The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (36 page)

Alexia frowned. She remembered vaguely the potentate arguing vociferously with the dewan on this subject at the beginning
of her stint as muhjah. The dewan had won, since the strength of Queen Victoria's regiments and the building of her empire
was dependent upon her alliance with the packs. The vampires held controlling interest in the East India Company and its mercenary
troops, of course, but this had been a matter for the regulars and so the werewolves. Still, Lady Maccon had not realized
the results of that decision would end up encamping on her doorstep.

“Don't they have a proper barracks somewhere they should be shambling off to?”

“Yes, but it is tradition for them all to stay here for several weeks while the pack re-forms—before the daylight soldiers
head homeward.”

Lady Maccon watched Ivy wend her way through the chaos of military tents and baggage. She moved with such purpose it was as
though she walked with exclamation marks. Hydrodine engines emitted small puffs of yellow smoke at her as she passed and compressed
expansion tent stakes hissed as they were pulled prematurely from the ground. All were now being taken back down and moved
around the side of the house and into Woolsey's extensive grounds.

“Have I mentioned recently how much I dislike tradition?” Alexia said, and then panicked. “Are we expected to feed them all?”

The grape bunches bobbed in time with Ivy's rapidly mincing footsteps. She did not even pause to investigate the disarray.
She was clearly
in a hurry
, which meant Ivy had
news of note.

“Rumpet knows what to do. Don't concern yourself,” advised Professor Lyall.

“You really cannot tell me what is going on? He was up so very early, and Formerly Merriway was definitely involved.”

“Who, Rumpet?”

That earned the Beta a look of profound disgust.

“Lord Maccon did not inform me of the particulars,” Professor Lyall admitted.

Lady Maccon frowned. “And Formerly Merriway won't. You know how she gets, all-over nervous and floaty.”

Ivy attained the steps to the front door.

As she neared, Professor Lyall said hastily, “If you will excuse me, my lady, I should be getting on.”

He bowed to Miss Hisselpenny and vanished around the corner of the house after Major Channing.

Ivy curtsied to the departing werewolf, a strawberry on a long silk stem wiggling about in front of her left ear. She didn't
take offense at Lyall leaving so precipitously. Instead, she trotted up to the stoop, blithely ignoring Alexia's dispatch
case and waiting carriage, certain in the knowledge that her news was far more important than whatever affair was causing
her friend to depart forthwith.

“Alexia, did you know there is an entire regiment decamping on your front lawn?”

Lady Maccon sighed. “Really, Ivy, I would never have noticed.”

Miss Hisselpenny ignored the sarcasm. “I have the most splendid
news.
Should we go in for tea?”

“Ivy, I have business in town, and I am already late.” Lady Maccon refrained from mentioning that business was with Queen
Victoria. Ivy knew nothing of her preternatural state, nor her political position, and Alexia thought it best to keep her
friend ignorant. Ivy was particularly adept at being ignorant but could cause extensive havoc with the smallest scrap of information.

“But,
Alexia
, this is very important gossip!” The grapes vibrated in agitation.

“Oh, have the winter shawls from Paris come into the shops?”

Ivy tossed her head in frustration. “Alexia, must you be so tiresome?”

Lady Maccon could barely tear her eyes off of the hat. “Then, please, do not keep it to yourself one moment longer. Pray tell
me at once.” Anything to get her dearest friend gone posthaste. Really, Ivy could be too inconvenient.

“Why is there a regiment on your lawn?” Miss Hisselpenny persisted.

“Werewolf business.” Lady Maccon dismissed it in the manner calculated to most efficiently throw Ivy off the scent. Miss Hisselpenny
had never quite accustomed herself to werewolves, even after her best friend had the temerity to marry one. They were not
exactly commonplace, and she had never had to cope with their brand of gruffness and sudden nudity. She simply couldn't seem
to acclimatize to it the way Alexia had. So she preferred, in typical Ivy fashion, to forget they existed.

“Ivy,” said Lady Maccon, “what exactly
are
you doing here?”

