Alexia raised her parasol in one hand and the clerk’s letter opener in the other.
Madame Lefoux reached for her cravat pins. Finding she wore no cravat, she swore and groped blindly for the nearest heavy object, coming up with her stealth hatbox, the heavy one that contained her tools, from the stack of luggage in the cart behind them. Floote relaxed into a kind of loose-limbed fighting stance that Alexia had seen before: in a battle to defend the location of tents between two werewolves on her front porch. What was Floote doing fighting like a werewolf?
The drones attacked. Alexia’s parasol whipped out to deliver a crushing blow, only to be deflected by a knife. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Madame Lefoux swing the hatbox, cracking the wood casing against the side of a drone’s skul . Floote bal ed up his fist and, fast as any boxer—not that Alexia knew much of pugilism, being a lady of good breeding—dodged the knife slicing down toward him and made two quick hits to his opponent’s stomach.
Around them, waiting dirigible passengers gasped in shock, but no one did anything to either help or hinder. Italians were reputed to be a people of violent emotions; perhaps they thought this was a lover’s spat of some multifaceted variety. Or perhaps they thought the battle was over a bal sport. Alexia seemed to recal hearing one matron complain that the Italians were very passionate in their support of bal s.
They could have used some assistance, for Alexia was no formal y trained fighter, and Madame Lefoux, whether she was or not, was considerably hampered by her floofy dress. Quicker than Alexia would have thought possible, the drones had her disarmed, parasol rol ing away across the stone floor of the gazebo. Madame Lefoux was thrust to the ground. Alexia thought she heard the Frenchwoman’s head hit the side of the cart on the way down. She certainly didn’t look to be moving anytime soon. Floote struggled on, but he was not quite so young as he once was, and certainly a good deal older than his opponent.
Two of the drones held Alexia fast between them, while the third, having determined Madame Lefoux was no longer a threat, brandished his knife with the clear intention of slitting Alexia’s throat. This time they were brooking no delay. They would simply eliminate the preternatural right there in broad daylight and in front of witnesses.
Alexia writhed in the grip of her two captors, kicking out and wiggling as much as possible, making it difficult for them to steady her for the knife. Floote, seeing her imminent peril, fought al the harder, but death seemed embarrassingly inevitable.
And then a very odd thing happened.
A tal masked man, hooded like some parody of a religious pilgrim, leapt into the fray, and he appeared to be on their side.
The unexpected champion was a big man—not so big as Conal , Alexia noticed, but then few were—and clearly quite strong. He carried a long sword in one hand, British military issue, and had a mean left punch, which was also, Alexia guessed, British military issue. The masked man certainly was liberal and enthusiastic with his use of both sword and fist.
Finding her captors distracted, Alexia jerked a knee into one in the vicinity of one’s nether regions at the same time twisting violently, trying to shake off the others’ grip. The one she’d kneed backhanded her across the mouth, and Alexia felt a starburst of pain before tasting blood.
The masked man reacted swiftly at that, slicing out with his sword and catching the offender behind one knee. The drone crumpled.
The drones regrouped, leaving only one stil holding Alexia while two went back on the defensive, facing off against the new threat. Alexia liked these odds considerably better and did what any proper young lady ought to do: she pretended to faint, col apsing in a sudden dead weight against her captor. The man shifted to hold her with one hand, no doubt reaching for his own knife to slit her throat with the other. Sensing the opportunity, Alexia braced both feet and thrust sharply backward with al her might, knocking both herself and the drone to the floor. Once there, they proceeded to rol about gracelessly on the stone. Alexia had reason to be grateful for her husband’s fondness for rol ing among the bedsheets, for it had given her some practice wrestling with a man twice this drone’s size.
Then, like the knights they had once been of old, the Templars were upon them.
White nightgowns to the rescue, thought Alexia happily. The drones were forced, once more, to flee from the papal enforcers. Alexia had to admit Templar attire looked much less sil y behind flashing, nak*d blades.
Alexia struggled to her feet in time to see their masked defender, clutching his bloody sword and dashing across the dirigible green in the opposite direction from the drones. In a whirl of dark cloak, he leapt over a row of topiary deer and disappeared into the gardens beyond. Clearly he liked being mysterious, or disliked the Templars, or both.
Alexia checked on Floote, who had not a hair out of place. He, in turn, wanted reassurances that neither she nor the infant-inconvenience had suffered any il effects from the ordeal. Alexia did a quick internal assessment and discovered that they were both hungry, of which she informed Floote, and then bent to examine Madame Lefoux.
The back of the inventor’s head was bloody, but her eyes were already blinking open.
“What happened?”
“We were saved by a masked gentleman.”
“Pul the other one.” Sometimes Madame Lefoux could be surprisingly British in her verbal mannerisms.
