The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  “It will have to wait until this evening,” she said, extracting herself from his embrace. In a swift movement, she rolled off of him to one side, spinning the coverlet around herself. She part rolled, part hopped off the edge of the bed to her feet and shuffled across the floor toward her pelisse. This left her poor husband naked on the bed behind her. He was less disturbed by the cold, for he simply propped himself up on a pillow, folded his hands behind his head, and watched her out of heavy-lidded eyes.

  Which was the scene poor Angelique came in upon—her mistress wrapped in a blanket like a large upended sausage roll, and her master sprawled naked for all the world to see. The maid had been living among werewolves, and in the presence of Lord and Lady Maccon, long enough not to have this bother her overmuch. She squeaked, winced, averted her eyes, and carried the basin of washing water over to the little stand provided.

  Lady Maccon hid a smile. Poor Angelique. To come from the world of hives into the chaos that was pack life must be disconcerting. After all, no one was more civilized than the vampires, and no one less civilized than werewolves. Alexia wondered if vampires ever even made it to bed sport; they were so busy being polite to one another. At least the werewolves lived large: loud and messy, but also large.

  She thanked the maid and took pity on her, sending her off to find tea. Then she quickly dropped the blanket to wash.

  Conall lumbered off the bed and came over to see if he could “help” with her ablutions. His assistance caused some giggling, and a lot of splashing, and a certain degree of wetness that was not necessarily water related. But she did manage to be safely enshrouded in her pelisse and to see him shoved off into his dressing chamber and under the tender ministrations of Tunstell’s waistcoat choices before Angelique reappeared.

  She sipped tea while the maid picked out a perfectly serviceable tweed day dress and underthings. She pulled these on in an apologetic silence, with not even a token complaint, figuring they had already put the poor woman’s finer feelings through the wringer that morning.

  She huffed a little as the corset went on. Angelique was merciless. Soon enough Alexia was seated, docile and dressed, while the Frenchwoman did her hair.

  Angelique asked, “So, ze machine, iz it fixed?”

  Alexia gave her a suspicious look through the mirror. “Yes, we believe so. But I wouldn’t be too excited; Madame Lefoux shows no inclination to depart anytime soon.”

  Angelique made no reply.

  Alexia was positively aquiver with the need to know the history between the two women but resigned herself to the fact that French caginess beat out British stubbornness, in this at least. So she sat in silence while the maid finished her work.

  “Tell him this is good enough,” came her husband’s roar.

  Lady Maccon stood and turned around.

  Conall came striding in, trailed by the long-suffering Tunstell.

  Lady Maccon looked at her husband with a critical eye.

  “Your shirt is untucked, your cravat has no finish, and your collar is bent at one side.” She stood and began fussing with his rumpled clothing.

  “I dinna ken why I bother; you always side with him.” Conall submitted to her ministrations with ill grace.

  “Did you know your accent has gotten stronger since we arrived in Scotland?”

  That got her a dour look. Lady Maccon rolled her eyes at Tunstell over Conall’s shoulder and gestured with her head that he could leave.

  “We didna arrive in Scotland. I arrived; you followed.” He ran a finger under his high collar.

  “Stop that—you’ll dirty the white.”

  “Have I mentioned recently how loathsome I find the current fashions?”

  “Take it up with the vampires; they set the trends.”

  “Hence the high collars,” he grumbled. “I and mine, however, have no need to hide our necks.”

  “No,” quipped his wife, “simply your personalities.” She stepped back, brushing down the shawl collar of his waistcoat. “There. Very handsome.”

  Her large supernatural husband looked shy at that. “You think so?”

  “Stop fishing for compliments and go get your jacket. I am positively starving.”

  He pulled her against him and administered a long, deep, and distracting kiss. “You are always hungry, wife.”

  “Mmm.” She could not take umbrage with a true statement. “So are you. Simply for different things.”

  They were only slightly late for breakfast.

