The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set

by Gail Carriger

  Lord Maccon blinked. “Mrs. Loontwill traveled to Egypt?”

  “I know, astonishing to think on, isn’t it?” Alexia grinned at her husband’s obvious confusion.

  “Very.”

  “So, I should plan the trip? The vampires can’t possibly object to us taking full charge of Prudence for a month or two. After all, it is at their behest.”

  “Vampires object to everything. They will probably want to send a drone as monitor.”

  “Mmm. Also, it’ll be slower with you along, my love. I was hoping to travel by Dirigible Postal Express, but with a werewolf we’ll have to go by sea.” She patted her husband’s thigh to modulate any insult inherent in the words.

  He covered her hand with his large one. “The Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company has a new high-speed ship direct to Alexandria out of Southampton that takes ten days. It also crosses various dirigible flight paths, so we can get regular mail drops. Lyall can keep me informed on the Dubh investigation while we journey there.”

  “How very well informed you are, husband, on travel to Egypt. One would almost think you anticipated the jaunt.”

  Lord Maccon avoided explaining by asking, “How do you propose to disguise the purpose of our journey?”

  Alexia grinned. “Let me rest for a bit. I’ll make a midnight call, determine if the other party is amenable, and let you know later.”

  “My dearest love, I hate it when you come over mysterious. It indicates that I will be made uncomfortable by the results.”

  “Pish-tosh, you love it. It keeps you on your very estimable toes.”

  “Come here, you impossible woman.” Conall grabbed his wife and held her close, kissing her neck and then her lips.

  Alexia perfectly understood the nature of the caress. “We should go to bed directly, my love, have a sleep.”

  “Sleep?”

  Alexia was extremely susceptible to that particular tone in her husband’s voice.

  They made their way up the stairs in their own home and then out and across the little drawbridge into Lord Akeldama’s town house, where they kept their secret bedchamber in his third best closet. Alexia did not summon Biffy, instead allowing Conall to fumble with her buttons and stays, far more patient with his fiddling than she ordinarily was. He managed her dress, corset, and underthings in record time, and she made short work of his clothing. Alexia had learned her way around a man’s toilette after only a week or so of marriage. She had also learned to appreciate the warmth of Conall’s bare flesh against her own. Terribly hedonistic of her, such unconditional surrender, and she should never admit such a thing to anyone. There was something about connubial relations that appealed, sticky as they might be. She found her husband’s touch as necessary to her daily routine as tea. Possibly more difficult to give up.

  Alexia let Conall swoop her up and deposit her onto the big feather mattress, following her down into the puffy warmth. Once there, however, she gently but firmly took the control from him. Most of the time, because her husband was a dear bossy brute in the best possible way, she let him take charge in the matter of bed sport. But sometimes he must be reminded that she, too, was an Alpha, and her forthright nature would not permit her to always follow his lead in any part of their life together. She knew, given Dubh’s death, that Conall needed to be cared for, and she needed to look after him. The evening called for gentleness, long smooth caresses, and slow kisses, reminding them both that they were alive and that they were together. She wanted to make him believe through her touch that she wasn’t going anywhere. Their customary rough, joyful, nibbling passion could wait until she had made her point as firmly as she could, in a language Conall understood perfectly.

  Ivy Tunstell received Alexia Maccon in her sitting room. The advent of twins into Mrs. Tunstell’s life had affected neither the decoration of her house, which was pastel and frilly, nor of herself, who was more so. How she and her husband afforded a nursemaid Alexia would never be so gauche as to ask. With such an addendum to their household staff, Ivy’s domestic bliss and stage appearances were little affected by the unexpected double blessing. As a matter of fact, she looked, behaved, and spoke much as she had before she married.

  Ivy’s children, unlike Alexia’s daughter, seemed unpardonably well behaved. On those few occasions when they had had occasion to meet, Lady Maccon had said the customary “goo,” and the babies had cooed and batted their overly long eyelashes back until someone came and took them away, which was all that one could really ask of babies. Alexia found them charming and consequently was perversely glad they were abed when she arrived.

