Blameless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Third

by Gail Carriger

  “Let us say, I have a friend on the transmitter-operating team. He swapped out the slates so that our sender there destroyed the wrong one.”

  “Why bring it to BUR’s attention?”

  The dewan looked a little offended by the question. “I am not bringing it to BUR; I am bringing it to the Woolsey Pack. Lady Maccon, regardless of the gossip, is still married to a werewolf. And I am still the dewan. The vampires simply cannot be allowed to indiscriminately kill one of our own. It’s not on. Why, that is practically as bad as poaching clavigers and cannot be allowed, or all standards of supernatural decency will be lost.”

  “And it cannot be known that the information came from you, my lord?”

  “Well, I do have to still work with the man.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.” Professor Lyall was a tad surprised; it was rare for the dewan to involve himself in pack business. He and Lord Maccon had never exactly liked each other ever since that fateful game of bridge. Lord Maccon had, in fact, given up cards as a result.

  With his usual inappropriate timing, Lord Maccon returned from his jaunt at that very moment. He marched in, clad only in a cloak, which he removed in a sweeping motion and flung carelessly in the vicinity of a nearby hat stand, clearly intent on striding on to the small changing room to don his clothes.

  He stilled, naked, sniffing the air. “Oh, hello, Fluffy. What are you doing out of your Buckingham penitentiary?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Professor Lyall, frustrated. “Do hush up, my lord.”

  “Lord Maccon, indecent as always, I see,” snapped the dewan, ignoring the earl’s pet name for him.

  Now, bound and determined to remain nude, the earl marched around Lyall’s desk to see what he was reading, as it clearly had some connection with the unexpected presence of the second most powerful werewolf in all of Britain.

  The dewan, showing considerable self-restraint, ignored Lord Maccon and continued his conversation with Professor Lyall as though the earl had not interrupted them. “I am under the impression the gentleman in question may have also managed to persuade the Westminster Hive to his line of thinking, or he would not have sent that order.”

  Professor Lyall frowned. “Ah, well, given—”

  “Official extermination mandate! On my wife!”

  One would think, after twenty-odd years, Professor Lyall would be used to his Alpha’s yelling, but he still winced when it was conducted with such vigor so close to his ear.

  “That lily-livered, bloodsucking sack of rotten meat! I shall drag his sorry carcass out at high noon—you see if I don’t!”

  The dewan and Professor Lyall continued their conversation as if Lord Maccon weren’t boiling over next to them like a particularly maltreated porridge.

  “Really, by rights, preternaturals,” Lyall spoke coldly, “are BUR’s jurisdiction.”

  The dewan tilted his head from side to side in mild agreement. “Yes, well, the fact remains that the vampires seem to think they have a right to take matters onto their own fangs. Clearly, so far as the potentate is concerned, what that woman is carrying is not preternatural and thus no longer BUR’s jurisdiction.”

  “That woman is my wife! And they are trying to kill her!” A sudden deep suspicion and sense of betrayal caused the Alpha to turn upon his Beta in accusation. “Randolph Lyall, were you aware of this and yet didna tell me?” He clearly didn’t require an answer. “That’s it; I’m leaving.”

  “Yes, yes, well, never mind that.” Professor Lyall tried unsuccessfully to calm his Alpha down. “The question is, what do they think she is carrying?”

  The dewan shrugged and pulled his cloak back up over his head, preparing to leave. “I rather think that is your problem. I’ve risked enough bringing this to your attention.”

  Professor Lyall stood, reaching over his desk to grasp the other werewolf’s hand. “We appreciate you giving us this information.”

  “Just keep my name out of it. This is a domestic matter between Woolsey and the vampires. I wash my fur of the entire debacle. I told you not to marry that woman, Conall. I said no good could possibly come of it. Imagine contracting to a soulless.” He sniffed. “You youngsters, so brash.”

  Lord Maccon began to protest at that, but Professor Lyall shook the dewan’s hand firmly in the manner of pack brothers, not challengers. “Understood, and thank you again.”

  With one last mildly offended look at the naked, red-faced, sputtering Alpha, the dewan left the office.

