The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (32 page)

Alexia looked between Professor Lyall and the queen. Lyall looked worried. That decided her. “Very well, I accept.”

The queen nodded happily. “Your future husband indicated you would not be averse to the position. Most excellent! We convene
twice a week, Thursday and Sunday nights, unless there is a crisis of some kind, in which case you are expected to be readily
available. You will be answerable to the Crown alone. We will expect you to start the week after your wedding. So do hurry
it up.”

Alexia smiled foolishly and looked at Professor Lyall from under her lashes. “Conall approves?”

The werewolf grinned. “He recommended you to the job months ago. The first time you interfered in one of his operations and
he knew BUR would not be allowed to hire you. Of course, he did not know the muhjah engaged in active investigations on the
queen's behalf.”

The queen said, “Of course, initially we objected to the recommendation. We cannot have a single young lady in such a powerful
position. It simply is
not
done.” She looked almost mischievous and lowered her voice. “In all confidentiality, my dear, we do believe the Woolsey Alpha
thinks being muhjah will keep you out of his way.”

Alexia slapped a hand to her mouth in an excess of embarrassment. To have the Queen of England thinking of her as an interfering
busybody!

Professor Lyall crossed his arms and said, “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but I think he wants to set Miss Tarabotti
at the dewan and watch the fur fly.”

Queen Victoria smiled. “They never have gotten along, those two.”

Professor Lyall nodded. “Both are too much alpha.”

Miss Tarabotti looked suddenly worried. “That is not why he is marrying me, is it? So I can be muhjah?” A little bit of her
old insecurity came back to haunt her.

“Do not be ridiculous,” admonished the queen curtly. “He has been mad for you these many months, ever since you prodded him
in the nether regions with a hedgehog. It has been driving everyone balmy, all this dancing about. Glad it is finally getting
settled. This wedding of yours is going to be
the
social event of the season. Half the guests in attendance will be there simply to make certain you both go through with it.
Outside of enough, that is our opinion.”

Miss Tarabotti, for one of the first and last times in her life, was entirely at a loss for words.

The queen stood up. “Well, that is settled, then. We are most pleased. And now we suggest you go to bed, young lady. You look
exhausted.” With that, she swept from the house.

“She is so short,” said Miss Tarabotti to Professor Lyall once the queen had gone.

“Alexia,” said a tremulous voice from the other side of the room. “what
is
going on?”

Alexia sighed and struggled to her feet, wobbling over to her confused mama. All of Mrs. Loontwill's anger had evaporated
upon waking to find her daughter in conversation with the Queen of England.

“Why was the queen here? Why were you discussing the Shadow Council? What is a muhjah?” Mrs. Loontwill was very confused.
She seemed to have utterly lost control of the situation.

Me,
thought Alexia with pleasure.
I will be muhjah. This is going to be such fun.
Aloud she said the only thing calculated to shut her mother up. “Do not worry about a thing, Mama. I am going to marry Lord
Maccon.”

It worked. Mrs. Loontwill's mouth snapped closed. Her expression evolved rapidly from perturbation to uncontrollable elation.
“You caught him!” she breathed in delight.

Felicity and Evylin reentered the room, both wide-eyed. For the first time in their entire lives, they regarded their older
sister with something other than mild contempt.

Noticing her other two daughters had arrived, Mrs. Loontwill added hastily, “Not that I approve your methods of catching him,
of course. Out all night, indeed. But thank heavens you did!” Then in an aside, “Girls, your sister is going to
marry
Lord Maccon.”

Felicity and Evylin looked even more shocked, but they recovered quickly enough.

“But, Mama, why was the queen here?” Evylin wanted to know.

“Never mind that now, Evy,” said Felicity impatiently. “The important question is, what will you wear for a wedding dress,
Alexia? You look horrible in white.”

The afternoon papers reported the bulk of the news accurately enough. Miss Tarabotti and Lord Akeldama's names were left out,
and the exact makeup of the experiments was omitted in favor of emphasizing their sensational grisliness and illegal nature.

The reports threw all of London into a fervor of speculation. The Royal Society scrambled to deny any association with the
Hypocras Club, but BUR commenced a whirlwind of undercover operations. A good many other scientists, some with well-known
names indeed, suddenly found themselves without funding, on the run, or in prison. No one ever explained the octopuses.

The Hypocras Club was shut down permanently and its premises impounded and placed on the market. It was bought by a nice young
couple from East Duddage whose success in the chamber-pot business had brought them up in the world. The Duchess of Snodgrove
regarded the entire affair as a travesty designed solely to impinge on her social standing. The fact that her new neighbors,
nice young couple or no, hailed from Duddage and were involved in
trade
sent her into a fit of hysteria so pervasive her husband removed her instantly to the country ducal estates in Berkshire
for the sake of everyone's health. He sold their town house.

