Ivy grinned. She had developed, since her first trip with Alexia to Scotland, a most unladylike fondness for dirigible travel. Her current position in life did not allow her to indulge, but now?.?.?.
Lady Maccon grinned back. “All I know is that the previous Beta spearheaded the plot and was killed. My husband left the pack as a result. Any further information could be invaluable to my current investigation. Do you think you are up to this task, even in your present condition?”
Ivy blushed at the very mention. “I am barely along, and you certainly cannot go.”
Alexia patted her belly. “My difficulty exactly.”
“Can I take Tunny with me?”
“I should hope you would. And you may tell him of your mission, although not your new position.”
Ivy nodded. More pleased, Alexia suspected, by the need to keep one secret from her husband than by permission to reveal another.
“Now, Ivy, please pay particular attention to any information on the poison that was going to be used. I believe that may be key. I shall give you a crystalline valve frequensor for aetheric transmission to my personal transponder at Woolsey. At sunset you are to report in, even if you have uncovered nothing of interest. I should like to know you are safe.”
“Oh, but, Alexia, you know how clumsy I am with gadgetry.”
“You will do fine, Ivy. How soon can you leave? Naturally your expenses will be covered.”
Ivy blushed at the mention of such unseemly matters as fiscal settlements.
Alexia brushed her friend’s embarrassment aside. “I know one doesn’t ordinarily talk of such matters, but you are operating under the umbrella of the Parasol Protectorate now, and you must be free to act in accordance with the needs of the organization, regardless of expense. Is that clear, Ivy?”
Mrs. Tunstell nodded, cheeks still hot. “Yes, of course, Alexia, but—”
“It is a good thing I am to be patroness of your acting troupe, as it is the perfect way to hide pecuniary advancements.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, Alexia. But I wish you didn’t insist on mentioning such things while we are eating—”
“We shall say nothing more on the subject. Can you leave directly?”
“Tunny has no performances on at the moment.”
“Then I shall send Floote tomorrow with the necessary papers.” Lady Maccon finished the last of her tea and stood. She was suddenly tired. It was as though she had been out and about most of the night, sorting out the problems of the entire empire. Which, in her way, she had.
Mrs. Tunstell stood as well. “To Scotland I go, investigating assignation attempts of the past!”
“Assassination,” corrected Lady Maccon.
“Yes, that. I must find my extra special hairmuffs for dirigible travel. I had them made to match my own curls. They are rather stunning, if I do say so myself.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
Lady Maccon returned to her new house and then made her way across to Lord Akeldama’s. Floote’s builders produced exemplary work. They had constructed a small secret drawbridge between the two balconies that operated by way of a hydraulic lever. It flipped downward. At the same time an elaborate spring mechanism caused the railing on each balcony to fold away. This allowed Alexia to easily traverse from one building to the next despite encumbrances.
She retired to her closet with alacrity. She had been keeping remarkably odd hours recently, what with having to consult daylight folk yet living with the supernatural set. It was of little consequence, as the infant-inconvenience was making it increasingly arduous to sleep for any length of time without some part of her body going numb or some unmentionable function driving her out of bed. Really, pregnancy was the most undignified thing she had ever had to endure in all her life, and for several years Alexia Tarabotti had been a confirmed spinster living with the Loontwills—a most undignified state—so that was saying something.
She slept restlessly, shifting aside when her husband joined her only to be awakened fully just after sunset by someone banging on the closet door.
“Conall, there is someone at the door to our bedroom!” She shook her massive husband where he lay in a boneless pile next to her.
He snuffled softly and rolled over, trying to gather her in closer. He had to settle for patting her belly absently and burrowing into her neck.
Alexia arched against him as much as she was able, enjoying the affection and the movement of his lips against her skin. For such a scruffy man, he had very soft lips.
“Darling, light of my life, lord of my heart, there is someone at the door to our closet, seeking entrance. And I don’t believe Lord Akeldama and his boys are awake yet.”
The earl merely burrowed in against her with greater interest, apparently finding the flavor of her neck most intriguing.
The door shook and rattled as whoever it was seemed to be trying to physically force it open. But for all Lord Akeldama’s frolicsome decorative choices, his town house was built with the supernatural in mind, the protection of his clothing being paramount. The door barely budged. Someone on the other side yelled, but a door so massive that it could withstand shoe thieves could also muffle even the loudest commentary on the subject.
Lady Maccon was becoming concerned. “Conall, get up and answer the door, do! Really, it sounds most pressing.”
“I, too, have matters that are pressing and must needs be taken into hand.”