  “My dearest Alexia, how do you do?” Mrs. Tunstell greeted her friend with genuine pleasure, hands outstretched to clasp both of Alexia’s. She drew Lady Maccon in to blow air kisses at either cheek, an affectation Alexia found overly French but was learning to accept as a consequence of time spent in the company of thespians.

  “Ivy, my dear, how do you do? And how are you enjoying this fine evening?”

  “I am quite reveling in the commonplace refinement of family life.”

  “Oh, ah, yes, and how is Tunstell?”

  “Perfectly darling as ever. You know, he married me when I was but a poor and pretty young thing. All that has changed since then, of course.”

  “And the twins?” Born some half a year after Prudence, they were named Percival and Primrose, but more commonly called Percy and Tidwinkle by their mother. Percy was, of course, understandable, but Alexia had yet to understand how Tidwinkle evolved from Primrose.

  Ivy smiled her sweet mother’s-little-angels smile—accompanying the expression with a sigh of devotion. “Oh, the darlings. I could just eat them up with a spoon. They are asleep, sweet, precious things. And your little Prudence, how is she?”

  “A tremendous bother and holy terror, of course.”

  Mrs. Tunstell tittered at that. “Oh, Alexia, you are too wicked. Imagine talking about one’s own child in such a manner!”

  “My dearest Ivy, I speak only the barest of truths.”

  “Well, I suppose young Prudence is a bit of a mixed infant.”

  “Thank goodness I have help or I’d be practically run off of my feet, I tell you!”

  “Yes,” Ivy said suspiciously. “I’m sure Lord Akeldama is invaluable?”

  “He is taking Prudence for a stroll in the park as we speak.”

  Ivy gestured Alexia to sit and sent the maid for tea.

  Alexia did as she was bid.

  Ivy settled herself happily opposite her friend, delighted as always that dear Lady Maccon still afforded her any time at all. There was such a large disparity in their consequence as a result of marriage, no matter how much Alexia tried to convince Ivy otherwise, that Ivy always felt she was being honored by the continued acquaintance. Even a position as intimate as fellow member of a secret society and spy was not enough to reconcile Mrs. Tunstell to the fact that Lady Maccon, wife of an earl, came to take tea with her… in Soho! In rented apartments!

  Still, it did not stop Mrs. Tunstell from reprimanding said Lady Maccon gently on the subject of Lord Akeldama. The man was, after all, too outrageous for fatherhood. The vampire side of his character being, in Ivy’s universe, far less a thing than his scandalous comportment and flamboyant dress. Even her fellow actors were not so bad. “Couldn’t you have gotten yourself a nice nursemaid, Alexia dear? For stabilization of the vital emotional humors? I can recommend them highly.”

  “Oh, Lord Akeldama has one of those as well. His humors are quite stable, I assure you. It makes no flour for the biscuit in the end with my daughter. Prudence requires all hands to man the forward deck, if you take my meaning. Twice as difficult as her father, even on his best days.”

  Ivy shook her head. “Alexia, really, you do say the most shocking things imaginable.”

  Lady Maccon, knowing such pleasantries might continue in this vein for three-quarters of an hour or more, moved on to a topic more in alignment with her visit. “I managed t
o catch the opening of your new play the night before last.”

  “Did you, indeed? How kind. Very patronly of you. Did you enjoy it?” Ivy clasped her hands together and regarded her friend with wide, shining eyes.

  The maid came in with the tea, giving Alexia a moment to properly phrase her reply. She waited while Ivy poured and then took a measured sip before replying. “As your patroness, I approve most heartily. You and Tunstell have done me proud. A unique story and a most original portrayal of love and tragedy. I can safely say, I am convinced London has never seen its like before. Nor will it again. I thought the bumblebee opera dancer sequence was… riveting.”

  “Oh, thank you! It warms the cudgels of my heart to hear you say such a thing.” Ivy positively beamed, her copious dark ringlets quivering in delight.

  “I was wondering how long you’re scheduled to run this performance at this particular venue, and whether you had considered taking it on tour?”