  Professor Lyall, drawing on long years of practice, said, “We have got to find Lord Akeldama.”

  Lord Maccon sobered slightly at that abrupt change in subject. “Why is that vampire never around when you need him, but always around when you don’t?”

  “It is an art form.”

  Lord Maccon sighed. “Well, I canna help you find the vampire, Randolph, but I do know where the potentate has his object stashed.”

  Professor Lyall perked up. “Our ghost overheard something significant?”

  “Better, our ghost saw something. A map. I thought we might just go steal the object back, before I leave to fetch my wife.”

  “And you still haven’t told me where you sent Channing.”

  “It’s possible I was too drunk to remember.”

  “It’s possible, but I think not.”

  Lord Maccon took that as an opportunity to get dressed, leaving Professor Lyall in possession of the field but not the information.

  “So, about this theft?” Lyall was always one to cut his losses and move on when necessary.

  “It should be fun.” Lord Maccon’s voice emerged from the little changing closet.

  When the Alpha reemerged, Professor Lyall wondered, not for the first time, if gentlemen’s garb was not made complex through vampire influence as a dig at werewolves who, by their very nature, were often in a tearing hurry to get dressed. He himself had mastered the art, but Lord Maccon never would. He stood to go around his desk and help his Alpha rebutton a lopsided waistcoat.

  “It should be fun, you said, this reacquisition operation, my lord?”

  “Especially if you like swimming.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Wherein Alexia Encounters Both Pesto and a Mysterious Jar

  Hadn’t we better go to the local dirigible station? Didn’t Monsieur Trouvé say he would send our luggage there?” Alexia looked down in disgust at the orange frilly dress she was wearing. “I could very much use the comfort of my own wardrobe.”

  “I could not agree with you more.” Madame Lefoux’s feelings of maltreatment were equally evident, as she was clearly uncomfortable in her pink frilly version of the same gown. “I should like to pick up some supplies as well.” The inventor looked meaningfully at Alexia’s parasol. “You understand, for a reconstitution of the necessary emissions.”

  “Of course.”

  There was no one around them in the temple hallway, but Madame Lefoux’s use of euphemisms seemed to indicate that she felt they were in danger of being overheard.

  They made their way to the front entrance of the temple and out into the cobbled streets of Florence.

  Despite its generally orange overtones—Alexia’s dress fit right in—Florence was indeed an attractive metropolis. It had a soft, rich quality about it that Alexia felt was the visual equivalent of consuming a warm scone heaped with marmalade and clotted cream. There was a pleasantness to the air and a spirit about the town that did not come from its color, but from some inner, tasty citrus quality. It made Alexia wonder fancifully if cities could have souls. Florence, she felt, under those circumstances, probably had extra. There were even little bitter bits of rind scattered about the place: the dense clouds of tobacco smoke emanating from various cafes and an overabundance of unfortunates begging from the church steps.

  There were no hansoms, nor any other ready form of public transportation. Indeed, the entire city was apparently possessed of only one means of locomotion: walking. Alexia was a profuse walker. Eve
n though she was a little sore from her mountaintop peril, she was equal to further exercise. After all, she had been asleep for three days. Floote valiantly headed their expedition. He was suspiciously familiar with the city, leading them unerringly through a wide open plaza called the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, which Alexia thought sounded like an assembly of sainted literary pundits; down the Via dei Fossi, which sounded like a fascinating geological discovery; across a bridge; and down into Piazza Pitti, which sounded like a pasta dish. It was a long walk, and Alexia had reason to be grateful for her parasol, for Italy did not appear to notice that it was November and poured sun down upon them with unremitting cheerfulness.

  As it turned out, the Italians beyond the walls of the temple were a friendly, excitable bunch. Several of them waved to Alexia and her party. Alexia was mildly put out; after all, these were people to whom she had not been introduced and had no particular interest in knowing, yet they waved as she passed. It was most disconcerting. Also, it became quickly evident that Alexia’s capable governess had been remiss in the matter of the Italian tongue. She had never taught Alexia that a great majority of communication was achieved through hand gesticulations. Although sentiments were often expressed a tad too loudly for Alexia’s refined sensibilities, it was indeed as lovely to watch as it was to hear.

