Alexia Maccon adored her husband and she should never wish to cause him any pain. He was a sensitive werewolf type, unfortunately, for all her efforts, prone to extremes in emotion and with a particular, perhaps even obsessive, regard for such noble concepts as honor, loyalty, and trust.
“Wife.”
“Good evening, husband. How was your repose?” Alexia paused at the threshold to the hotel, trying to angle herself to the side so they did not entirely block the entranceway. Given her husband’s bulk, this was no mean feat.
“Never mind repose. I have received a most upsetting letter.”
“Ah, yes, well. I can explain.”
“Oh, ho?”
“Do you think we might repair to our room to discuss the matter?”
The earl ignored this entirely sensible suggestion. Alexia supposed she was in for a well-deserved bout of public humiliation. Behind Conall’s looming form, in the foyer of Hotel des Voyageurs, she could see guests turn to look at the tableau in the doorway. Her husband had raised his voice rather more than was common, even for Alexandria.
Lord Maccon boasted a barrel chest and companion booming vocalization at the best of times. As this was the worst of times, he could have roused the undead—and probably did in some areas of the city. “Randolph Lyall, that squirrelly snot-nosed plonker, rigged the whole darn thing: caused Kingair tae betray me, got me tae come tae Woolsey, saw me eliminate his old Alpha. All of it! He never saw fit tae tell me this little fact.” The earl’s tawny eyes were narrowed and yellow in fury, and it looked as though a bit of canine was showing out the corners of his mouth.
His voice went very cold and clipped. It was terrifying. “Apparently, you know all of this, wife. And you dinnae tell me. I canna quite ken tae such a thing. But my own great-great-great-granddaughter assures me of the truth of it, and why should she lie?”
Alexia raised her hands, placating. “Now, Conall, please look at this from my perspective. I didn’t want to keep it secret. I really didn’t. But I saw how upset you were about Kingair and that betrayal. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt again if I told you about Lyall. He didn’t know you intimately way back when. He had no thought to your loss. He was trying to save his pack.”
“Oh, trust me, Alexia. I ken what old Lord Woolsey was like. And I ken verra well what Lyall was up against. I can even ken what love and loss drove him tae do. But tae keep such a secret from me even after we became kin? After I had grown tae trust him? And worse, that you should do the same! You who have nothing like his excuse.”
Alexia bit her lower lip, worried. “But, Conall, even knowing how awful it was for him, Lyall and I both knew you would never trust him again. And you need him—he is a good Beta.”
Lord Maccon looked at her, even more coldly than before. “Make no bones about it, Alexia. I need no one! Least of all a wife like you and a Beta like that! If you owe me naught else in this marriage, you owe me truth about pack! I wouldna ask for truth in anything else. But my pack, Alexia? It was your duty tae tell me the moment you found out!”
“Well, to be fair, at the time I had other things on my mind. There was an octomaton, and Prudence to be born—you know, little trifles like that.” Alexia tried to smile weakly, knowing there could be no real excuse.
“Are you making light of this, woman?”
“Oh, dear. Conall, I wanted to tell you! I really did. I simply knew you would react… well, you know.”
“Do I?”
She sighed. “Badly. I knew you would react badly.”
“Badly! You have no idea how bad this is going to get.”
“See?”
“So you thought you might wait it out, that I shouldna find out?”
“Well, I thought perhaps, since I’m a mortal, I might at least die first.”
“Don’t go playing the sympathy card with me, woman. I know verra well you’ll be dying afore me.” Then he sighed.
The earl was such a massive man, yet as Alexia watched in concern, he seemed to shrink in upon himself. He leaned back against the side of the door, old and tired. “I canna believe you would do this tae me. Alexia, I trusted you.”
It was said in such a small, little boy voice that Alexia felt her own heart contract in response to his pain. “Oh, Conall. What can I say? I thought it was for the best. I thought you would be happier not knowing.”
“You thought, you thought. Never did you think it might be better tae have been told by you than to have you ally against me? You have made a chump of me. To hell with the lot of you.” With that, he crumpled the letter and tossed it to the street before striding off into the crowded city.
“Where are you going? Please, Conall!” Alexia called after him, but he only raised one hand into the air in disregard and strode away.
“And with no top hat,” came a small addendum comment from behind her.
Alexia turned in a daze, having entirely forgotten until that moment that Mrs. Tunstell, the nursemaid, the children, and the donkey—all of them grubby, sunburned, and tear-stained—stood waiting patiently to enter the hotel, except the donkey, although he probably wouldn’t have minded going inside.
Alexia could only blink down at Ivy, experiencing a kind of emotional distress heretofore alien to her makeup. Oh, Conall had been angry at her in the past, but to the best of her knowledge, he had never been in the right before. “Oh, Ivy. I am so very sorry. I forgot you were there.”
“Goodness, that doesn’t happen often,” replied Ivy. Although she had heard much of the conversation, she was ignorant as to the significance of the tirade, for she asked at that juncture, looking with concern into her dear friend’s ashen face, “Why, Alexia, my dear, are you quite well?”
“No, Ivy, I am not. I do believe my marriage may be in ruins.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we are in the land of such things, then, isn’t it?”
“What things?”
“Ruins.”
“Oh, Ivy, really.”
“Not even a smile? You must truly be afflicted by sentimental upset. Do you feel faint? I’ve never known you to faint, but I suppose one is never too young to start trying.”
Then, much to Ivy’s shock and Alexia’s horror, the bold-as-brass Lady Maccon—paragon of assertive behavior and wielder of stoicism, parasols, and the occasional cryptic remark—burst into tears, right there on the front step of a public hostelry in central Alexandria.
Mrs. Tunstell, horrified beyond measure, wrapped one consoling arm about her friend and hustled her quickly inside Hotel des Voyageurs and into a private side parlor where she called for tea and instructed the nursemaid to see that the children were cleaned and put down for a nap. Alexia had just enough presence of mind to babble out that under no circumstances was anyone to attempt to bathe Prudence.
Alexia continued to blubber incoherently and Ivy to pat her hand sympathetically. Mrs. Tunstell was clearly at a loss as to what else she might do to allay her friend’s anguish.
Tunstell appeared in the doorway at one point, riding atop Prudence’s mechanical ladybug—he had always been fond of ladybugs—his knees up by his ears and grinning like a maniac. Even that failed to cheer Alexia. Ivy sent her husband off with a quick shake of her head and a stern, “Tunny, this is a serious matter. Bug off. We are not to be disturbed.”
“But, light of my life, what has happened to your hat?”
“Never mind that now. I have an emotional crisis on my hands.”
Tunstell, shaken to the core by the fact that his wife was clearly not disturbed by the loss of one of her precious bonnets, elected to take Alexia’s tears seriously and stopped smiling. “My goodness, what can I do?”
“Do? Do! Men are useless in such matters. Go see what is delaying the tea!”
Tunstell and the mechanical ladybug trundled away.