  Most of the rest of the house was not yet up. Lady Kingair was there—Alexia wondered if the woman slept—and two clavigers, but none of the Kingair Pack. Of course, Ivy and Felicity were still abed. They kept London hours, even in the country, and could not be expected to appear until midmorning. Tunstell, Lady Maccon suspected, would find things to occupy himself until the ladies came down.

  The castle put on a decent breakfast, for the middle of nowhere. There were cold cuts of pork, venison, and woodcock; potted shrimp; fried wild mushrooms; sliced pears; boiled eggs and toast; as well as a nice collection of fruit preserves. Lady Maccon helped herself, then settled down to tuck in.

  Lady Kingair, who was eating a bowl of unseasoned porridge and a piece of plain toast, gave Alexia’s loaded plate a telling look. Alexia, who had never let the opinions of others sway her overmuch, especially where food was concerned, merely chewed loudly and with appreciative gusto.

  Her husband shook his head at her antics, but as he himself sported a plate piled nearly twice as high as his wife’s, he could not cast aspersions.

  “If you are back to being human,” Lady Maccon said after a pause, “you will get rotund eating like that.”

  “I shall have to take up some sort of abrasively atrocious athletic sport.”

  “You could go in for the hunt,” suggested Alexia. “Tallyho and view halloo.”

  Werewolves, as a general rule, were not big on riding. Precious few horses were willing to carry a wolf on their back, even if he did look temporarily human. Driving a team was about as close as most werewolves could get. Since they could run faster in wolf form than a horse anyway, this fact did not tend to trouble the packs much. Except, of course, those men who had enjoyed riding before their metamorphosis.

  Lord Maccon was not one of those men. “Foxhunting? I should think not,” he said, gnawing on a bit of pork. “Foxes are practically cousins; wouldna sit well with the family, if you take my meaning.”

  “Oh, but how dashing you would look in shiny boots and one of those flashy red jackets.”

  “I was contemplating boxing or possibly lawn tennis.”

  Lady Maccon stifled a giggle by stuffing her face with a forkful of mushroom. The very idea of her husband prancing around all in white with a little netted baton in his hand. She swallowed. “Those sound like lovely ideas, dear,” she said, deadpan, eyes bright and dancing. “Have you considered golf? Highly suited to your heritage and sense of style.”

  Conall glared at her, but there was a bit of a smile playing about his lips. “Now, now, wife, there’s no cause for blatant insult.”

  Alexia was not certain whether she was insulting him by suggesting golf or insulting golf by suggesting he was its ideal participant.

  Lady Kingair watched this byplay with both fascination and repugnance. “Goodness, I had heard it said that yours was a love match, but I couldna countenance it.”

  Lady Maccon huffed. “Why else would any woman marry him?”

  “Or her,” agreed Lord Maccon.

  Something caught Alexia’s attention out of the corner of one eye. Something small and moving near the door to the room. Taken with curiosity, she stood, arresting the table conversation, and went to investigate.

  Upon closer examination, she squealed in a most un-Alexia-like manner and jumped away in horror. Lord Maccon leaped to her rescue.

  Lady Maccon looked at her great-great-whatever-daughter-in-law. “Cockroaches!” she accused, horrified out of any politeness that dictated she
not mention the filthiness of the abode. “Why does your castle have cockroaches?”

  Lord Maccon, with great presence of mind, removed his shoe and went to crush the offending insect. He paused, examined it for a split second, and then squished it flat.

  Lady Kingair turned to one of the clavigers. “How did that get in here?”

  “Canna keep them confined, my lady. They seem to be breeding, they do.”

  “Then summon an exterminator.”

  The young man glanced furtively in Lord and Lady Maccon’s direction. “Would he ken how to deal with”—a pause—“this particular type?”

  “Only one way to find out. Hie yourself into town immediately.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Alexia returned to the dining table, but her appetite had deserted her. She made to rise shortly thereafter.

  Lord Maccon inhaled a few last bites and then took off after his wife, catching up to her in the hallway.

  “That was not a cockroach, was it?” she asked.