As far as Miss Tarabotti was concerned, the worst thing to result from the whole sordid affair was that, although both club
premises and Lord Akeldama's house had been searched top to bottom, BUR never did recover her brass parasol.

“Bah,” she complained to her intended as they strolled through Hyde Park late one evening, “I did so love that parasol.”

A carriage of dowagers swept past. One or two nodded in their direction. Lord Maccon tipped his hat to them.

Society had come, albeit reluctantly, to accept the fact that one of the most eligible bachelors was going off the market
by marrying a spinster nobody. One or two, witness the nods, had even come around to extending cautious overtures of friendship
to Miss Tarabotti. Miss Tarabotti further improved her standing among the aristocracy as a force to be reckoned with by turning
her large nose up at such sycophancy. Lady Maccon-to-be was clearly as formidable as her intended.

Lord Maccon took Miss Tarabotti's arm soothingly. “I shall have them make you a hundred such parasols, one for every dress.”

Miss Tarabotti raised her eyebrows at him. “Silver tipped, you realize?”

“Well, you will be facing down the dewan several times a week; you might need some silver. Though I do not anticipate he will
give you too much trouble.”

Alexia, who had not yet had an opportunity to meet the other members of the Shadow Council and would not until after her wedding,
looked at Lord Maccon curiously. “Is he really that fainthearted?”

“Nope. Simply ill-prepared.”

“For what?”

“You, my love,” the earl said, tempering the insult with an endearment.

Alexia sputtered in such a charming way that Lord Maccon simply had to kiss her, right there, in the middle of Hyde Park.
Which made her sputter even more. Which made him kiss her more. It was a vicious cycle.

Of course, it was Mr. MacDougall who had taken possession of the brass parasol. The poor young man had slipped everyone's
mind, including Alexia's, as soon as the Hypocras investigation was put to rest. He took the parasol back to America with
him—as a sort of memento. He had been genuinely heartbroken to read the announcement of Miss Tarabotti's engagement in the
Gazette
. He returned to his mansion in Massachusetts and threw himself with renewed scientific vigor and a more cautious attitude
into measuring the human soul. Several years later, he married a veritable battle-ax of a woman and happily allowed himself
to be bossed around for the remainder of his days.

M
iss Alexia Tarabotti did not wear white to her wedding. Apart from the fact that Felicity was perfectly correct in stating that it clashed something terrible with her skin tone, she figured that when one has seen one's affianced naked and covered in blood, one is no longer quite pure enough for white.

Instead, she wore ivory: a sumptuous French-made dress selected and designed with Lord Akeldama's consummate assistance. It took into account the new trend in cleaner lines and long sleeves, hugging her upper torso and showing her curves to perfection. The square neckline of the bodice was cut quite low, much to Lord Maccon's approval, but it came up high in the back and around her neck in a demi-collar, reminiscent of some exotic robe from the Rococo era. It was held closed by an exquisite opal brooch at her throat and started a fashion trend in necklines that persisted for nearly three whole weeks.

Miss Tarabotti told no one the dress's design was a last-minute alteration due entirely to the fact that, two days before the wedding, the earl got her alone in the dining room for almost an hour. As always, the bite marks
she
had left on
him
faded the moment they separated. She sighed, not unhappily.
Really, the amount of attention he paid to her neck, one would think he was a vampire.

Biffy did her hair for the prestigious event. He had been loaned to Miss Tarabotti for the duration of the wedding planning. He knew a phenomenal amount about who
must
be invited, who
should
be invited, what the invitations ought to look like, which flowers to order, and so forth. As bridesmaid, Ivy Hisselpenny did her best, but the poor thing was a tad overwhelmed by the particulars. Biffy developed a dab hand at keeping Ivy well out of tasks that involved style of any kind, so that, in the end, everything looked lovely and managed not to clash. Even Ivy.

The ceremony was to take place just after sunset on a quarter-moon night so that everyone could attend. Just about
everyone
did: including the queen, Lord Akeldama and
all
his drones, and the cream of London society. Most notably absent were the vampires, who had not even bothered to politely
refuse invitations but instead snubbed the couple outright.

“They have good reason to object,” said Lord Akeldama.

“But not you?”

“Oh, I have good reason, too, but I trust you, little innovator. And I like change.” He left it at that, despite Alexia's
pointed further inquiries.

The Westminster hive proved the exception of the mass vampire cut direct. Countess Nadasdy sent Lord Ambrose to observe the
ceremony, but clearly under duress. She also sent Alexia an unexpected gift, which arrived while she was dressing the afternoon
of the wedding.

“Did I not say she would get rid of me?” said Angelique with a self-deprecating smile.

Miss Tarabotti was a little overwhelmed. “You are in favor of a new position? With me?”

The violet-eyed girl shrugged in a blasé French kind of way. “My master, he iz dead because of ze scientists. Lady's maid,
it iz better than housemaid.”

