Lady Maccon moved them on from the platitudes with a direct reminder. “And how is the countess?”
Madame Lefoux gave one of her little French shrugs. “She is herself, unchanging, as ever. It is on her behest that I am here. I have been directed to bring you a message.”
“Oh, yes, how did you know where to find me?”
“The Tunstells have a new play, and you are their patroness. I admit I had not anticipated your presence, my lord.”
Lord Maccon grinned wolfishly. “I was persuaded.”
“The message?” Alexia put out her hand.
“Ah, no, we have all learned never to do that again. The message is a verbal one. Countess Nadasdy has received instructions and would like to see you, Lady Maccon.”
“Instructions? Instructions from who?”
“I am not privy to that information,” replied the inventor.
Alexia turned to her husband. “Who on earth would dare order around the Woolsey Hive queen?”
“Oh, no, Alexia, you misunderstand me. The instructions came to her, but they are for you.”
“Me? Me! Why…,” Alexia sputtered in outrage.
“I’m afraid I know nothing more. Are you available to call upon her this evening, after the performance?”
Alexia, whose curiosity was quite piqued, nodded her acquiescence. “It is bath night, but Lord Akeldama and his boys must really learn to muddle through.”
“Bath night?” The Frenchwoman was intrigued.
“Prudence is particularly difficult on bath nights.”
“Ah, yes. Some of them don’t want to get clean. Quesnel was like that. As you may have noticed, circumstances never did improve.” Genevieve’s son was known for being grubby.
“And how is he muddling along, living with vampires?”
“Thriving, the little monster.”
“Much like Prudence, then.”
“As you say.” The Frenchwoman tilted her head. “And my hat shop?”
“Biffy has it marvelously well in hand. You should drop by and visit. He’s there tonight. I’m certain he would love to see you.”
“Perhaps I shall. It’s not often I get into London these days.” Madame Lefoux began edging toward the curtain, donning her gray top hat and making her good-byes.
She left Lord and Lady Maccon in puzzled silence, with a mystery that, it must be said, somewhat mitigated their enjoyment of the second act, as did the lack of any additional bumblebee courtship rituals.
CHAPTER TWO
Wherein Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher Does Not Buy a Hat
“Don’t you believe this would suit the young miss better?” Biffy was a man of principle. He refused, on principle, to sell a huge tricolored pifferaro bonnet decorated with a cascade of clove pinks, black currants, and cut jet beads to Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher for her daughter. Miss Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher was plain, dreadfully plain, and the bonnet was rather more of an insult than a decoration by contrast. The hat was the height of fashion, but Biffy was convinced a little gold straw bonnet was the superior choice. Biffy was never wrong about hats. The difficulty lay in convincing Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher of this fact.
“You see, madam, the refined elegance complements the delicacy of Miss Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher’s complexion.”
Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher did not see and would have none of it. “No, young man. The pifferaro, if you please.”
“I’m afraid that is not possible, madam. That hat is promised elsewhere.”
“Then why is it out on the floor?”
“A mistake, Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher. My apologies.”
“I see. Well, clearly we have made a mistake in patronizing your establishment! I shall take my custom elsewhere. Come, Arabella.” With which the matron marched out, dragging her daughter in her wake. The young lady mouthed an apology behind her mother’s back and gave the little gold straw bonnet a wistful look. Poor creature, thought Biffy, before returning both hats to their displays.
The silver bells attached to the front of the shop tinkled as a new customer entered. Some evenings those bells never seemed to stop. The store was increasingly popular, despite Biffy’s occasional refusal to actually sell hats. He was getting a reputation for being an eccentric. Perhaps not quite so much as the previous owner, but there were ladies who would travel miles in order to have a handsome young werewolf refuse to sell them a hat.
He looked up to see Madame Lefoux. She carried in with her the slightly putrid scent of London and her own special blend of vanilla and machine oil. She was looking exceptionally well, Biffy thought. Life in the country clearly agreed with her. She was not, perhaps, so dandified in dress and manner as Biffy and his set, but she certainly knew how to make the most of somber blues and grays. He wondered, not for the first time, what she might look like in a proper gown. Biffy couldn’t help it, he was excessively fond of female fashions and could not quite understand why a woman, with so many delicious options, might choose to dress and live as a man.
“Another satisfied customer, Mr. Biffy?”
“Mrs. Colindrikal-Bumbcruncher has the taste level of an ill-educated parboiled potato.”
“Revolting female,” agreed the Frenchwoman amiably, “and her gowns are always so well made. Makes her that much more vexing. Did you know her daughter is engaged to Captain Featherstonehaugh?”
Biffy raised one eyebrow. “And he’s not the first, I hear.”
“Why, Mr. Biffy, you talk such scandal.”
“You wrong me, Madame Lefoux. I never gossip. I observe. And then relay my observations to practically everyone.”
The inventor smiled, showing her dimples.
“How may I help you this evening?” Biffy put on his shopboy persona. “A new chapeau, or were you thinking about some other fripperies?”
“Oh, well, perhaps.” Madame Lefoux’s reply was vague as she looked about her old establishment.
Biffy tried to imagine it through her eyes. It was much the same. The hats still dangled from long chains so that patrons had to push their way through swaying tendrils, but the secret door was now even more well hidden behind a curtained-off back area, and he had expanded recently, opening up a men’s hats and accessories section.
The Frenchwoman was drawn into examination of a lovely top hat in midnight blue velvet.
“That would suit your complexion very well,” commented Biffy when she fingered the turn of the brim.
“I am sure you are right, but not tonight. I simply came to visit the old place. You have tended it well.”
Biffy gave a little bow. “I am but a steward to your vision.”
Madame Lefoux huffed in amusement. “Flatterer.”
Biffy never knew where he stood with Madame Lefoux. She was so very much outside his experience: an inventor, a scientist, and middle class, with a marked preference for the company of young ladies and an eccentricity of dress that was too restrained to be unstudied. Biffy didn’t like enigmas—they were out of fashion.
“I have recently come from seeing Lord and Lady Maccon at the theater.”
Biffy was willing to play along. “Oh, indeed? I thought it was bath night.”
“Apparently, Lord Akeldama was left to muddle through alone.”
“Oh, dear.”
“It occurred to me that we have switched places, you and I.”
The French, thought Biffy, could be very philosophical. “Come again?”
“I have become a reluctant drone to vampires and you nest in the bosom of the Maccon home and hearth.”
“Ah, were you once in that bosom? I had thought you never quite got all the way inside. Not for lack of trying, of course.”
The Frenchwoman laughed. “Touché.”