“Oh, Alexia, I am terribly sorry for descending upon you so unexpectedly! I hadn't the time to send round a card, but I simply
had to come and tell you as soon as it was decided.” She opened her eyes wide and flipped both hands toward her head. “
I
am engaged.”

L
ord Conall Maccon was a very large man who made for an exceedingly large wolf. He was bigger than any natural wolf could ever
hope to be and less rangy, with too much muscle and not enough lank. No passerby would be in any doubt, had they seen him,
that he was a supernatural creature. That said, those few people traveling the cold winter road on this particular early evening
could not see him. Lord Maccon was moving fast, and he boasted a dark brindled pelt so that, but for his yellow eyes, he faded
almost completely into the shadows. On more than one occasion, his wife had called him handsome in his wolf form, yet she
had never called him so as a human. He would have to ask her about that. Conall ruminated a moment; then again, perhaps he
would not.

Such were the mundane thoughts that passed through a werewolf's head as he ran the country lanes toward London. Woolsey Castle
was some distance away from the metropolis, just north of Barking, a good two hours by carriage or dirigible and a little
less on four legs. Time passed and eventually wet grass, neat hedgerows, and startled bunnies gave way to muddy streets, stone
walls, and disinterested alley cats.

The earl found himself enjoying the run a good deal less when, just after entering the city proper, right around Fairfoot
Road, he abruptly and completely lost his wolf form. It was the most astonishing thing—one moment he was dashing along on
four paws, and the next his bones were crunching, his fur retreating, and his knees crashing down upon the cobbles. It left
him, shivering and panting, naked in the road.

“Great ghosts!” exclaimed the aggrieved nobleman.

Never had he experienced the like. Even when his gloriously frustrating wife used her preternatural touch to force him back
into humanity, it was not so sudden. She generally gave him some warning. Well, a little warning. Well, a yell or two.

He looked about, worried. But Alexia was nowhere near, and he was pretty darn certain he had managed to leave her safe, if
fuming, back at the castle. There were no other preternaturals registered for the greater London area. What, then, had just
happened?

He looked to his knees, which were bleeding slightly and quite definitely not healing. Werewolves were supernatural: such
minor scrapes ought to be closing up right before his eyes. Instead they leaked his slow old blood onto the muddy stones.

Lord Maccon tried to change back, reaching for that place from which he drove his body to split its biological nature. Nothing.
He tried for his Anubis Form, the Alpha's ace, with the head of the wolf and the body of a man. Still nothing. Which left
him sitting on Fairfoot Road, completely unclothed, and deeply confused.

Struck with the spirit of investigation, he backtracked a short way. He tried for Anubis Form, changing just his head into
that of a wolf, an Alpha trick that was faster than full shift. It worked but left him in a conundrum: dally about as a wolf,
or press on to the office naked? He changed his head back.

Normally, when there was a chance he might have to change publicly, the earl carried a cloak in his mouth. But he had thought
to make it safely to the BUR offices and into the cloakroom there before decency became necessary. Now he regretted such careless
confidence. Formerly Merriway had been right—something was terribly wrong in London, and that apart from the fact that he
was currently lollygagging about starkers inside it. It would appear that it was not only the ghosts who were being affected.
Werewolves, too, were undergoing alteration. He gave a tight smile and retreated hurriedly behind a pile of crates. He would
lay good money that the vampires weren't growing any feeding fangs tonight either—at least not the ones living near the Thames.
Countess Nadasdy, queen of the Westminster hive, must be positively frantic. Which, he realized with a grimace, meant he was
likely to get the unparalleled pleasure of a visit from Lord Ambrose later that evening. It was going to be a long night.

The Bureau of Unnatural Registry was not situated, as many a confused tourist expected, in the vicinity of Whitehall. It was
in a small, unassuming Georgian building just off Fleet Street, near the
Times
offices. Lord Maccon had made the switch ten years ago, when he discovered that it was the press, not the government, that
generally had a handle on what was truly transpiring around the city—political or otherwise. This particular evening, he had
cause to regret his decision, as he now had to make his way through the commercial district as well as several crowded thoroughfares
in order to get to his office.

