The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  “But it is a possibility?”

  She nodded. “A probability at this juncture, if I know anything about Alexia.”

  “Another reason to send Quesnel away to boarding school.”

  “Just so.”

  “You understand much of Lady Maccon’s character, for such a comparatively short acquaintance.”

  “You were not with us in Scotland, Professor; it encouraged intimacy. In addition, I have made her a bit of a pet research venture.”

  “Oh, have you, indeed?”

  “Before Alexia arrives, I take it you all read the morning papers?” Madame Lefoux switched the subject, levered herself upright from the wall, and took up a peculiarly masculine stance: legs spread, like a boxer at White’s awaiting the first blow.

  The men around her all nodded their affirmation.

  “I am afraid they do not lie, for once. Alexia shows every sign of increasing, and we must presume that a physician has corroborated my initial diagnosis. Otherwise, Alexia would likely be back at Woolsey Castle, chewing Lord Maccon’s head off.”

  “I never noticed any of the aforementioned signs,” protested Tunstell, who had also traveled to the north with Madame Lefoux and Lady Maccon.

  “Do you think said signs are generally something you’re likely to observe?”

  Tunstell blushed red at that. “No. You are perfectly correct, of course; most assuredly not.”

  “So are we agreed that the child is Lord Maccon’s?” Madame Lefoux clearly wanted to find out where everyone stood on the matter.

  No one said anything. The inventor looked from one man to the next. First Floote, then Tunstell, and then Lyall nodded their assent.

  “I assumed as much, or none of you would have acquiesced to her request for this clandestine meeting, however desperate her circumstances. Still, it is curious that none of you challenges Alexia’s veracity.” The Frenchwoman gave Professor Lyall a sharp look. “I am aware of my own reasons, but you, Professor Lyall, are Lord Maccon’s Beta. Yet you believe it is possible for a werewolf to father a child?”

  Professor Lyall had known this moment would come. “It is not that I know the answer as to how. It is simply that I know someone else who believes that this is possible. Several someones, in fact. And they are usually correct in these matters.”

  “They? They who?”

  “The vampires.” Never comfortable being the center of attention, he nevertheless attempted to explain himself further as all eyes turned to him. “Before she left for Scotland, two vampires tried to kidnap Lady Maccon. While she was on board the dirigible, her journal was stolen and someone tried to poison her. Most of the other incidents up north after that can be placed in Angelique’s hands.” Professor Lyall nodded to Madame Lefoux. “But those three episodes could not have been the maid. I believe the Westminster Hive was responsible for the attempted kidnapping and the theft of the journal, probably under Lord Ambrose’s orders. It seems like Ambrose; he always was ham-handed with his espionage. The kidnappers, whom I intercepted, said they were under orders not to harm Lady Maccon, but simply intended to test her—probably for signs of pregnancy. I believe they stole the journal for the same reason—they wanted to see if she was recording anything about her condition. Of course, she herself had not yet realized, so they wouldn’t have learned anything. The poisoning, on the other hand…”

  Lyall looked at Tunstell, who’d been the inadvertent victim of that bungled attempt at murder. Then he continued. “Westminster would wait for confirmation before taking any action so final, especially against the wife of an Alpha werewolf. But those who are outside hive bonds are not so reticent.”

  “There are very few rove vampires with the kind of social irreverence and political clout needed to risk killing an Alpha werewolf’s wife.” Madame Lefoux spoke softly, frowning worriedly.

  “One of them is Lord Akeldama,” said Lyall.

  “He wouldn’t! Would he?” Tunstell was looking less like an actor and more like the semiresponsible claviger he’d once been.

  Professor Lyall tipped his head noncommittally. “Do you remember? Formal complaints were filed with the Crown when Miss Alexia Tarabotti’s engagement to Lord Maccon was first printed in the papers. We brushed them off at the time as a matter of vampire etiquette, but I am beginning to think some vampire suspected something like this might occur.”

  “And with the morning gossip rags printing what they did…” Tunstell looked even more worried.