  Ivy sipped her tea and considered the question with all seriousness. “We have only a week in our contract. We had intended merely to test the waters with this new style, with an eye toward expanding to a larger venue if it went over well. Why? Have you something in mind?”

  Lady Maccon put down her teacup. “Actually, I wondered if you might consider”—she paused for dramatic effect—“Egypt?”

  Mrs. Tunstell gasped and put one small white hand to her throat. “Egypt?”

  “I believe the Egyptian theatergoing public might find The Death Rains of Swansea truly moving. The subject matter is so very exotic, and I understand there is a lady of means in residence there who is particularly interested in performances of this kind. Had you thought to take the production outside of London?”

  “Well, yes, Europe of course. But all the way to Egypt? Do they have tea there?” Ivy wasn’t looking wholly opposed to the jaunt. Ever since her trip with Alexia to Scotland, Mrs. Tunstell had rather a taste for foreign travel. Alexia blamed the kilts.

  She pressed her advantage. “I would, of course, fund the expedition and make the necessary arrangements.”

  “Oh, now, Alexia, please, you embarrass me.” Ivy blushed but did not refuse the offer.

  “As your patroness, I feel it my duty to spread the deeply moving message inherent in your play. The bumblebee dance alone was a masterpiece of modern storytelling. I do not think we should deny it to others merely because of distance and questionable beverage options.”

  Mrs. Tunstell nodded, her pert little face solemn at this profound statement.

  “Besides”—Alexia lowered her voice significantly—“there is also a matter for the Parasol Protectorate to handle in Egypt.”

  “Oh!” Ivy was overcome with excitement.

  “I may call upon you in your capacity as Agent Puff Bonnet.”

  “If that is the case, I shall speak to Tunny and we shall take measures and make preparations immediately! I shall need more hatboxes.”

  Alexia blanched slightly at this ready enthusiasm. The Tunstells’ acting troupe numbered nearly a dozen, plus assorted sycophants. “Perhaps we could narrow the scope of your production down slightly? This is a delicate matter.”

  “Such a thing might be possible.”

  “Down to, perhaps, only you and Tunstell?”

  “I don’t know. There is the wardrobe to consider. Who will look after that? And one or two of the supporting roles are perfectly vital to the story. And what about the twins? I couldn’t possibly leave my beloved poppets. We will need our nursemaid along, as I couldn’t manage without her. Then there is…”

  Mrs. Tunstell continued to prattle on and Alexia let her. After a good long negotiation, Ivy concluded she could narrow her entourage down to ten, Tunstell and the twins not included, and she would collect the names and paperwork and send them on to Floote as soon as possible.

  It was decided that they could leave by the end of the next week, all details being finalized. Lady Maccon departed feeling that the hard part was over and that all she need do now was persuade her husband as to the sensibleness of hiding themselves in plain sight among a bunch of actors.

  She sent a note round to Countess Nadasdy instructing her to tell Queen Matakara that if the Alexandria Hive were to express particular interest in seeing a performance of The Death Rains of Swansea, it might also get a visit from Lord and Lady Maccon and their unusual child. Queen Matakara was to demand the play be performed before her in person, in her own home, and to that end was asking the Tunstells’ Acting Troupe a la Mode to travel to Egypt specially. Alexia and Conall would be invited along as patrons.

  By the time Lady Maccon had completed this task, the pack was home and a general ruckus of large men had resulted. Conall stuck his head round the doorjamb to say there was nothing new concerning Dubh and did she know where Biffy had gotten to?

  Alexia replied that, no, she didn’t and would he please come in and let her explain her plan before he gallivanted off again. He did, and she did, and after a good deal of grumbling, he accepted the necessity of traveling under cover of thespians.

  “And now,” announced Alexia, “I am going to have a chat with Lord Akeldama. I want his perspective on this summons from Queen Matakara, and I should inform him of my imminent protracted absence from the Shadow Council. He will have to handle the dewan on his own.”

  “If you think it necessary.”

