Evylin said, “But wait. What happened? Alexia, you must tell all! Why did you encounter Lord Maccon at the ball when we did not? He was not on the guest list. I would have known. I peeked over the footman's shoulder.”
“Evy, you didn't,” gasped Felicity, genuinely shocked.
Alexia ignored them and left the breakfast room to hunt down her favorite shawl. Mrs. Loontwill might have tried to stop her, but she knew such an attempt would be useless. Getting information out of Alexia when she did not want to share was akin to trying to squeeze blood from a ghost. Instead, Mrs. Loontwill reached for her husband's hand and squeezed it consolingly. “Do not worry, Herbert. I think Lord Maccon rather likes Alexia's rudeness. He's never publicly cut her for it, at least. We can be grateful for small mercies.”
Squire Loontwill nodded. “I suppose a werewolf of his advanced age might find it refreshing?” he suggested hopefully.
His wife applauded such an optimistic attitude with an affectionate pat on the shoulder. She knew how very trying her second husband found her eldest daughter. Really, what had she been thinking, marrying an Italian? Well, she had been young and Alessandro Tarabotti so very handsome. But there was something else about Alexia, something... revoltingly independent, that Mrs. Loontwill could not blame entirely on her first husband. And, of course, she refused to take the blame herself. Whatever it was, Alexia had been born that way, full of logic and reason and sharp words. Not for the first time, Mrs. Loontwill lamented the fact that her eldest had not been a male child; it would have made life very much easier for them all.
***
Under ordinary circumstances, walks in Hyde Park were the kind of thing a single young lady of good breeding was not supposed to do without her mama and possibly an elderly female relation or two in attendance. Miss Tarabotti felt such rules did not entirely apply to her, as she was a spinster. Had been a spinster for as long as she could remember. In her more acerbic moments, she felt she had been born a spinster. Mrs. Loontwill had not even bothered with the expenditure of a come-out or a proper season for her eldest daughter. “Really, darling,” Alexia's mother had said at the time in tones of the deepest condescension, “with that nose and that skin, there is simply no point in us going to the expense. I have got your sisters to think of.” So Alexia, whose nose really wasn't that big and whose skin really wasn't that tan, had gone on the shelf at fifteen. Not that she had ever actually coveted the burden of a husband, but it would have been nice to know she could get one if she ever changed her mind. Alexia did enjoy dancing, so
she would have liked to attend at least one ball as an available young lady rather than always ending up skulking in libraries. These days she attended balls as nothing more than her sisters' chaperone, and the libraries abounded. But spinsterhood did mean she could go for a walk in Hyde Park without her mama, and only the worst sticklers would object. Luckily, such sticklers, like the contributors to the Morning Post, did not know Miss Alexia Tarabotti's name.
However, with Lord Maccon's harsh remonstrations still ringing in her ears, Alexia did not feel she could go for a walk completely unchaperoned, even though it was midmorning and the antisupernatural sun shone quite brilliantly. So she took her trusty brass parasol, for the sake of the sun, and Miss Ivy Hisselpenny, for the sake of Lord Maccon's easily offended sensibilities.
Miss Ivy Hisselpenny was a dear friend of Miss Alexia Tarabotti's. They had known each other long enough to trespass on all the well-fortified territory of familiarity.
So when Alexia sent round to see if Ivy wanted a walk, Ivy was very well aware of the fact that a walk was only the surface gloss to the proceedings.
Ivy Hisselpenny was the unfortunate victim of circumstances that dictated she be only-just-pretty, only-just-wealthy, and possessed of a terrible propensity for wearing extremely silly hats. This last being the facet of Ivy's character that Alexia found most difficult to bear. In general, however, she found Ivy a restful, congenial, and, most importantly, a willing partner in any excursion.
In Alexia, Ivy had found a lady of understanding and intelligence, sometimes overly blunt for her own delicate sensibilities, but loyal and kind under even the most trying of circumstances.
Ivy had learned to find Alexia's bluntness entertaining, and Alexia had learned one did not always have to look at one's friend's hats. Thus, each having discovered a means to overlook the most tiresome aspects of the other's personality early on in their relationship, the two girls developed a fixed friendship to the mutual benefit of both. Their Hyde Park conversation reflected their typical mode of communication.
“Ivy, my dear,” said Miss Tarabotti as her friend bustled up, “how marvelous of you to find time to walk at such short notice! What a hideous bonnet. I do hope you did not pay too much for it.”
“Alexia! How perfectly horrid of you to criticize my hat. Why should I not be able to walk this morning? You know I never have anything better to do on Thursdays. Thursdays are so tiresome, don't you find?” replied Miss Hisselpenny.
Miss Tarabotti said, “Really, I wish you would take me with you when you go shopping, Ivy. Much horror might be avoided. Why should Thursday be any different than any other weekday?”
And so on.
