Alexia was out the door and galloping pell-mell down the staircase, heedless of the very real danger to her delicate apparel, waving her parasol about madly.
She crashed into the parlor door, which refused to budge. Something heavy was blocking it. She heaved against it desperately, finally shoving it open far enough to find that it was her husband’s fallen body that blocked her entrance.
She bent over him, checking for injuries. She could find none on his back, so with prodigious effort, she rolled him over, checking his front. He was breathing slowly and laboriously, as though drugged.
Alexia paused, frowning suspiciously at her parasol, lying near her at the ready. The tip opens and emits a poisoned dart equipped with a numbing agent, she heard Madame Lefoux’s voice say in her head. How easy, then, would it be to create a sleeping agent? A quick glance about the room showed Madame Lefoux was still unconscious but otherwise undamaged.
Lady Kingair, Dubh, and Lachlan appeared at the door. Lady Maccon held up a hand indicating she was not to be disturbed and stripped her husband bare to the waist, examining him more closely, not for injuries but for… aha!
“There it is.” A small puncture wound just below his left shoulder.
She pushed her way through the crowd at the door and yelled up the stairs, “Tunstell, you revolting blighter!” In Woolsey Castle, such affectionate terminology for the claviger meant for him to come quickly, and come armed. Lord Maccon’s idea.
She turned back into the room and marched over to the prone form of Madame Lefoux. “If this is your fault,” she hissed to the still-apparently-comatose woman, “I shall see you hanged as a spy; you see if I don’t.” Heedless of the others listening and watching in avid interest, she added, “And you know very well I have the power to do so.”
Madame Lefoux lay as still as death.
Tunstell muscled his way into the room and immediately bent over his fallen master, reaching to check his breath.
“He is alive.”
“Barely,” replied Alexia. “Where did you—”
“What has happened?” interrupted Lady Kingair impatiently.
“He has been put to sleep, some kind of poisoned dart. Tincture of valerian perhaps,” explained Lady Maccon without looking up.
“Goodness, how remarkable.”
“Woman’s weapon, poison.” Dubh sniffed.
“I beg your pardon!” replied Lady Maccon. “None of that, or you shall meet the blunt end of my preferred weapon, and let me assure you, it isn’t poison.”
Dubh wisely beat a retreat to avoid offending the lady further.
“You will have to leave off your tender ministrations of Miss Hisselpenny’s delicate constitution for the moment, Tunstell.” Lady Maccon stood and strode purposefully to the door. “If you will excuse us,” she said to the assembled Kingair Pack. Then she shut them firmly out of their own front parlor. Terribly rude, of course, but sometimes circumstances required rudeness, and there was simply nothing else for it. Luckily, under such circumstances, Alexia Maccon was always equal to the task.
She proceeded on to another unpardonably rude offense. Leaving Tunstell to see her husband comfortable—which he did by dragging the earl’s massive frame over to another small couch, then folding him onto it before covering him with a large plaid blanket—Lady Maccon marched over and began stripping Madame Lefoux of her garments.
Tunstell did not ask, only turned his head away and tried not to look.
Alexia did this carefully, feeling about and checking every layer and fold for hidden gadgets and possible weapons. The Frenchwoman did not stir, although Alexia could have sworn the woman’s breath quickened. By the end, Alexia had a fine pile of objects, some of them familiar: a pair of glassicals, an aether transponder cable, an encephalic valve, but most of them unknown to her. She knew Madame Lefoux normally boasted a dart emitter, because she’d said she used it during the fight on board the dirigible. But none of the objects in the pile looked to be such a device, even disguised as something else. Had it been stolen? Or had Madame Lefoux used it on Conall and then contrived to hide it somewhere else?
Lady Maccon slid her hands under the sleeping woman. Nothing there. Then she tucked them down Madame Lefoux’s side where it rested against the back of the settee. Still nothing. Then she looked under and behind the couch. If the inventor had hidden it, she had done so quite thoroughly.
With a sigh, Lady Maccon set about putting the Frenchwoman’s clothing back together again. It was odd to think, but she had never before seen another woman’s naked body until now. She must admit Madame Lefoux did have a rather nice one. Not so well endowed as Alexia’s own, of course, but trim and tidy with neat small breasts. It was a good thing the inventor opted for masculine garb, she reflected, as it was much easier to manage. Once the task was completed, Lady Maccon’s hands were trembling slightly—from embarrassment, of course.
“Keep a close eye on her, Tunstell. I shall return directly.” With that, Lady Maccon stood and marched out of the room, shutting the door behind her and ignoring the Kingair Pack, still milling about confusedly in the vestibule. She went immediately upstairs and inside her bedchamber. Angelique was already there, rummaging about.
“Out,” she said to the maid.
Angelique bobbed a curtsy and scurried away.
Lady Maccon went directly to the window and, standing on tiptoe, reached around for Conall’s precious little oiled leather package. It was well beyond her reach, stashed behind a jutting brick. Impatient, she balanced on the sill precariously, bemoaning her overly skirted state, bustle squeezing up tight against the side of the window. Despite the hazardous position, she managed to grab hold of the package without mishap.
Unwrapping the little weapon, she stashed it under her ridiculous lace cap, nested among her copious dark curls, and marched on to Ivy’s room to retrieve her dispatch case.
Ivy was lying in half-faint, half-flutter on her bed.
“Oh, Alexia, thank goodness. What am I to do? This is such a terrible crisis of apex proportions. Such palpitations of the heart. Did you see? Oh, of course you saw. He kissed me, right there in public. I am ruined!” She sat up. “Yet I love him.” She flopped back. “Yet I am ruined. Oh, woe is me.”
“Did you actually just utter the phrase ‘woe is me’? I’m just going to, uh, check on those socks.”
Miss Hisselpenny was not to be distracted from her majestic problems. The removal of the dispatch case, not to mention her friend’s militant expression, went unnoticed.
“He told me he would love me forever.”
Lady Maccon flipped through the various stacks of papers and rolls of parchments inside her case, looking for her muhjah letter of marque. Where had she put the bedamned thing?
“He said that this was the true, the one, the only.”
Lady Maccon gave a noncommittal murmur at that. What else could one say to such folderol?
Miss Hisselpenny, unconcerned by a lack of response, continued to bemoan her fate. “And I love him. I really and truly do. You could never understand this type of love, Alexia. Not such true love as ours. Marrying for practical gain is all very well and good, but this… this is the real thing.”
Lacy Maccon tilted her head in sham surprise. “Is that what I did?”
Ivy continued without acknowledgment. “But we cannot possibly marry.”
Alexia continued to rummage. “Mmm, no, I see that.”
That made Miss Hisselpenny sit up and look daggers down at her friend. “Really, Alexia, you are not being even remotely helpful.”
Lady Maccon remembered she had transferred her most important papers to her parasol after the first break-in and quickly snapped the dispatch case shut, locked it, and tucked it back behind Ivy’s stack of hatboxes.