Soulless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the First

by Gail Carriger

  She levered.

  Alexia Maccon was known as a Lady of Regal Bearing, and not much more. Society generally considered her looks too swarthy to give much credence despite her rank. Alexia herself had always believed good posture her last best hope and was proud to have acquired the “Regal Bearing” epithet. This morning, however, blankets and pillows thwarted her; she could but flounder gracelessly up to her elbows, backbone limp as a noodle.

  All that her Herculean effort revealed was a hint of wispy silver and a vaguely human form: Formerly Merriway.

  “Mummer murmur,” said Formerly Merriway, straining for full apparition in the not-quite darkness. She was a very polite ghost, relatively young and well preserved, and still entirely sane.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Lord Maccon seemed to be getting only more and more irritated. Lady Maccon knew that particular tone of voice well—it was usually directed at her. “But there is nothing on this Earth that can do that.”

  Formerly Merriway said something else.

  “Well, have they consulted all the daylight agents?”

  Alexia strained to hear. Already gifted with a low sweet voice, it was difficult to make out when the ghost intentionally softened it. Formerly Merriway might have said, “Yes, and they have no idea either.”

  The ghost seemed frightened. Which caused Alexia more concern than Lord Maccon’s irritation (which was sadly frequent). Little could frighten the already dead, with the possible exception of a preternatural. Even Alexia, soulless, was only dangerous under very specific circumstances.

  “What, no idea at all? Right.” The earl tossed his blankets aside and climbed out of bed.

  Formerly Merriway gasped and shimmered about, presenting her transparent back to the completely naked man.

  Alexia appreciated the courtesy, even if Lord Maccon did not. Polite to the core was poor little Merriway. Or what was left of her core. Lady Maccon, on the other hand, was not so reticent. Her husband had a decidedly fine backside, if she did say so herself. And she had said so, to her scandalized friend Miss Ivy Hisselpenny, on more than one occasion. It may be far too early to be awake, but it was never too early to admire something of that caliber. The artistically pleasing body part drifted out of view as her husband strode toward his dressing chamber.

  “Where is Lyall?” he barked.

  Lady Maccon tried to go back to sleep.

  “What! Lyall’s gone too? Is everyone going to disappear on me? No, I did not send him…” A pause. “Oh yes, you are perfectly correct. I did. The pack was”—blub blub blub—“coming in at”—blub, blub—“station”—splash— “shouldn’t he have returned by now?”

  Her husband was obviously washing, as periodically his hollering was interrupted by soggy noises. Alexia strained to hear Tunstell’s voice. Without his valet, her louder half was bound to look quite disastrously disheveled. It was never a good idea to let the earl dress unsupervised.

  “Right, well, send a claviger for him posthaste.”

  At which point, Formerly Merriway’s spectral form vanished from view.

  Conall reappeared in Alexia’s line of sight and gathered up his gold pocket watch from the bedside table. “Of course, they will take it as an insult, but nothing to be done about it.”

  Ha, she had been right. He was, in fact, not dressed at all but wearing only a cloak.

  The earl seemed to remember his wife for the first time.

  Alexia counterfeited sleep.

  Conall shook Alexia gently, admiring both the tousled mound of inky hair and the artfully feigned disinterest. When his shaking became insistent, she blinked long lashes at him.

  “Ah, good evening, my dear.”

  Alexia glared at her husband out of slightly red-rimmed brown eyes. This early evening tomfoolery wouldn’t be so horrible if he had not kept her up half the day. Not that those particular exertions had been unpleasant, simply exuberant and lengthy.

  “What are you about, husband?” she inquired, her voice laced buttery smooth with suspicion.

  “All apologies, my dear.”

  Lady Maccon absolutely hated it when her husband called her his “dear.” It meant he was up to something but was not going to tell her about it.

  “I must run off to the office early tonight. Some important BUR business has cropped up.” From the cloak and the fact that his canines were showing, Alexia surmised that he literally meant run, in wolf form. Whatever was going on must need urgent attention, indeed. Lord Maccon usually preferred to arrive at the office in carriage, comfort, and style, not fur.

  “Has it?” muttered Alexia.

  The earl began to tuck the blankets about his wife. His large hands were unexpectedly gentle. Touching his preternatural spouse, his canines disappeared. In that brief moment, he was mortal.

  “Are you meeting with the Shadow Council tonight?” he asked.

  Alexia considered. Was it Thursday? “Yes.”

  “You are in for an interesting conference,” advised the earl, goading her.

  Alexia sat up, undoing all of his nice tucking. “What? Why?” The blankets fell, revealing that Lady Maccon’s endowments were considerable and not fabricated through fashionable artifice such as stuffed corset or too tight stays. Despite nightly familiarity with this fact, Lord Maccon was prone to dragging her onto secluded balconies at balls in order to check and “make certain” this remained the case.

  “I am sorry for waking you so early, my dear.” There was that dreaded phrase again. “I promise I shall make it up to you in the morning.” He waggled his eyebrows at her lasciviously and leaned down for a long and very thorough kiss.

  Lady Maccon sputtered and pushed at his large chest ineffectually.

  “Conall, what is going on?”

  But her irritating werewolf of a husband was already away and out of the room.