  “Precisely,” said Professor Lyall. “The vampires have had all their worst fears confirmed—Lady Maccon is pregnant. And while the rest of the world sees this as proof of an infidelity, the bloodsuckers would appear to believe her.”

  Madame Lefoux’s forehead creased with worry. “So the hives, originally inclined toward nonviolence, have had their fears confirmed, and Alexia has lost the protection of the Woolsey Pack.”

  Floote’s normally dispassionate face showed concern.

  Professor Lyall nodded. “All the vampires now want her dead.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tea and Insults

  Lady Maccon was on her third piece of toast and her fourth pot of tea, entertaining herself by glaring at some young lady or another simply to evaluate the color of the blush that resulted. She was no closer to determining who might want her dead—there were just too many possibilities—but she had made some concrete decisions about her more immediate future. Not the least of these being that, without Lord Akeldama, her safest course of action was to leave London. The question was where? And did she have the necessary finances?

  “Lady Maccon?”

  Alexia blinked. Was someone actually talking to her? She looked up.

  Lady Blingchester, a mannish-faced matron of the stout and square variety with curly gray hair and too-large teeth, stood frowning down at her. She was accompanied by her daughter, who shared much the same expression and teeth. Both of them were known for having decided opinions on matters of morality.

  “Lady Maccon, how dare you show your face here? Taking tea in such an obvious manner with”—she paused—“an agitated hatbox for company. In a respectable establishment, frequented by honest, decent women of good character and social standing. Why, you should be ashamed! Ashamed to even walk among us.”

  Alexia looked down at herself. “I believe I am sitting among you.”

  “You should be at home, groveling at the feet of your husband, begging him to take you back.”

  “Why, Lady Blingchester, what would you know about my husband’s feet?”

  Lady Blingchester was not to be forestalled. “Or you should have hidden your shame from the world. Imagine dragging your poor family into the mire with you. Those lovely Loontwill girls. So sensible, with so much promise, so many prospects, and now your behavior has ruined them as well as yourself!”

  “You couldn’t possibly be talking about my sisters, could you? They have been accused of many things, but never sense. I think they might find that rather insulting.”

  Lady Blingchester leaned in close and lowered her voice to a hiss. “Why, you might have done them a favor by casting yourself into the Thames.”

  Alexia whispered back, as if it were a dire secret, “I can swim, Lady Blingchester. Rather well, actually.”

  This latest revelation apparently too shocking to tolerate, Lady Blingchester began to sputter in profound indignation.

  Alexia nibbled her toast. “Oh, do shove off, Lady Bling. I was thinking some rather important thoughts before you interrupted me.”

  The hatbox, rattling mildly against its confining cords throughout this conversation, gave a sudden enthusiastic upward lunge. Lady Blingchester squawked in alarm and seemed to feel this the last straw. She flounced away, followed by her daughter, but she paused and had some sharp words with the hostess before leaving.

  “Blast,” said Alexia to the hatbox when the proprietress, looking determined, headed in her direction.

  The hatbox ticked at her unhelpfully.r />
  “Lady Maccon?”

  Alexia sighed.

  “You understand I must ask you to leave?”

  “Yes. But tell me, is there a pawnshop in the vicinity?”

  The woman blushed. “Yes, my lady, just down off Oxford Circus past Marlborough Bank.”

  “Ah, good.” Lady Maccon stood, untied the hatbox, and gathered it up along with her reticule and parasol. All conversation quieted as she once again held everyone’s attention.

  “Ladies,” said Alexia to the assembled faces. Then she made her way, with as much gravity as possible for a woman clutching an epileptic pink hatbox to her bosom, to the counter, where she paid her account. The door behind her did not close fast enough to cut off the excited squeals and babble that heralded her departure.

  The road was now crowded enough for safety, but still Lady Maccon walked with unseemly haste down Regent Street and into a small pawnshop. There she sold all the jewelry she was currently wearing at a shockingly devalued rate, which nevertheless resulted in quite an obscene amount of money. Conall might be an untrusting muttonhead, a Scotsman, and a werewolf, but the man knew a thing or two about feminine fripperies. Mindful of her circumstances alone in the city, Alexia secreted the resulting pecuniary return in several of the hidden pockets of her parasol and proceeded furtively onward.

