccon quite so well as Floote. As a result, most of Woolsey's library and a goodly number of newspapers and Royal Society
pamphlets took up residence about Alexia's bed, and her imperious bell ringing and strident demands ebbed slightly. She began
receiving hourly reassurances that Queen Victoria was under guard. Her Majesty's Growlers, special werewolf bodyguards, were
on high alert, and in deference to the muhjah's conviction that werewolves might be a risk factor, there was
also a rove vampire and four Swiss guards in attendance at all times.

Lord Akeldama sent Boots around with not only inquiries as to Lady Maccon's health, but also a small spate of useful information.
The ghosts around London seemed to be in turmoil, for they were appearing and disappearing and wafting here and there, whispering
dire threats concerning imminent danger. If queried directly, none of them seemed to know exactly what was going on, but the
ghostly community was certainly all aflutter about something.

Alexia went nearly spare at this information combined with the fact that she was unable to rush off to London at
that very moment
in order to continue inquiries. She turned from demanding to positively imperious and made life rather unbearable for those
unfortunate enough to be at Woolsey. As full moon was just around the corner, older members of the pack were out running,
hunting, or working in the moonlight hours and the youngsters were now locked in with Biffy. This meant only the household
staff really had to suffer the yoke of Lady Maccon's impatience, and Floote, ever saintly, undertook the bulk of her amusement.

No one was particularly surprised when on the evening of the fifth day, even Floote's powers failed and Lady Maccon threw
off her covers, put weight upon her ankle, which seemed perfectly functional, if a tad achy, and pronounced herself fit enough
for a carriage ride into London. No, what surprised everyone was that she had lasted that long.

She had just persuaded a blushing claviger to help her dress when Floote appeared in the doorway clutching sev
eral pieces of paper and looking thoughtful. So thoughtful that he did not, initially, attempt to prevent her from her planned
departure.

“Madam, the most interesting series of aetherograms have just come in through the transmitter. I believe they are intended
for you.”

Alexia looked up with interest. “You believe?”

“They are directed to the Ruffled Parasol. I doubt someone would actually attempt to communicate with an accessory.”

“Indeed.”

“From someone calling himself Puff Bonnet.”

“Herself. Yes, go on.”

“From Scotland.”

“Yes, yes, Floote, what does she
say
?”

Floote cleared his throat and began to read. “ ‘To Ruffled Parasol. Vital information regarding super-secret subject of confabulation.'
” He moved on to the next bit of paper. “ ‘Past persons of Scottishness in contact with mastermind of supernatural persuasion
in London, aka Agent Doom.' ” Floote moved on to the third bit of paper. “ ‘Lady K says Agent Doom assisted depraved Plan
of Action. May have all been his idea.' ” Moving on to the last one, he read out, “ ‘Summer permits Scots to expose more knee
than lady of refinement should have to withstand. Hairmuffs much admired. Yours etc., Puff Bonnet.' ”

Lady Maccon put out her hand for Ivy's correspondence. “Fascinating. Floote, send a message back thanking her and telling
her she can return to London. Would you, please? And call up the carriage. My husband is at BUR tonight? I must consult with
him immediately on the subject.”

“But, madam!”

“It's no good, Floote. The fate of the nation may be at stake.”

Floote, who knew well when he had no chance of winning an argument, turned to do as ordered.

W
hy, Lady Maccon, I understood you to be confined to the countryside for two more days at the very least.” Professor Lyall
was the first to notice Alexia as she let herself into BUR's head office. The building was situated just off of Fleet Street
and was a mite grimy and bureaucratic for Alexia's taste. Lyall and her husband shared a large front office, crammed with
two desks, a changing closet, a settee, four chairs, multiple hat stands, and a wardrobe full of clothing for visiting werewolves.
Since the Bureau was always untangling some significant supernatural crisis or another and didn't seem to employ a decent
cleaning staff, it was also crammed with paperwork, metal aethographic slates, dirty teacups, and, for some strange reason,
a large number of stuffed ducks.

Lord Maccon looked up from a pile of antiquated parchment rolls. His tawny eyes were narrowed. “She bloody well was. What
are you doing here, wife?”

“I'm perfectly fine,” protested Alexia, trying not to
look as though she were leaning on her parasol for assistance in walking. Although, truth be told, she was grateful for its
support, as her waddle had evolved into a lurching hobble.

Her husband, with a long-suffering sigh, came out from behind his desk and loomed over her. Alexia expected recriminations,
but instead the big man administered an enthusiastic embrace by which masterful tactic he managed to maneuver her backward
and down onto a chair in one corner of the room.

Bemused, Lady Maccon found herself firmly off her feet. “Well,” she sputtered, “I say.”

The earl took that as an excuse to give her a blistering kiss. Presumably to stop her from saying anything further.

Professor Lyall chuckled at their antics and then returned to quietly going about official business, papers rustling softly
as he calculated and correlated some complex mathematical matter of state.