  “Aye. It wasna.”

  “Well?”

  He shrugged, his big hands spread wide in confusion. “Strangely colored, all shiny.”

  “Oh, thank you for that.”

  “Why bother? ’Tis dead now.”

  “Point taken, husband. So, what are we planning for today?”

  He nibbled a fingertip thoughtfully. “You know, I thought we might discern exactly why the supernatural isna working properly here.”

  “Oh, darling, what a unique and original idea.”

  He paused. The subject of Kingair’s little affliction of humanity seemed not to actually be foremost in his mind. “Red jacket and shiny boots, you say?”

  Lady Maccon looked at her husband, confused for a moment. Where was he going with this line of reasoning? “Boots are causing the illness?”

  “No,” he grumbled, shamefaced, “on me.”

  “Ah!” She grinned hugely. “I believe I might have mentioned something to that effect.”

  “Anything else?”

  The grin widened. “Actually, I was envisioning boots, jacket, and nothing else at all. Mmm, perhaps just boots.”

  He swallowed, nervous.

  She turned to him, upping the odds. “If you were to make this fashion event happen, I might be open to a little negotiating about which of us will be doing the riding.”

  Lord Maccon, werewolf of some two hundred years, blushed beet red at that. “I am eternally grateful you have not taken up gambling, my dear.”

  She wormed herself into his arms and raised her lips to be kissed. “Give me time.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Chief Sundowner

  That afternoon, Lord and Lady Maccon decided to take a walk. The rain had let up slightly, and it looked to be turning into a passable day, if not precisely pleasant. Lady Maccon decided she was in the country and could relax her standards slightly, so did not change into a walking dress, instead simply slipping on practical shoes.

  Unfortunately for Lord and Lady Maccon, Miss Loontwill and Miss Hisselpenny decided to join them. This occasioned a wait while both ladies changed, but since Tunstell had made himself scarce, there was less competition than there might otherwise have been in this endeavor. Alexia was beginning to think they wouldn’t get out of the house before teatime when both girls appeared sporting parasols and bonnets. This reminded Alexia to get her own parasol, causing yet another delay. Really, mobilizing an entire fleet for a great naval battle would probably have been easier.

  Finally they set forth, but no sooner had they attained the small copse on the southern end of the grounds than they came across the Kingair Gamma, Lachlan, and Beta, Dubh, having some sort of heated argument in low, angry voices.

  “Destroy it all,” the Gamma was saying. “We canna continue ta live like this.”

  “Not until we ken to which and why.”

  The two men spotted the approaching party and fell silent.

  Politeness dictated they join the larger group, and, with Felicity and Ivy’s assistance, Alexia actually managed to get some semblance of polite conversation going. Both men were reluctant to say much at the best of times, and, clearly, the pack was under a gag order. However, such orders did not take into account the success with which sharp determination and frivolity could loosen the tongue.

  “I know you gentlemen were on the front lines in India. How brave you must be, to fight primitives like that.” Miss Hisselpenny widened her eyes and looked at the two men, hoping for tales of heroic bravery.

  “Not much fighting left to do out there anymore. Simply some minor pacification of the locals,” objected Lord Maccon.

  Dubh gave him a dirty look. “And how would you know?”

  “Oh, but what’s it really like?” asked Ivy. “We get the stories in the papers now and again, but no real feel for the place.”

  “Hotter than hell’s—”

  Miss Hisselpenny gasped in anticipation of lewd talk.

  Dubh civilized himself. “Well, hot.”

  “And the food doesna taste verra good,” added Lachlan.

  “Really?” That interested Alexia. Food always interested Alexia. “How perfectly ghastly.”

  “Even Egypt was better.”

  “Oh.” Miss Hisselpenny’s eyes went wide. “You were in Egypt too?”

  “Of course they were in Egypt,” Felicity said snidely. “Everyone knows it is one of the main ports for the empire these days. I have a passionate interest in the military, you know? I heard that most regiments have to stop over there.”