  Professor Lyall looked at the French inventor with a cutting eye. “Why is Lady Maccon involving you in this matter, Madame Lefoux?”

  “Alexia is my friend.”

  “That does not explain your eagerness to be of assistance.”

  “You haven’t had many friends, have you, Professor Lyall?”

  The werewolf’s upper lip curled. “Are you certain friendship is all you want from her?”

  Madame Lefoux bristled slightly. “That is a low blow, Professor. I hardly think it your business to question my motives.”

  Professor Lyall did something quite unusual for him. He colored slightly. “I did not intend to imply… that is, I had not meant to insinuate…” He trailed off and then cleared his throat. “I planned to hint at your involvement with the Order of the Brass Octopus.”

  Madame Lefoux rubbed the back of her neck in an unconscious gesture. Hidden under her short dark hair, just there, was a small octopus tattoo. “Ah. The Order has no direct involvement, so far as I can tell.”

  Professor Lyall did not miss the implication of that phrasing. Madame Lefoux might literally be unable to tell of the OBO’s interests if she had been instructed to remain silent.

  “But it is undoubtedly scientifically intrigued by Lady Maccon?” Professor Lyall pressed her.

  “Of course! She is the only female preternatural to enter our sphere since the Order’s inception.”

  “But the Hypocras Club—”

  “The Hypocras Club was only one small branch, and their actions became sadly public. Quite the embarrassment, in the end.”

  “So why are you such an eager friend?”

  “I cannot deny a certain fascination with Alexia as a scientific curiosity, but my research, as you well know, tends to be more theoretical than biological.”

  “So I was inadvertently closer to the mark initially?” Professor Lyall regarded Madame Lefoux with a wealth of understanding.

  Madame Lefoux pursed her lips but did not deny the romantic insinuation. “So you will allow my motives to be, if not pure, at least in Alexia’s best interest? Certainly, I care more for her well-being than that rubbish husband of hers.”

  Professor Lyall nodded. “For now.” He paused and then said, “We must convince her to leave London.”

  At which Lady Alexia Maccon herself bustled into the laboratory. “Oh, no convincing needed, I assure you, my dears. The ladybugs did that. In fact, that was why I summoned you. Well, not because of the ladybugs—because of the leaving.” She was clearly a little flustered. Still, all efficiency, she stripped off her gloves and dropped them, her reticule, her parasol, and a gyrating pink hatbox on a nearby worktable. “It is about time I visited the Continent, don’t you feel? I thought, perhaps, one or two of you might like to accompany me.” She gave them all a timid smile and then remembered her manners. “How do you do, Tunstell? Good day, Genevieve. Floote. Professor Lyall. Thank you all for coming. I do apologize for being late. There were the ladybugs, you see, and then I simply had to take tea.”

  “Alexia.” Madame Lefoux was all concern. Lady Maccon’s hair was mussed, and it looked as though there might be a rip or two at the hem of her dress. The inventor took one of Alexia’s hands in both of hers. “Are you quite all right?”

  At the same time, Professor Lyall said, “Ladybugs? What do you mean, ladybugs?”

  “Ah, halloo, Lady Maccon.” Tunstell grinned and bowed. “Do you really intend to leave? How unfortunate. My wife will be most upset.”

  Floote said nothing.

  Professor Lyall looked at the Frenchwoman’s intimate clasp on Lady Maccon’s hand. “You intend to volunteer yourself as companion, Madame Lefoux?” He was thinking about the fact that all the machines in the contrivance chamber had been shut down and tidied away.

  Lady Maccon approved. “Excellent. I was hoping you would agree to accompany me, Genevieve. You have the necessary contacts in Europe, do you not?”

  The inventor nodded. “I have already put some thought into possible escape routes.” She shifted her attention back to Lyall. “Did you think you could leave the Woolsey Pack for that long?”

  “Woolsey is used to being split. We are one of the few packs that do it regularly, in order to satisfy both military and BUR obligations. But, no, you are right. I cannot leave at this juncture. The situation is most delicate.”