Alexia helped her to sit up. “No, real y. We were.” While she explained what had occurred, she helped the inventor into the cart, and then they both watched with interest as the Templars dealt with the results of the altercation. It was almost like watching BUR
at work cleaning up one of Alexia’s messes, only faster and with less paperwork. And, of course, there was no Conal marching around waving his massive hands in exasperation and growling at her.
Alexia found herself grinning foolishly. Conall had apologized!
The dirigible passengers were clearly uncomfortable with having to deal directly with the Templars and were wil ing to do anything they were told so long as the men in white left quickly.
Floote disappeared mysteriously and then returned only to offer Alexia a sandwich of what appeared to be some kind of ham on what appeared to be some kind of rol and that turned out to be quite delicious. Alexia had no earthly idea where he had acquired the foodstuff but would not put it past him to have managed to make it during the fight.
Having delivered the expected daily miracle, Floote stood in his usual stance and warily watched the Templars work.
“The locals, they are terrified of them, aren’t they?” Alexia spoke softly, but she was reasonably certain that no one was paying them any mind. “And they must wield a considerable amount of clout for things to go so smoothly. No one has summoned the local constabulary, even though our little battle occurred in a public arena, in front of witnesses.”
“One country under God, madam.”
“It happens.” Alexia wrinkled her nose and looked about for a scrap of fabric for Madame Lefoux to press against the back of her head. Finding nothing of use, she shrugged and ripped one of the ruffles off her orange dress. The inventor took it grateful y.
“One cannot be too careful with a head wound. Are you certain you are quite the thing?” Alexia watched her with concern.
“Everything is fine, I assure you. Except, of course, for my pride. I tripped, you know.
He didn’t overpower me. Real y, I do not know how you ladies do it, run around dressed in long skirts al day every day.”
“General y, not a whole lot of running is involved. Is that why you dress as a man, then, pure practicality?”
Madame Lefoux looked as though she would like to twirl her fake mustache in thought, although, of course, she wasn’t wearing it at the moment. “Partly.”
“You like to shock people—admit it.”
Madame Lefoux gave her an arch look. “As if you do not.”
“Touché. Although we approach the endeavor differently.”
The Templars, having concluded their activities, disappeared back into the foliage of Boboli Gardens with an air of hauteur. Even though violent action had been undertaken on Alexia’s behalf, they had neither addressed her, nor looked in her direction. Alexia was disgusted to find, once the Templars had gone, that the ordinary Italian folk, including the once affable clerk, now regarded her with suspicion and disdain.
“Persona non grata once more.” Alexia sighed. “Beautiful country, as you say, Floote, but the locals. The locals.” She climbed into the cart.
“Exactly so, madam.” With that, Floote took the driver’s seat and, with a steady hand to the reins, guided the pony and trap through Boboli Gardens and out into the city streets. He took the bumpy course slow and gentle in deference to Madame Lefoux’s head.
Floote stopped along the way at a smal public eatery where, despite the presence of even more of the vile coffee and far too much tobacco, Alexia’s opinion of the Italians was greatly improved through the application of the best victuals she had ever eaten in her entire life.
“These little chubby puddings with the green sauce,” she declaimed, “must represent the food of the gods. I declare, the Templars may do what they like; I love this country.”
Madame Lefoux grinned. “So easily swayed?”
“Did you taste that green sauce? How did they refer to it? Pets-something-or-other.
Sheer culinary genius.”
“Pesto, madam.”
“Yes, Floote, that! Bril iant. Ful of garlic.” To il ustrate her point, she took another mouthful before continuing. “Seems they put garlic in positively everything here.
Absolutely fantastic.”
Floote shook his head faintly. “I beg to differ, madam. It is, in fact, the result of practicality. Vampires are al ergic to garlic.”
“No wonder it is so rare back home.”
“Terrible sneezing fits, madam. Much in the manner that young Miss Evylin used to come over when faced with a feline.”
“And werewolves?”
“The basil, madam.”
“No? How intriguing. Same sort of sneezing?”
“I believe it makes the insides of the mouth and nose itch, madam.”
“So this pesto I enjoy so much is real y an infamous Italian antisupernatural weapon?”
Alexia turned accusing dark eyes on Madame Lefoux. “Yet there is no pesto in my parasol armament. I think we ought to rectify that immediately.”
Madame Lefoux did not point out that Alexia could hardly go traipsing around toting a parasol that smel ed strongly of garlic and basil. She did not have to, as Alexia was distracted by the arrival of some variety of orange fruit—of course it was orange—wrapped in a thinly cut piece of pig meat that was almost, but not quite, bacon.
Alexia was transported.
“I don’t suppose this is a weapon?”
“Not unless you have suddenly taken against the Jews, madam.”
It was fortunate that they ate, for no food awaited them upon their return. After a lengthy stop at the alchemist’s, which in Italy also stocked pharmaceuticals and fishing equipment, to purchase what Madame Lefoux referred to as “necessary supplies,” they returned to the temple. There they found that, despite the early hour—it was not yet six