“I have just come by the most interesting bit of information,” was Lady Maccon's opening gambit.

This statement effectively distracted her husband from any further admonishments. “Well?”

“I sent Ivy to Scotland to find out from Lady Kingair what
really
happened with that previous assassination attempt.”

“Ivy? As in Mrs. Tunstell? What a very peculiar choice.”

“I shouldn't underestimate Ivy if I were you, husband. She has discovered something.”

Conall ruminated a brief moment on this absurd statement and then said, “Yes?”

“It wasn't simply that the poison was to come from London; there was a London agent involved, a
mastermind
if you would believe it. Ivy seems to think that this man orchestrated the whole attempt.”

Lord Maccon stilled. “What?”

“Here you thought you had put the matter to rest.” Alexia was feeling justifiably smug.

The earl's face became still—the quiet before the storm. “Did she provide any details concerning the identity of this agent?”

“Only that he was supernatural.”

Behind them, Professor Lyall's paper rustling stopped. He looked over at them, his vulpine face sharpened further by inquisitiveness.
Randolph Lyall's position at BUR was not held because he was Beta to Lord Maccon, but because of his innate investigative
abilities. He had an astute mind and a nose for trouble—literally, being a werewolf.

Lord Maccon's temper frothed over. “I knew the vampires had to be involved somehow! The vampires are always involved.”

Alexia stilled. “How do you know it was vampires? It could have been a ghost, or even a werewolf.”

Professor Lyall came over to participate in the conversation. “This is grave news.”

The earl continued to expound. “Well, if a ghost, she would have long since disanimated, so we're well out of luck there.
And if a werewolf, he must have been a loner of some kind. Most of those were killed off by the Hypocras Club last year. Damned
scientists. So I suggest we start with the vampires.”

“I had already reached a similar conclusion myself, husband.”

“I'll go to the hives,” suggested Professor Lyall, already heading for a hat rack.

Lord Maccon looked as though he would like to protest.

His wife put a hand to his arm. “No, that's a good idea. He is far more politic than you. Even if he isn't strictly gentry.”

Professor Lyall hid a smile, clapped his top hat to his head, and walked briskly out into the night without another word,
merely touching the brim in Lady Maccon's direction before departing.

“Very well,” grumbled the earl. “I'll go after the local roves. There's always a chance it could be one of them. And you—you
stay right here and keep off that foot.”

“
That
is about as likely as a vampire going sunbathing. I am going to call upon Lord Akeldama. As potentate, he must be consulted
on this matter. The dewan as well, I suppose. Could you send a man to inquire if Lord Slaughter could attend me this evening?”

Figuring that Lord Akeldama would at least ensure that his wife remain seated for some length of time in pursuit of gossip
if for no other reason, the earl made no further protest. He cursed without much rancor and acquiesced to her request, sending
Special Agent Haverbink off to alert the dewan. Lord Maccon did, however, insist upon seeing her to Lord Akeldama's abode
himself before pursuing his own investigations.

“Alexia, my
poppadom,
what are you doing in London this fine evening? Aren't you supposed to be abed reveling in the romanticism of a weakened
condition?”

Lady Maccon was, for once, not in the humor to entertain Lord Akeldama's flowery ways. “Yes, but something highly untoward
has occurred.”

“My dear, how
perfectly splendid
! Do sit and tell old Uncle Akeldama all about it! Tea?”

“Of course. Oh, and I should warn you, I have invited the dewan over. This is a matter for the Commonwealth.”

“Well, if you insist. But, my
dearest flower,
how ghastly to consider that such a mustache must shadow the clean-shaven grandeur of my domicile.” Lord Akeldama was rumored
to insist that all his drones go without the dreaded lip skirt. The vampire had once had the vapors upon encountering an unexpected
mustache around a corner of his hallway. Muttonchops were permitted in moderation, and only because they were currently all
the rage among the most fashionable of London's gentlemen-about-town. Even so, they must be as well tended as the topiary
of Hampton Court.

With a sigh, Alexia settled herself into one of Lord Akeldama's magnificent wingback chairs. The ever-considerate Boots rushed
over with a pouf on which to rest her throbbing ankle.

Lord Akeldama noticed him and thus the fact that they were not alone. “Ah, Boots, my
lovely
boy, clear the room, would you, please? Oh, and bring me my harmonic auditory resonance disruptor. It's on my dressing table
next to the French verbena hand cream. There's a dear.”

Boots, resplendent in his favorite forest-green velvet frock coat, nodded and vanished from the room. He reappeared shortly
thereafter pushing in a laden tea trolley upon which lay the expected assortment of delicacies and a small spiky device.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No, thank you, Boots.”

Boots turned his attention eagerly onto Lady Maccon. “My lady?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps.”