Alexia giggled at the terribleness of both pun and innuendo. She was pleased her husband still thought her attractive, despite her beached-whale state, but was finding it increasingly awkward to accommodate him. The spirit was willing but the flesh was swollen. Still, she enjoyed the compliment and understood that there was no real demand behind the caresses. The earl knew her well enough to realize she valued his desire almost as much as his love. After a lifetime of feeling ugly and unworthy, Alexia was now tolerably assured that Conall genuinely did want her, even if they could do nothing about it at present. She also understood that he was expressing his conjugal interest partly out of knowledge of her own need for such assurances. A werewolf and a buffoon, her husband, but wonderfully caring once he’d blundered into the way of it.
And yet, someone was still torturing their poor door. Conall blinked awake, his tawny eyes wide and direct. He kissed the tip of his wife’s long nose and, with a massive sigh, rolled out of bed and lumbered over to the door.
Alexia, sleepy lidded, admired his backside, then shrieked, “Conall, robe! For goodness’ sake.”
Her husband ignored her, throwing open the door and crossing his arms over a wide, hairy chest. He was wearing not one stitch of clothing. Alexia sank down under the covers in mortification.
She need not have worried; it was only Professor Lyall.
“Randolph,” grumbled her husband, “what’s all the ruckus about?”
“It’s Biffy, my lord. Best come quickly. You’re needed.”
“Already?” Lord Maccon swore a blue streak, his blistering language the result of military service combined with a creative imagination. After a glance about the room, he seemed to decide that changing his form would be faster than getting dressed. He began to shift, the musculature underneath his skin rearranging, the hair on his head migrating downward and turning into fur. Quick enough, he dropped to all fours. Then he dashed out and down the hall, presumably to leap the gap between houses and see to whatever had gone wrong. Alexia caught sight of the brindled tip of his fluffy tail as he skidded out of sight without even a nod in her direction.
“What is it, Professor?” she demanded imperiously before her husband’s Beta could follow in his Alpha’s wake. It was rather unlike Professor Lyall to disturb them with such forcefulness. It was equally rare for there to be any issue so in need of the earl’s attention that his second could not delay the matter or handle the preliminaries himself.
Professor Lyall turned back to the dim interior with a reluctant droop to his posture. “It’s Biffy, my lady. He really is not handling the curse well this month. He fights it too much, and the more he fights it, the more painful it is.”
“But it’s over a week until full moon! How long will he suffer such bouts of early physiological disjunction?” Poor Biffy. It is so embarrassing—premature transfluctuation.
“Difficult to say. Could be years, could be decades of losing nights around full moon until he has better control. All new pups are like this, although they are not often taken so suddenly or so badly as Biffy. Usually it is only a few days before the moon. Biffy’s cycle is off.”
Alexia winced. “And you could not?.?.?.??”
Backlit by the expensively bright gas lighting of Lord Akeldama’s hallway, it was impossible to make out the werewolf’s expression. Even if she could, knowing Professor Lyall, his face would not reveal much.
“In the end, I am only a Beta, Lady Maccon. When a werewolf is in wolf form, moonstruck and rampaging, there is nothing that can calm or control him except an Alpha. You must have realized by now that there is much more to Alpha than being simply big and strong. There is power of restraint and wolf-form intelligence as well.”
“But, Professor Lyall, you are very restrained all the time.”
“Thank you, Lady Maccon. There can be no higher compliment to a werewolf, but mine is a matter of self-control only. That does others little good.”
“Except that you lead by example.”
“Except that. And now I should leave you to get dressed. I believe we may expect your results from BUR shortly.”
“My results?”
“Those little OBO bottles of mysterious liquid.”
“Ah, yes, fantastic! Will you please arrange for Floote and I to have the carriage after supper? I must visit Woolsey’s library as soon as possible.”
The Beta nodded. “I have a feeling it will already be commissioned. We’ll have to take Biffy to the countryside for his confinement. His most recent inabilities have resulted in some rather disastrous redecoration of your back parlor.”
“Oh, no, really? And after the drones did such a lovely job with it.”
“We had to lock him somewhere, and that room has no windows.”
“I understand. But claw marks are murder on wallpaper.”
“Too true, Lady Maccon.”
Professor Lyall drifted away and, because he was Professor Lyall, managed to corral one of Lord Akeldama’s drones, just awakened, to help Lady Maccon dress.
Boots stuck his head in before catching sight of Lady Maccon still abed. The head instantly retreated and a back was presented in the doorway.
“Oh, dear me, most sorry, Lady M. Can’t be me. Couldn’t handle it a second time. Not that noble. I’ll go rustle up someone a little more suitable to assist you. Shall I? Be back in a jiff.”
Mystified, Alexia began the laborious process of squirming herself around and lurching by stages out of bed. She was just standing when Lord Akeldama came traipsing merrily into the room. “Top of the evening to you, my blooming marigold! My lovelorn little Boots said you could use a bit of twisting up, and I thought since I was awake I might avail myself of your delicious company and provide much-needed assistance simultaneously.”