“But what about your drone status?”

Angelique looked coy. “Zer iz always claviger, yez?”

“Very well, then, welcome,” said Miss Tarabotti. Of course, the French girl must, perforce, be a spy, but Alexia reasoned
it was better to know and keep her close than force the hive into more desperate maneuvering. It did cause a twinge of worry.
Why were the vampires fussing so?

Angelique began immediately to assist Biffy in finishing the last of Alexia's coiled updo, arguing mildly on the subject of
a flower above the right ear.

They both protested when Alexia stood, not yet fully dressed, and waved them off.

“I must pay someone a visit,” she said imperiously. It was late afternoon: the sun had not yet set, and there was still much
to do before the big event that night.

“But right now?” sputtered Biffy. “It is your wedding evening!”

“And we have only just finished ze hair!”

Miss Tarabotti could tell that these two were going to be a force to be reckoned with. But so was she. Alexia instructed them
to get her dress ready and that she would be back within the hour, so not to fret. “It is not like anything can actually occur
without me, is it? I have to see a friend about the sun.”

She took the Loontwills' carriage without asking and went round to Lord Akeldama's gilt-edged town house. She sailed in the
front door past various drones and woke Lord Akeldama from his deadlike daytime sleep with a touch.

Human, he blinked at her groggily.

“It is almost sunset,” said Miss Tarabotti with a tiny smile, her hand on his shoulder. “Come with me.”

Clad only in his sleeping robe, she took the vampire firmly by the hand and led him up through the splendor of his gilt house
and out onto the rooftop into the waning light.

Alexia rested her cheek on his shoulder, and they stood silently together and watched the sun set over the city.

Lord Akeldama refrained from pointing out she would be late for her own wedding.

Miss Tarabotti refrained from pointing out that he was crying.

She figured it was a good way to end her career as a spinster.

Lord Akeldama also cried during the ceremony, which took place at Westminster Abby. Well, he was a bit of a weeper. So did
Mrs. Loontwill. Miss Tarabotti, rather callously, figured her mama's tears were more for the loss of her butler than for the
loss of her daughter. Floote had given notice and moved, along with Alexia's father's entire library, into Woolsey Castle
that very morning. Both were settling in nicely.

The wedding was hailed as a masterpiece of social engineering and physical beauty. Best of all, as Alexia's bridesmaid, Miss
Hisselpenny was not permitted to choose her own hat. The ceremony went unexpectedly smoothly, and in no time at all, Miss
Tarabotti found herself Lady Maccon.

Afterward, everyone assembled in Hyde Park, which was admittedly unusual, but exceptions had to be made when werewolves were
involved. And there certainly were a goodly number of werewolves. Not simply Lord Maccon's pack but all the loners, other
packs, and clavigers within traveling distance had attended the celebration.

Luckily, there was enough meat for them all. The only aspect of wedding procedure Alexia had invested genuine involvement
and time into was the food. As a result, the tables set about their corner of the park fairly groaned under their burdens.
There were galantines of guinea fowl stuffed with minced tongue quivering in aspic jelly and decorated with feathers made
of lemon-soaked apple peel. No fewer than eight pigeons in truffle gravy nesting in coils of pastry made their appearance
and disappearance. There were stewed oysters, fried haddock fillets in anchovy sauce, and grilled sole with peach compote.
Having noted Lord Maccon's fondness for poultry, the Loontwill cook provided woodcock pie, roast pheasant in butter sauce
with peas and celery, and a brace of grouse. There was a baron of beef, a forequarter of mutton glazed with red wine, and
lamb cutlets with fresh mint and broad beans—all offered on the rarer side. Corner dishes included lobster salad, spinach
and eggs, vegetable fritters, and baked potatoes. In addition to the massive bride's cake and the piles of nutty groom's cakes
for the guests to take home, there were rhubarb tarts, stewed cherries, fresh strawberries and purple grapes, gravy boats
of clotted cream, and plum pudding. The food was declared an unqualified success, and many a plan was made to visit Woolsey
Castle for luncheon once Alexia took over supervision of its kitchens.

Miss Hisselpenny took the entire event as an excuse to flirt with anything male and on two legs, and a few on four. This seemed
perfectly acceptable, until Alexia spotted her going goggle-eyed over the repulsive Lord Ambrose. The new Lady Maccon crooked
an imperious finger at Professor Lyall and sent him to salvage the situation.

Professor Lyall, muttering something about “new brides having more to concern themselves with than meddling,” did as ordered.
He insinuated himself seamlessly into the conversation between Lord Ambrose and Miss Hisselpenny, and hustled Ivy away for
a waltz without anyone the wiser to his militarylike intervention tactics. He then carried Ivy off to the other side of the
lawn, which was serving as the dance floor, and introduced her to Lord Maccon's redheaded claviger, Tunstell.