  Even with such distractions as shirtless men kicking rubber balls around the bank of the Arno and a language that danced, Alexia noticed something amiss.

  “We are being followed, are we not?”

  Madame Lefoux nodded.

  Alexia paused in the middle of the bridge and looked casually back over her shoulder, using her parasol to disguise the movement.

  “Really, if they wanted to hide, they ought not to wear those ridiculous white nightgowns. Imagine going out in public in such a state.”

  Floote corrected his mistress. “Holy Tunics of Piety and Faith, madam.”

  “Nightgowns,” insisted Alexia firmly.

  They walked on.

  “I counted six. Do you concur?” Alexia spoke in a low voice, although their followers were still a considerable distance behind and well out of earshot.

  Madame Lefoux pursed her lips. “Yes, about that many.”

  “Nothing to be done, I suppose.”

  “No, nothing.”

  Florence’s dirigible landing green was part of Boboli Gardens, a robust and extensive terraced park that lay in resplendent glory behind the most imposing castle Alexia had ever seen. In truth, Pitti Palace looked more like a prison of unusually fine proportions. They had to walk around the side of the massive edifice to get to the garden gate, where they were checked by a uniformed customs official.

  The grounds were quite lovely, teeming with lush vegetation. The landing green was located directly behind the palace and on the same level. In its center stood an Egyptian obelisk, used as a tethering station, although no dirigibles were currently at rest. The luggage depot and waiting area took the form of a rebuilt ancient Roman gazebo. The official in charge was delighted to show them to the baggage storage area, where Alexia found her trunks, Madame Lefoux’s modest assortment of carpetbags, and Floote’s scruffy portmanteau, courtesy of Monsieur Trouvé.

  As they began gathering up their possessions, Alexia thought she saw Madame Lefoux snatch at some small item sitting atop her hatbox but could not be certain what it was. She was about to ask when the station clerk approached to have her sign a chit for their belongings.

  Once she had done so, the clerk glanced down and made a sudden face as he read Alexia’s name. “La Diva Tarabotti?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah. I ’ave ze”—he waved his hand in the air, apparently incapable of recalling the appropriate English vocabulary—“thing, para you.”

  At which he bustled off, returning a moment later to hand Alexia something that amazed the entire party.

  It was a letter directed to La Diva Alexia Tarabotti in round, sprawling script. And it was not, as any person of sense might have surmised, from Monsieur Trouvé. Oh, no, this missive was from Mrs. Tunstell.

  Alexia twisted the heavy folded paper about in her hand for a moment in surprise. “Well, doesn’t that just go to show that no matter where you go, Ivy will always find you?”

  “Perish the thought, madam,” replied Floote with feeling before bustling off to hire a cart.

  The clerk kindly handed Alexia a letter opener, and she cut through the seal.

  “My dearest, darlingest of Alexias,” it began in flamboyant style, and went on from there with no hope of sobriety. “Well, it is all go around London with you gone. All go, I tell you!” The missive employed Ivy’s preferred abuse of punctuation and reliance upon malapropisms. “Tunstell, my brilliant pip, has gotten himself the lead role in the Winter Season of Forthwimsey-Near-Ham’s operatic production of the HMS Pennyfarthing! Can you envisage that?” Alexia tried desperately not to. “I am lathe to admit it”—Alexia imagined Ivy spinning round and round like a top—“but I am adapting quite comfortably to life in trade, rather too comfortably for my mother’s peace of mind. Please tell Madame Lefoux that her hat shop is doing extremely well, and I have even made one or two improvements.” Alexia relayed this information to the Frenchwoman, who blanched.

  “It has been less than a week. How much damage can she possibly have done in such a short time?” Madame Lefoux sounded as though she were trying to convince herself.