  “Oh, do they?” Ivy blinked, trying to comprehend the geographic reason behind this.

  “And how did you find Egypt?” asked Alexia politely.

  “Also hot,” snapped Dubh.

  “Seems to me most places would be, compared to Scotland,” Lady Maccon snapped back.

  “You chose to visit us,” he reminded her.

  “And you chose to go to Egypt.” Alexia was not one to back down from a verbal battle.

  “Not entirely. Pack service to Queen Victoria is mandatory.” The conversation was getting tense.

  “But it does not have to take the form of military service.”

  “We are not loners to slink about the homeland with tails twixt our legs.” Dubh actually looked to Lord Maccon for assistance in dealing with his irascible wife. The earl merely winked at him.

  Help came from an unlooked-for source. “I hear Egypt has some very nice, old”—Ivy was trying to keep matters civil—“stuff.”

  “Antiquities,” added Felicity, proud of herself for knowing the word.

  In a desperate attempt to keep Lady Maccon and the Beta from killing one another, Lachlan said, “We picked up quite a collection while we were there.”

  Dubh growled at his pack mate.

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Lord Maccon wondered softly in his BUR voice. No one paid him any attention, except for his wife, who pinched him.

  She said, “Oh, really? What kind of artifacts?”

  “A few bits of jewelry and some statuary to add to the pack vault and, of course, a couple of mummies.”

  Ivy gasped. “Real live mummies?”

  Felicity snorted. “I should hope they are not alive.” But even she seemed excited by the idea of mummies in residence. Alexia supposed that, in her sister’s world, such things were considered glamorous.

  Lady Maccon said, pressing her advantage, “We should have a mummy-unwrapping party. They are all the rage in London.”

  “Well, we shouldna want to be thought backward,” said Lady Kingair’s abrasive voice. She had come upon them all unnoticed, looking gray and severe. Lord Maccon, Lachlan, and Dubh all started upon hearing her speak. They were accustomed to having their supernatural sense of smell tell them when anyone approached, no matter how stealthily.

  Sidheag turned to the Gamma. “Lachlan, get the clavigers to arrange it.”

  “Are you certain, my lady?” he questioned.

  “We could do
with a bit of fun. We wouldna want to disappoint the visiting ladies, now, would we? We are in possession of the mummies. Might as well unwrap them. We were after the amulets anyway.”

  “Oh, how thrilling,” said Miss Hisselpenny, practically bouncing in her excitement.

  “Which mummy, my lady?” asked Lachlan.

  “The smaller one, with the more nondescript coverings.”

  “As you say.” The Gamma hurried off to arrange for the event.

  “Oh, I shall find this so very diverting,” crowed Felicity. “You know Elsie Flinders-Pooke was lording it over me just last week that she had been to an unwrapping. Imagine what she will say when I tell her I experienced one in a haunted castle in the Scottish Highlands.”

  “How do you know Kingair is haunted?”

  “I know because, obviously, it must be haunted. You could not possibly convince me otherwise. No ghosts have appeared since we arrived, but that is no proof to the contrary,” Felicity defended her future tall tale.

  “Delighted we could provide you with some significant social coup,” sneered Lady Kingair.

  “Your pleasure, I’m sure,” replied Felicity.

  “My sister is a woman of mean understanding,” explained Lady Maccon apologetically.

  “And what are you?” asked Sidheag.

  “Oh, I am simply mean.”

  “And here I was, thinking you were the sister with the understanding.”

  “Not just yet. Give me time.”

  They turned around and headed back toward the castle. Lord Maccon moved to draw his wife back slightly so they could converse privately.

  “You believe one of the artifacts to be a humanization weapon?”

  She nodded.

  “But how would we know which one?”

  “You may have to come allover BUR on the Kingair Pack and simply confiscate all their collected antiquities as illegal imports.”

  “And then what? See them all incinerated?”

  Lady Maccon frowned. She fancied herself a bit of a scholar and was not generally in favor of wanton destruction. “I had not thought to take things quite so far.”