He almost managed the trek without being seen, skulking through the grubby streets and around the mud-spattered corners—London's
finest back alleys. It was quite the feat, as the streets were crawling with soldiers. Fortunately, they were intent on celebrating
their recent return to London and not his large white form. But he was spotted by the most unexpected individual, near St.
Bride, the unfragrant scent of Fleet Street in the air.

A toff of the highest water, dressed to the nines in a lovely cut-front jacket and stunning lemon-yellow cravat tied in the
Osbaldeston style, materialized out of the darkness behind a brewing pub, where no toff had a right to be. The man doffed
his top hat amiably at the naked werewolf.

“Why, I do declare, if it isn't Lord Maccon. How
do
you do? Fancy, aren't we a tad underdressed for an evening's stroll?” The voice was mildly familiar and laced with amusement.

“Biffy,” said the earl on a growl.

“And how is your lovely wife?” Biffy was a drone of reputation, and his vampire master, Lord Akeldama, was a dear friend of
Alexia's. Much to Lord Maccon's annoyance. So, come to think of it, was Biffy. Last time the drone had visited Woolsey Castle
with a message from his master, he and Alexia had spent hours discussing the latest hairstyles out of Paris. His wife had
a penchant for gentlemen of the frivolous persuasion. Conall paused to deduce what that said about his own character.

“Hang my lovely wife,” he answered. “Get into that tavern there and wrestle me up a coat of some kind, would you?”

Biffy arched an eyebrow at him. “You know, I would offer you my coat, but it's a swallowtail, hardly useful, and would never
fit that colossal frame of yours anyway.” He gave the earl a long, appraising look. “Well, well, isn't my master going to
be all of a crumble for not having seen this?”

“Your impossible patron has seen me naked already.”

Biffy tapped his bottom lip with a fingertip and looked intrigued.

“Oh for goodness' sake, you were there,” said Lord Maccon, annoyed.

Biffy only smiled.

“A cloak.” A pause, then the added grumble of, “Please!”

Biffy vanished and returned with alacrity, bearing an oilskin greatcoat of ill design and briny smell but that was at least
large enough to cover the earl's indignities.

The Alpha shrugged it on and then glared at the still-smiling drone. “I smell like parboiled seaweed.”

“Navy's in town.”

“So, what do you know of this madness?” Biffy might be a pink, and his vampire master even more so, but Lord Akeldama was
also London's main busybody, and he ran his ring of impeccably clad informants so efficiently it put anything the government
could muster to shame.

“Eight regiments came into port yesterday: the Black Scotts, Northumberland, the Coldsteam Guards—”Biffy was pointedly obtuse.

Lord Maccon interrupted him. “Not that—the mass exorcism.”

“Mmm,
that
. That is why I was waiting for you.”

“Of course you were,” sighed Lord Maccon.

Biffy stopped smiling. “Shall we walk, my lord?” He took up position next to the werewolf, who was no werewolf at all anymore,
and they strode together toward Fleet Street. The earl's bare feet made no noise on the cobbles.

“What!” The amazed exclamation emanated from not one, but two sources: Alexia
and
the heretofore forgotten Tunstell. The claviger had sat down behind the corner of the stoop to nurse the results of Major
Channing's discipline.

Upon hearing Miss Hisselpenny's news, however, the gangly actor reappeared. He was sporting a large red mark about the right
eye, which was destined to darken in a most colorful manner, and was pinching his nose to stanch the flow of blood. Both Alexia's
handkerchief and his own cravat appeared much the worse for the experience.

“Engaged, Miss Hisselpenny?” In addition to his disheveled aspect, Tunstell was looking quite tragic, in a Shakespearean comedy
kind of way. From behind the handkerchief, his eyes were wide in distress. Tunstell had been mighty taken with Miss Hisselpenny
ever since they danced together at Lord and Lady Maccon's wedding, but they had not been allowed to mingle socially since.
Miss Hisselpenny was a lady of consequence, and Tunstell was but a lowly claviger and an actor to boot. Alexia had not comprehended
the extent of his attachment. Or perhaps the attachment meant more now that it was no longer possible.