  “My dear, you really must come around to the fact that Lord Akeldama knows useful things. Things even you and BUR don’t know. Plus, he is Prudence’s legal guardian. If we wish to take her out of the country, even at a vampire’s request, we must ask his permission. It is the way of things.”

  Lord Maccon gestured her on magnanimously, and Alexia took herself next door without further ado.

  Upon waking that evening Biffy was understandably bothered to hear of Dubh’s death. However, it was a middling bother. He had never met the man, and, if the rumors were to be believed, he hadn’t missed out on much. Besides, it was difficult to mourn the loss of anyone who had spent a good deal of his life in Scotland. Biffy was tolerably more disturbed by the fact that he had developed a cowlick while asleep that would not lie flat no matter what he did.

  Biffy wondered if this attitude might be considered crass. He wouldn’t want to be thought crass. It was simply that he still felt disconnected from his werewolf brethren. They had little conversation that did not revolve around sports or ballistics. Major Channing had a well-tied cravat, but really, even Biffy could not forge a relationship based solely upon attractive neck gear.

  Biffy skirted off early to see to the hat shop and returned for a midnight snack to find Lord and Lady Maccon out and those few others still in residence dressed in black waistcoats. With a sigh, he went to change, disliking Dubh more for the alteration in his wardrobe than the poor man probably deserved.

  He was picking idly at a plate of kippers when Professor Lyall wandered in, spotted him, and said, “Oh, good, Biffy, just the man I was looking for.”

  Biffy was startled. Professor Lyall had always been scrupulously kind to him, but other than doling out responsibility for the contrivance chamber and associated paperwork, the Beta had had very little to do with Biffy. Taking care of Lord Maccon was a full-time job, a fact Biffy understood all too well. He was such a very large and fearsome man, and so very scruffy. Biffy was part afraid of the Alpha, part in awe, and part driven by a pressing need to get him to a tailor.

  He swallowed his bit of kipper and rose slightly out of his seat in deference to rank. “Professor Lyall, how can I be of service?” Biffy was hoping someday to learn the secret of the Beta’s tame coiffure. It showed such admirable restraint.

  “We’re hitting a spot of bother getting anything substantial in the way of onlookers from Fenchurch Street. I was wondering if perhaps you might have some contacts in that area, from your before days?”

  “Lord Akeldama did have me visit a pub near there upon occasion. One of the barmaids might remember me.”

 
“Barmaids? Very well, if you say so.”

  “Would you like me to inquire now?”

  “Please, and if you wouldn’t mind some company?”

  Biffy looked the Beta over—quiet, unassuming, with excellent if understated taste in waistcoats and a generally put-upon expression. Not the type of company Biffy would have chosen in his past, but that was the past. “Certainly, Professor, delighted.” Perhaps they might discuss the matter of controlling cowlicks.

  “Now, Biffy, don’t tell fibs. I know I’m not up to your standards.”

  If he still had the capacity, Biffy would have colored at that bold statement. “Oh, sir, I should never even hint that you were anything but ideally suited to—”

  Professor Lyall cut him short. “I was only teasing. Shall we?”

  Biffy finished his last mouthful of kipper, wondering if the Beta generally teased at table. Then he stood, grabbed his hat and cane, and followed the professor out into the night.

  They walked in silence for a long moment. Finally Biffy said, “I was wondering, sir.”

  “Yes?” Professor Lyall had a very gentle voice.

  “I was wondering if perhaps your appearance were not as calculated to be unobtrusive as that of Lord Akeldama’s drones, only in a far more subtle way.” Biffy saw white teeth flash in a quick smile.

  “Well, it is a Beta’s job to take to the background.”

  “Did Dubh do that?”

  “Not as I understood it. But he was a far fly from a true Beta. Lord Maccon killed his Kingair Beta for treason before he left the pack. Dubh stepped in because there was no one better.”

  “What an awful mess that must have been.”

  Next to him, Professor Lyall’s footsteps paused one infinitesimal minute. Without his supernatural hearing, Biffy never would have caught the hesitation. “For the Kingair Pack? Yes, I suppose it was. You know, at the time, I never even gave them a thought. The Woolsey Pack had its own problems.”