He took his wife’s hand softly in his large paw. “The Hypocras was a militant branch of the OBO. Madame Lefoux is a member in good standing. Are you not?”
The inventor gave a little half-smile and nodded.
“And what, pray tell, is the OBO?” Lady Maccon yanked her hand out of her husband’s patronizing grip.
“The Order of the Brass Octopus, a secret society of scientists and inventors.”
Lady Maccon glared at the earl. “And you did not think to tell me about this?”
He shrugged. “It is meant to be secret.”
“We really must work on our communication. Perhaps if you were not so constantly interested in other forms of intimacy, I might actually have access to the information I need to survive with my temper intact!” Alexia poked at him with a sharp finger. “More talk, less bed sport.”
Lord Maccon looked alarmed. “Fine, I shall make time to discuss these things with you.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I promise.”
She whirled about to look at Madame Lefoux, who was unsuccessfully trying to hide her amusement at Lord Maccon’s discomfort.
“And this Order of the Brass Octopus, what are its policies?”
“Secret.”
A hard look met that remark.
“In all honesty, we do agree with the Hypocras Club to a certain degree: that the supernatural must be monitored, that there should be checks in place. I am sorry, my lord, but it is true. Supernaturals continue to tamper with the world, particularly the vampires. You get greedy. Look at the Roman Empire.”
The earl snorted but was not particularly offended. “As though the daylight folk have done so welclass="underline" never forget, your lot boasts the Inquisition.”
Madame Lefoux turned to Alexia, trying to explain. Her green eyes were oddly desperate, as though this, of all things, was terribly important. “You, as a preternatural, must understand. You are the living representation of the counterbalance theorem in action. You are supposed to be on our side.”
Alexia did understand. Having worked alongside the dewan and the potentate for several months, she could comprehend this desperate need the scientists felt to constantly monitor the supernatural set. She wasn’t yet quite certain which side she came down on, but she said firmly, “You understand Conall has my loyalty? Well, him and the queen.”
The Frenchwoman nodded. “And now that you know my allegiances, will you tell me what caused the mass negation of the supernatural?”
“You want to harness it into an invention of some kind, don’t you?”
Madame Lefoux looked arch. “I am convinced there is a market. How about it, Lord Maccon? Imagine what I could do for a sundowner, with the ability to turn vampires and werewolves mortal. Or, Lady Maccon, what new gadget I might install in your parasol? Think of the control we could have over supernaturals.”
Lord Maccon gave the inventor a long, hard look. “I didna realize you were a radical, Madame Lefoux. When did that happen?”
Lady Maccon decided then and there not to tell the inventor about the mummy. “I am sorry, madame, but it would be best if I kept this to myself. I have removed the cause, obviously”—she gestured to the pack, still hovering hopefully in the doorway—“with the help of your excellent parasol, but I am thinking this is knowledge best kept out of the public domain.”
“You are a hard woman, Lady Maccon,” replied the inventor, frowning. “But you do realize, we will figure it out eventually.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it. Although it may be too late. I believe our little spy may have managed to get the word out to the Westminster Hive despite my precautions,” said Lady Maccon, suddenly remembering the aethographic transmitter and Angelique’s message.
She turned and strode toward the door. Madame Lefoux and Lord Maccon followed.
“No.” She looked at the inventor. “I am sorry, Madame Lefoux. It is not that I do not like you. It is simply that I do not trust you. Please remain here. Oh, and give me back my journal.”
The inventor looked confused. “I did not take it.”
“But I thought you said…”
“I looked for the dispatch case, but it was not me who broke into your room on board the dirigible.”
“Then who did?”
“The same person who tried to poison you, I suppose.”
Alexia threw her hands up. “I don’t have time for this.” And with that, she led her husband from the room at a brisk trot.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Changes
Lord Maccon checked the hall. It was empty, the pack having filed into the mummy room or gone to collect Angelique’s body. Seeing no one around to forestall his action, the earl slammed his wife up against the wall, pressing the full length of his body against hers.
“Ooomph,” said his wife. “Not now.”
He nuzzled in at her neck, kissing and licking her softly just below her ear. “Just a moment,” he said. “I need a small reminder that you are here, you are whole, and you are mine.”
“Well, the first two should be patently obvious, and the last one is always in question,” replied his lady unhelpfully. But she wrapped her arms about his neck and pressed against him despite all protestations to the contrary.
He resorted, as always, to action over words and sealed his lips atop hers, stopping that wicked tongue.
Alexia, who had, until that moment, managed to remain rather pulled together and tidy, despite all of her dashing about the castle, cast herself into a willing state of hopeless disarray. There was really nothing else to do when Conall was in one of these moods but enjoy it. Her husband drove his hands into her hair, tilting her head to the correct angle for ravishment. Ah well, at least he was good at it.
Alexia sacrificed herself on the altar of wifely duty, enjoying every minute of it, of course, but still determined to pull him back and get on to the aethographor.
Her determination notwithstanding, it was several long moments before he finally raised his head.
“Right,” he said, as though he had just finished a refreshing beverage. “Shall we continue on, then?”
“What?” Alexia asked, dazed, trying to recall what they had been about before he started kissing her.
“The transmitter, remember?”
“Oh yes, right.” She swatted him out of habit. “Why did you want to go and distract me like that? I was quite in my element and everything.”
Conall laughed. “Someone has to keep you off balance; otherwise you’ll end up ruling the empire. Or at least ordering it into wretched submission.”
“Ha-ha, very funny.” She started down the hallway at a brisk trot, bustle waggling suggestively back and forth. Halfway down, she paused and looked back at him over one shoulder coquettishly. “Oh, Conall, do get a move on.”
Lord Maccon growled but lumbered after her.
She stopped again, cocking her head. “What is that preposterous noise?”
“Opera.”
“Really? I should never have guessed.”
“I believe Tunstell is serenading Miss Hisselpenny.”
“Good heavens! Poor Ivy. Ah well.” She started onward again.
As they wound their way up through the castle toward the top turret where the aethographor resided, Alexia explained her theory that the now-destroyed mummy had once been a preternatural, that, after death, it had turned into some strange sort of soul-sucking weapon of mass disintegration. And that Angelique, believing the same, had tried to steal the mummy. Probably to get it into the hands of the Westminster Hive and Countess Nadasdy’s pet scientists.
“If Angelique did manage to reveal all to the hive, no possible good can come of it. We might as well tell Madame Lefoux; at least she will use the knowledge to make weapons for our side.”
Lord Maccon looked at his wife oddly. “Are there sides?”