  Madame Lefoux brought a hand to her face hurriedly and pretended to cough but could not quite hide the snicker. “Obviously, you cannot abandon Lord Maccon in his current… state.”

  “State? My repulsive husband is in a ‘state’? Good! He jolly well should be.”

  Professor Lyall felt like he might be betraying his Alpha somewhat but couldn’t help admitting, “He is practically inhaling formaldehyde in an effort to stay inebriated.”

  Lady Maccon’s smug expression became suddenly alarmed.

  “Don’t concern yourself,” Lyall hastened to reassure her. “It cannot harm him, not seriously, but it is certainly doing a bang-up job of keeping him utterly incapacitated in the meantime.”

  “Concerned.” Lady Maccon turned away to fiddle with the hatbox, which had been working its way toward the edge of the table. “Who’s concerned?”

  Professor Lyall moved hurriedly on. “He is, simply put, not acting the Alpha. Woolsey is a tough pack to hold steady at the best of times, restless members, and too much political clout not to be a tempting prospect for opportunistic loners. I shall need to stay here and safeguard the earl’s interests.”

  Lady Maccon nodded. “Of course you must stay. I’m certain Genevieve and I can manage.”

  The inventor looked hopefully at Professor Lyall. “I’d be obliged if you could find the time to look after my lab while I am away.”

  The Beta was pleased to be asked. “I would be honored.”

  “If you could stop by of an evening to check for intruders and ensure a couple of the more delicate machines remain oiled and maintained? I’ll provide you with a list.”

  Tunstell perked up at this point in the conversation. “I’m convinced my wife would be thrilled to oversee the day-to-day operations of your hat shop, if you would like, Madame Lefoux.”

  The Frenchwoman looked utterly horrified at the very idea.

  Professor Lyall could just imagine it: Ivy, in charge of a whole roomful of hats. Such a thing could only bring about disaster and mayhem, like putting a cat in charge of a cage full of pigeons—a turquoise brocade cat with very unusual ideas about the coloration and arrangement of pigeon feathers.

  Lady Maccon rubbed her hands together. “That was one of the reasons I invited you here, Tunstell.”

  Madame Lefoux
gave Alexia a very appraising look. “I suppose it would be better if some semblance of normal business operations continued while I was away. It would be best if the vampires did not know exactly who your friends are.” She turned to Tunstell. “Do you think your wife equal to the task?”

  “She’d be unconditionally thrilled.” The redhead’s broad grin was back in place.

  “I was half afraid you would say that.” Madame Lefoux gave a rueful little smile.

  Poor Madame Lefoux, thought Professor Lyall. There was a distinct possibility she would end up with no hat shop to return to.

  “Vampires? Did you say vampires?” Lady Maccon’s brain suddenly caught up with the second part of the conversation.

  Lyall nodded. “We believe that, now that your delicate condition is public information, the vampires are going to try and—not to put too fine a point on it—kill you.”

  Lady Maccon arched her eyebrows. “Through the judicious application of malicious ladybugs, perhaps?”

  “Come again?”

  “Ladybugs?” Tunstell perked up. “I am rather fond of ladybugs. They are so delightfully hemispherical.”

  “Not of these you wouldn’t be.” Lady Maccon detailed her recent ladybug encounter and the fact that she had only just narrowly escaped being pronged with an antennae. “This has not been a very pleasant day so far,” she concluded, “all things considered.”

  “Did you manage to capture one for closer examination?” asked Madame Lefoux.

  “What do you think is in the hatbox?”

  Madame Lefoux’s eyes began to sparkle. “Fantastique!” She dashed off and fussed about her contrivance chamber for a moment, emerging wearing a pair of glassicals and massive leather gloves sewn with chain mail.

  Professor Lyall, being the only immortal present, took it upon himself to actually open the hatbox.

  The Frenchwoman reached inside and lifted out the large ticking bug, its little legs wiggling in protest. She examined it with interest through the magnification lens. “Very fine craftsmanship! Very fine, indeed. I wonder if there is a maker’s mark.” She flipped the mechanical over.