“Ours is not to question, but I believe the mistress agrees with you. Doesn’t stop her from humoring—”
The other vampire suddenly held up a hand, cutting his companion off.
Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux emerged from Lord Akeldama’s town house and made their good-byes on the stoop. Madame Lefoux swung herself up into a cab, and Lady Maccon was left alone, looking thoughtful on the front steps.
The two vampires moved forward toward her. Lyall did not know what they intended, but he guessed it was probably not good. It certainly was not worth risking his Alpha’s wrath to find out. Quick as a flash, he slithered underneath one of the vampires, tripping him up, in the next movement lunging for the other, teeth snapping hard around anklebone. The first vampire, reacting rapidly, jumped so fast to one side as to be almost impossible to follow, at least for normal sight. Lyall, of course, was not normal.
He leaped, meeting the vampire halfway, lupine body slamming into the man’s side, throwing him off. The second vampire lunged toward him, grabbing for his tail.
The entire scuffle took place in almost complete silence, only the sound of snapping jaws marking the activity.
It gave Lady Maccon just enough time, although she did not know she needed it, to climb into the Woolsey carriage and set off down the street.
The two vampires both stilled as soon as the vehicle was out of sight.
“Well, that’s a sticky wicket,” said one.
“Werewolves,” said the other in disgust. He spat at Lyall, who paced, hackles raised, between them, forestalling any idea of pursuit. Lyall paused to sniff delicately at the wad of spit—eau de Westminster Hive.
“Really,” said the first to Lyall, “we weren’t going to harm one hair of that swarthy Italian head. We simply had a little test in mind. No one would have even known.”
The other elbowed him, hard. “Hush you, that’s Professor Lyall, that is. Lord Maccon’s Beta. The less he knows about anything, the better.”
With that, the two doffed their hats at the still growling, still bristling wolf in front of them and, turning, took off at a leisurely pace toward Bond Street.
Professor Lyall would have followed, but he decided on more precautionary measures and set a brisk trot to follow Alexia and ensure she arrived home safely.
Lady Maccon caught Professor Lyall when he came in, just before dawn. He looked exhausted, his already lean face pinched and drawn.
“Ah, Lady Maccon, you have waited up for me? How kind.”
She searched for the sarcasm in his words, but if it was there, it was cleverly disguised. He was good. Alexia often wondered if Professor Lyall had been an actor before metamorphosis and somehow managed to hold on to his creativity despite sacrificing most of his soul for immortality. He was so very skilled at doing, and being, what was expected.
He confirmed her suspicions. Whatever it was that had caused the wide-scale lack of supernatural was definitely heading north. BUR had determined that the hour of London’s return to supernatural normal correlated with the departure of the Kingair Pack toward Scotland. He was not surprised that Lady Maccon had arrived at the same conclusion.
He was, however, decidedly against the idea that she should go trailing after.
“Well, who else should go? I, at least, will remain entirely unaffected by the affliction.”
Professor Lyall glared at her. “No one should go after it. The earl is perfectly capable of handling the situation, even if he doesn’t yet know he has two problems to deal with. You seem to have failed to realize we all wandered around undamaged for centuries before you appeared in our lives.”
“Yes, but look what a mess you have made of things prior to my arrival.” Lady Maccon was not to be dissuaded from her chosen course of action. “Someone has to tell Conall that Kingair is to blame.”
“If none of them are changing, he’ll find out as soon as he arrives. His lordship would not like you following him.”
“His lordship can eat my fat—” Lady Maccon paused, thought the better of her crass words, and said, “—does not have to like it. Nor do you. The fact remains that this morning Floote will secure for me passage on the afternoon’s dirigible to Glasgow. His lordship can take it up with me when I arrive.”
Professor Lyall had no doubt that his poor Alpha would do just that and be similarly humbled. Still, he would not give in so easily. “You shall have to take Tunstell with you, at the very least. The lad has been pining to visit the north ever since his lordship left, and he will be able to keep an eye on you.”
Lady Maccon was truculent. “I do not need him. Have you seen my new parasol?”
Lyall had seen the purchase order and been suitably impressed, but he was no fool. “A woman, even a married woman, cannot float without proper escort. It is simply not done. You and I are both well aware of that fact.”
Lady Maccon frowned. He was right, bother it. She sighed and figured that at least Tunstell was a pushover.
“Oh, very well, if you insist,” she conceded with ill grace.
The intrepid Beta, older than most werewolves still living in the greater London environs—Lord Maccon and the dewan included—did the only thing he could under the circumstances. Pulled his cravat aside to expose his neck, gave a little bow, and took himself off to bed without another word, leaving Lady Maccon in possession of the field.
Her ladyship sent the hovering Floote to rouse poor Tunstell from his bed and give him the unexpected news that he would be departing for Scotland. The claviger, who had only just climbed into bed, having spent the better part of the night looking at ladies’ hats, wondered a tad about the sanity of his mistress.
Just after sunrise, having gotten very little sleep, Lady Maccon commenced packing. Or, it should be said more precisely that Lady Maccon commenced arguing with Angelique over what should be packed. She was interrupted by a visit from the only person on the planet capable of consistently routing her in verbal skirmishes.
Floote brought up the message.
“Good gracious, what on earth is she doing here? And at such an early hour!” Alexia put the calling card back down on the little silver tray; checked her appearance, which was only just passable for receiving; and wondered if she should take the time to change. Should one risk keeping a caller waiting or face criticism for being dressed in attire unbecoming to a lady of rank? She chose the latter, deciding to get the encounter over and done with as quickly as possible.
The woman waiting for her in the front parlor was a diminutive blond with a rosy complexion that owed more to artifice than nature, wearing a visiting dress of pink and white stripes that would better suit a lady half her age.
“Mama,” said Lady Maccon, presenting her cheek for the halfhearted kiss her mother wafted in her direction.
“Oh, Alexia,” cried Mrs. Loontwill, as though she had not seen her eldest in years. “I am quite overset with the most nervous misery; such a to-do is afoot. I require your immediate assistance.”
Lady Maccon was dumbfounded—a state that did not afflict her often. Firstly, her mother had not insulted her appearance. Secondly, her mother actually seemed to be seeking her help in some matter. Her help.
“Mama, do sit. You are quite discombobulated. I shall order tea.” She gestured to a chair, and Mrs. Loontwill sank into it gratefully. “Rumpet,” Alexia addressed the hovering butler, “tea, please. Or would you prefer sherry, Mama?”
“Oh, I am not that overset.”
“Tea, Rumpet.”
“However, the situation is very dire. Such poopitations of the heart as you would not believe.”
“Palpitations,” corrected her daughter softly.
Mrs. Loontwill relaxed slightly, and then all of a sudden sat up straight as a poker, looking wildly about. “Alexia, none of your husband’s associates are in residence, are they?”