Remarkably, her use of his proper name seemed to cause the young dandy some embarrassment, for he blushed and backed hurriedly
out of the room, leaving them alone save for a plethora of gold-tasseled throw pillows and the fat calico cat purring placidly
in a corner.

Lord Akeldama flicked the forks of the auditory disruptor, and the low-pitched humming sound commenced, the sound of two different
kinds of bees arguing. He situated the device carefully in the center of the trolley. The cat, who had been lying on her back
in a highly undignified sprawl, rolled over, stretched languidly, and ambled toward the drawing room door, disgruntled by
the noise. When her lashing tail and obviously presented backside were ignored, she yowled imperiously.

Lord Akeldama rose. “Your servant, Madam Pudgemuffin,” he said, letting her out of the room.

Lady Maccon calculated that she and her host were on familiar enough terms for her to pour her own tea. She did so while he
dealt with the demanding feline.

The vampire resumed his seat, crossing one silken leg over the other and rocking the crossed foot back and forth slightly.
This was a gesture of impatience when exhibited by any ordinary human, but with Lord Akeldama it seemed to express suppressed
energy rather than any particular emotional state. “I used to love pets, my dove, did you know? When I was mortal.”

“Did you?” Alexia encouraged cautiously. Lord Akeldama rarely spoke of his life
before.
She was afraid of saying more and thus forestalling further confidences.

“Yes. It is greatly troubling that I am now left with only a cat for company.”

Alexia refrained from mentioning the plethora of fash
ionable gentlemen who seemed to be ever in, out, and about Lord Akeldama's domicile. “I suppose you might consider keeping
more than one cat.”

“Oh, dear me,
no.
Then I should be known as
that vampire with all the cats.
”

“I hardly think that ever likely to become your defining characteristic, my lord.” Alexia took in her host's evening garb—black
tails and silver trousers, coupled with a corseted black and silver paisley waistcoat and silver cravat. The neckwear was
pinned with a massive silver filigree pin, and the monocle dangling idly from one gloved hand was silver and diamond to match.
Lord Akeldama's golden hair was brushed to shiny butter yellow glory, fastened back in such a way that one long lock was allowed
to artfully escape.

“Oh,
clementine,
what a splendid thing to say!”

Lady Maccon took a sip of tea and firmed up her resolve. “My lord, I do hate to ask this of you especially, but will you be
completely serious with me for a moment?”

Lord Akeldama's foot stopped rocking and his pleasant expression tightened. “My darling girl, we have known each other many
years now, but such a request breaches even the bonds of
our
friendship.”

“I meant no offense, I assure you. But you remember this matter I have been investigating? How the current threat on the queen's
life has led me to dredge up a certain uncomfortable assassination attempt of the past?”

“Of course. As a matter of interest, I have some rather
noteworthy
information to relay to you on the subject. But, please, ladies first.”

Alexia was intrigued but spoke on as etiquette demanded. “I have heard from Scotland. It seems that there was an agent here
in London who apparently concocted the whole
dismal plot. A supernatural agent. You wouldn't know anything of this, would you by any chance?”

“My dearest girl, you cannot possibly think that I—”

“No, actually, I don't. You enjoy gathering information, Lord Akeldama, but very rarely seem to put it to any active use,
aside from furthering your own curiosity. I fail to see how a botched assassination attempt could have anything to do with
your unremitting inquisitiveness.”

“Quite logical of you,
buttercup.
” Lord Akeldama smiled, showing his fangs. They glistened silver in the bright gas lighting, matching his cravat.

“And, of course, you would never have botched it.”

The vampire laughed—a sharp sparkling sound of unexpected delight. “So kind, my little crumpet,
so kind.
”

“So, what do you make of it?”

“That twenty years ago, some supernatural or other, in London, was trying to kill the queen?”

“My husband thinks it must be a vampire. I'm inclined to suspect a ghost, which would leave the trail cold, of course.”

Lord Akeldama tapped one fang with the edge of his monocle. “I dare say your last option is best.”

“Werewolves?” Alexia looked into her teacup.

“
A werewolf,
yes, my gherkin.”

Alexia put down her cup and then flicked the two sounding rods on the harmonic device to encourage greater auditory disruption.
“A loner I suppose, which leaves me in the same situation as a ghost. Most of the local loners were eliminated by the Hypocras
Club's illegal experiments last year.” She poured herself a second cup of tea, added a small dollop of milk, and lifted it
to her lips.

Lord Akeldama shook his head, looking unusually
pensive. The monocle stopped tapping. “You are missing a piece in this game, I think,
butterball.
My instincts are inclined to say pack, not loner. You don't know what the local pack was like at that time. But I remember.
Oh, yes. There were rumors all over town. Nothing proven, of course. The last Alpha wasn't right in the head. A fact kept
well away from public and press, and from daylight musings for that matter, but a
fact,
nonetheless. What he was doing to earn that reputation, well…”