The day was quite a fine one, and the two ladies walked arm in arm, their full skirts swishing and the smaller, more manageable bustle, just come into fashion last season, making it comparatively easy to move around. Rumor had it that in France, certain ladies had dispensed with the bustle altogether, but that scandalous mod had yet to reach London. Ivy's and Alexia's parasols were raised against the sun, though, as Alexia was fond of saying, such an effort was wasted on her complexion. Why, oh why, did vampire-style paleness have to rule so thoroughly the fashionable world? They strolled along, presenting a fetching picture: Ivy in cream muslin with rose flowers, and Alexia in her favorite blue walking gown with velvet edging. Both outfits were trimmed with those many rows of lace, deep pleated flounces, and tucks to which only the most stylish aspired. If Miss Hisselpenny sported a slight overabundance of the above, it must be understood it was the result of too much effort rather than too little.
Partly due to the pleasant weather and partly due to the latest craze for elaborate walking dresses, Hyde Park was decidedly crowded. Many a gentleman tipped his hat in their general direction, annoying Alexia with constant interruptions and flattering Ivy with such marked attentions.
“Really,” grumbled Miss Tarabotti, “what has possessed everyone this morning? One would think we were actually tempting marriage prospects.”
“Alexia! You may see yourself as off the market,” remonstrated her friend, smiling shyly at a respectable-looking gentleman on a handsome bay gelding, “but I refuse to accept such an injurious fate.”
Miss Tarabotti sniffed.
“Speaking of which, how was the duchess's ball last night?” Ivy was always one for gossip. Her family being too nearly middle class to be invited to any but the largest of balls, she had to rely on Alexia for such detail as went unreported by the Morning Post. Sadly for Ivy, her dear friend was not the most reliable or loquacious source. “Was it perfectly dreadful? Who was there? What were they wearing?”
Alexia rolled her eyes. “Ivy, please, one question at a time.”
“Well, was it a pleasant event?”
“Not a bit of it. Would you believe there were no comestibles on offer? Nothing but punch! I had to go to the library and order tea.” Alexia spun her parasol in agitation. Ivy was shocked. “You did not!”
Miss Tarabotti raised her black eyebrows. “I most certainly did. You wouldn't believe the fracas that resulted. As if that was not bad enough, then Lord Maccon insisted on showing up.”
Miss Hisselpenny paused in her tracks to look closely into her friend's face. Alexia's expression showed nothing but annoyance, but there was something about the precise way she always spoke about the Earl of Woolsey that roused Ivy's suspicions.
Still she played the sympathy card. “Oh dear, was he utterly horrid?” Privately, Ivy felt Lord Maccon entirely respectable for a werewolf, but he was a little too, well, much for her particular taste. He was so very large and so very gruff that he rather terrified her, but he always behaved correctly in public, and there was a lot to be said for a man who sported such well-tailored jackets—even if he did change into a ferocious beast once a month.
Alexia actually snorted. “Pah. No more than normal. I think it must have something to do with being Alpha. He is simply too accustomed to having his orders followed all the time. It puts me completely out of humor.” She paused. “A vampire attacked me last night.”
Ivy pretended a faint.
Alexia kept her friend forcibly upright by stiffening her linked arm. “Stop being so squiffy,” she said. “There is no one important around to catch you.”
Ivy recovered herself and said vehemently, “Good heavens, Alexia. How do you get yourself into these situations?”
Alexia shrugged and commenced walking more briskly so that Ivy had to trot a few steps to keep up. “What did you do?” She was not to be dissuaded. “Hit him with my parasol, of course.”
“You did not!”
“Right upside the head. I would do the same to anyone who attacked me, supernatural or not. He simply came right at me, no introduction, no nothing!” Miss Tarabotti was feeling a tad defensive on the subject.
“But, Alexia, really, it simply is not the done thing to hit a vampire, with a parasol or otherwise!”
Miss Tarabotti sighed but secretly agreed with her friend. There weren't very many vampires skulking around London society, never had been, but the few hives that were in residence included politicians, landholders, and some very important noblemen among their membership. To indiscriminately whack about with one's parasol among such luminaries was social suicide.
Miss Hisselpenny continued. “It's simply too outrageous. What's next? Charging indiscriminately about the House of Lords, throwing jam at the local supernatural set during nighttime session?”
Alexia giggled at the leaps made by Ivy's imagination. “Oh no, now I am giving you ideas.” Ivy pressed her forehead dramatically with one gloved hand. “What exactly happened?”
Alexia told her.
“You killed him?” This time Miss Hisselpenny looked like she might really faint.
“It was by accident!” insisted Miss Tarabotti, taking her friend's arm in a firmer grip.
“That was you in the Morning Post? The lady who found the dead man at the Duchess of Snodgrove's ball last night?” Ivy was all agog.
Alexia nodded.
“Well, Lord Maccon certainly covered things up adequately. There was no mention of your name or family.” Ivy was relieved for her friend's sake.
“Or the fact that the dead man was a vampire, thank goodness. Can you imagine what my dear mother would say?” Alexia glanced heavenward.
“Or the detrimental effect on your marriage prospects, to be found unchaperoned in a library with a dead vampire!”
Alexia's expression told Ivy exactly what she felt about that comment.
Miss Hisselpenny moved on. “You do realize you owe Lord Maccon a tremendous debt of gratitude?”