“To whom?” Lady Maccon asked the obvious question.

Ivy ignored her and dashed to Tunstell's side.

“You are injured!” she gasped, bunches of grapes and silk strawberries bobbing about. She pulled out her own minuscule handkerchief,
embroidered with small clusters of cherries, and dabbed at his face unhelpfully.

“A mere scratch, Miss Hisselpenny, I assure you,” said Tunstell, looking pleased by her ministrations, as ineffectual as they
may be.

“But you are bleeding, simply gouts and gouts of it,” insisted Ivy.

“Not to worry, not to worry, the business end of a fist will do that to a person, you know.”

Ivy gasped. “Fisticuffs! Oh, how
perfectly
horrid! Poor Mr. Tunstell.” Ivy petted an unbloodied corner of the man's cheek with her white-gloved hand.

Poor Mr. Tunstell did not seem to mind, if this was the result. “Oh, please, do not trouble yourself so,” he said, leaning
into her caress. “My, what an enchanting hat, Miss Hisselpenny, so”—he hesitated, searching for the right word—“fruity.”

Ivy blushed beet red at that. “Oh, do you like it? I bought it specially.”

That did it. “Ivy,” said Alexia sharply, bringing her friend back around to the important business at hand. “To whom have
you gotten yourself engaged, exactly?”

Miss Hisselpenny snapped back to the present, drifting away from the alluring Mr. Tunstell. “His name is Captain Featherstonehaugh,
and he has just returned with the Northumberling Fusilli, all the way from Inja.”

“You mean the Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Is that not what I just said?” Ivy was all big-eyed innocence and excitement.

The dewan's army reshuffling clearly involved far more regiments than Alexia had thought. She would have to find out what
the queen and her commanders were about at the Shadow Council meeting.

The meeting she was now inexcusably late for.

Miss Hisselpenny continued. “It is not a bad match, although Mama would have preferred a major at the very least. But you
know”—she lowered her voice to almost a whisper—“I haven't really the luxury of choice at my age.”

Tunstell looked quite put out upon hearing that. He thought Miss Hisselpenny a grand catch, older than he to be sure, but
imagine her having to settle on a mere captain. He opened his mouth to say so but showed unexpected restraint upon receipt
of a high-stakes glare from his mistress.

“Tunstell,” instructed Lady Maccon, “go away and be useful. Ivy, felicitations on your impending nuptials, but I really must
be off. I have an important meeting, for which I am now late.”

Ivy was watching Tunstell's retreating back. “Of course, Captain Featherstonehaugh was not exactly what I had hoped for. He
is quite the military man, you understand, very stoic. That kind of thing would seem to suit you, Alexia, but I had hoped
for a man with the soul of a bard.”

Alexia threw her hands up into the air. “
He
is a claviger. You know what that means? Someday, relatively soon, he will petition for metamorphosis and then probably die
in the attempt. Even if he came through intact, he would then be a werewolf. You don't even
like
werewolves.”

Ivy gave her an even-wider-eyed look as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. The grapes bobbed. “He could always leave before
that.”

“To be what? A professional actor? Living on a penny a day and the approbation of a fickle public?”

Ivy sniffed. “Who says we are discussing Mr. Tunstell?”

Alexia was driven to distraction. “Get into the carriage, Ivy. I shall take you back to town.”

Miss Hisselpenny nattered on about her impending marriage and its companion apparel, invitation list, and comestibles for
the entirety of the two-hour ride into London. Not much was said, however, about the prospective groom. Alexia was made to
realize, during the course of that drive, that he apparently was of little consequence to the proceedings. She watched her
friend climb down and trot inside the Hisselpenny's modest town house with a slight pang of concern. What was Ivy doing? But
with no time at the moment to worry over Miss Hisselpenny's
situation
, Lady Maccon directed the driver on to Buckingham.