  Alexia read on. “‘I have even, I blush to admit it here in print, inadvertently precipitated a wildly popular new craze in earmuffs for dirigible travel. I had the notion to affix fake hair falls from Paris to the exterior of the muffs so that the Young Lady Traveler might look as though she had an elaborate hairstyle while still staying warm. Such hairmuffs, as I call them, have the added benefit of bearing the brunt of the aether breezes’ mussing. Well, I don’t mind telling you, Alexia, they are selling by the baker’s dozen! They have been heralded, only this morning, as the very latest in vital travel wardrobe accoutrements by no less than three leading fashion journals! Have enclosed clipping for your perusal.’ ” Alexia read this bit of the letter out for Madame Lefoux’s continued edification and then handed her the newspaper clipping.

  “‘In other shocking news, the dashing Captain Featherstonehaugh has announced his engagement to Miss Wibbley, who really is only just out of finishing school! This has had the unfortunate side effect of putting about the rumor that your younger sister was thrown over for a schoolroom chit, quite the persona au gratin, if you take my meaning. You will hardly be surprised when I tell you, London is all in uproars over the impending nuptials! I do hope this letter finds you well. As always, your dearest friend, Ivy.’ ”

  Alexia folded the letter up, smiling. It was nice to be reminded of the mundanities of everyday life where there were no Templars stalking one through the streets of Florence, no drones in armed pursuit, and nothing was more worrisome than Miss Wibbley and her “au gratin” antics. “Well, what do you make of that?”

  Madame Lefoux gave Alexia a particularly droll look. “Just out of finishing school, indeed.”

  “I know. Shocking. Most girls recently out of finishing school are like soufflés: puffed up, not very substantial inside, and prone to collapsing at the slightest provocation.”

  Madame Lefoux laughed. “And earmuffs with hair attached. How is it you English put it? I say!”

  Floote returned with a pony and trap for their bags.

  Alexia smiled, but she was, she hated to admit it, a little disappointed. She could not help noticing that there had been no mention of Lord Maccon, nor the Woolsey Pack, in Ivy’s letter. Either Ivy was being circumspect—which was about as likely as Floote suddenly dancing an Irish jig—or the London werewolves were staying well out of the social limelight.

  “You may find yourself the exclusive owner of a highly profitable hairmuff business instead.”

  Madame Lefoux flipped the newspaper clipping over and then stilled, face drawn.

  �
�What is it? Genevieve, are you unwell?”

  Mutely, the inventor passed the bit of paper back to Alexia.

  It wasn’t the whole of the article, just a section of it, but it was enough.

  “… surprised us all with a printed apology to his wife in the Morning Post. He has claimed that all previous rumors and accusations were not only false, but his fault, and that the child is not only his, but a miracle of modern science. Speculation is rampant as to the earl’s purpose in issuing this retraction. No one has seen Lady Maccon since…”

  Alexia’s knees, previously quite reliable support structures, failed her, and she sat suddenly straight down onto the stone floor of the customs depot.

  “Oh,” she said, because it was all she could think to say, followed by, “Blast.”

  Then, surprising everyone, including herself, she started to cry. And not in the elegant, slow-dripping manner of true ladies of quality, but in loud embarrassing sobs like a little child.

  Madame Lefoux and Floote stared down at her in stunned silence.

  Alexia simply went on crying. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop.

  Madame Lefoux finally reacted, crouching down to wrap her friend in a bony but comforting embrace. “Alexia, my dear, what is wrong? Isn’t this a good thing?”

  “B-b-b-bastard,” blubbered Alexia.

  Madame Lefoux was clearly at a loss.

  Alexia, taking pity on her, tried desperately to control herself and explain. “I was doing so well, being angry at him.”

  “So you are crying because you cannot be angry at him anymore?”

  “No. Yes!” Alexia wailed.

  Floote handed over a large handkerchief. “It is relief, madam,” he explained to the Frenchwoman.

  “Ah.” Madame Lefoux applied said square of cotton to Alexia’s blotchy face with tender care.

  Alexia realized she was making a spectacle of herself and tried to stand. Too many things were going on in her head at once, and it was causing her eyes to leak. She took a deep, shaky breath and blew her nose loudly into Floote’s handkerchief.