Tunstell looked at Ivy.

Ivy looked at Tunstell.

Professor Lyall noted with satisfaction that they wore identical expressions of the stunned-donkey variety.

“Tunstell,” instructed the Beta, “ask Miss Hisselpenny if she would like to dance.”

“Would you, um, like to, um, dance, Miss Hisselpenny?” stuttered the normally loquacious young man.

“Oh,” said Ivy. “Oh yes, please.”

Professor Lyall, all forgotten, nodded to himself. Then he dashed off to deal with Lord Akeldama and Lord Ambrose who seemed
to be getting into some sort of heated argument on the subject of waistcoats.

“Well, wife?” asked Alexia's new husband, whisking her about the lawn.

“Yes, husband?”

“Think we can officially escape yet?”

Alexia looked about nervously. Everyone seemed to be suddenly fleeing the dance floor, and the music was changing. “Um, I
think, perhaps, not just yet.”

They both stopped and looked about.

“This was not part of the wedding plan,” she said in annoyance. “Biffy, what is happening here?” she yelled.

From the sidelines, Biffy shrugged and shook his head.

The clavigers were causing the disturbance. They had arranged themselves in a large circle about Lord Maccon and Alexia and
were slowly pushing everyone else away. Alexia noticed that Ivy, little traitor, was helping them.

Lord Maccon slapped his forehead with his hand. “God's truth, they aren't really? That old tradition?” He trailed off as the
howling began. “Aye, they are. Well, my dear, best get used to this kind of thing.”

The wolves burst into the open circle like a river of fur. Under the quarter moon, there was no anger or bloodlust in their
movements. Instead it was like a dance, liquid and beautiful. The fuzzy throng was comprised of not just the Woolsey Pack
but also all the visiting werewolves. Almost thirty of them jumped and pranced and yipped as they coiled around the newly
married couple.

Alexia held very still and relaxed into the dizzying movement. The wolves circled closer and closer until they pressed against
her skirts, all hot predator breath and soft fur. Then one wolf stopped directly next to Lord Maccon—a thin, sandy, vulpinelike
creature—Professor Lyall.

With a wink at Alexia, the Beta threw his head back and barked, once, sharply.

The wolves stopped stock-still and then did the most organized, politely amusing thing. They lined up in a neat circle all
about and one by one came forward. As each wolf stood before the newly married pair, he lowered his head between his forelegs,
showing the back of his neck in a funny little bow.

“Are they paying homage to you?” Alexia asked her husband.

He laughed. “Lord, no. Why would they bother with me?”

“Oh,” replied Alexia, realizing it was meant to honor her. “Should I
do
something?”

Conall kissed her cheek. “You are wonderful as you are.”

The last to come forward was Lyall. His bow was somehow more elegant and more restrained than anyone else's.

Once completed, he barked again, and they all leaped into action: running three times around the couple and dashing off into
the night.

After that, everything else was anticlimactic, and as soon as civility allowed, Alexia's new husband hustled her into the
waiting carriage and on the road out of London toward Woolsey Castle.

A few of the werewolves returned then, still in wolf form, to run alongside the carriage.

Just outside of town, Lord Maccon stuck his head out the coach window and told them unceremoniously to “shove off.”

“I gave the pack the evening out,” he informed Alexia, retracting his head and closing the window.

His wife issued him an arch look.

“Oh, very well. I told them if they showed their furry faces round Woolsey Castle for the next three days, I would personally
eviscerate them.”

Alexia smiled. “Good gracious, where will they all stay?”

“Lyall muttered something about invading Lord Akeldama's town house.” Conall looked smugly amused.

Alexia laughed. “Would I were a fly on that wall!”

Her husband turned about and without further ado began unclasping the brooch that held the neck of her beautiful gown together.

“Intriguing design, this dress,” he commented without real interest.

“Rather say, necessary design,” replied his lady as the neck fell away to show a neat pattern of tiny love bites all about
her throat. Lord Maccon traced them with proprietary pride.

“What are you up to?” Alexia asked as he gently kissed the tiny bruises. She was distracted by the delicious tingly sensation
this caused, but not enough to forgo noticing his hands were round the back of the bodice of her dress, sliding open the row
of buttons there.

“I should think that would be obvious by now,” he replied with a grin. He pushed back the top of her dress and became intent
on undoing her corset. His lips moved down from her neck to delve into the region of her décolletage.

“Conall,” Alexia murmured hazily, almost losing her objections as new and delicious sensation extended from nipples turned
strangely tight and hard. “We are in a moving
carriage
! Why this constant preference for inappropriate locations for amorous activities?”

“Mmm, not to worry,” he purposefully misconstrued her protestations. “I gave the coachman instructions to take the long way
round.” He helped her to stand and shucked her out of her dress, skirts, and corset with consummate rapidity.