“We shall make haste, then, my lady. We wouldn’t want you to arrive beyond the fashionable hour.”
“Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps.”
“And the fire, my lady?” Boots’s muttonchops fluffed up in the breeze.
Alexia batted her eyelashes. “Fire? What fire?”
“Ah, is that how it is?”
Lady Maccon turned to look once more out of the gondola. She could make out the massive form of the octomaton, careening through the corner of Hyde Park behind Apsley House directly below them. But with another pull on that lever, Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon surged ahead and on into Mayfair, leaving the rampaging octopus far behind. The drones, having noticed the great crashing beast, made little warbling noises of distress before insisting Alexia tell them all about it.
The Westminster Hive house was one of many similar fashionable residences. It stood at the end of the block and a little apart from the row, but nothing else distinguished it as special or supernaturally inclined. Perhaps the grounds were a little too well tended and the exterior a little too clean and freshly painted, but no more or less than that customarily afforded by the very wealthy. It was a good-enough address, but not too good, and it was large enough to accommodate the countess, the primary members of her hive, and their drones, but not too large.
On this particular full moon, it was busier than usual, with a number of carriages pulling in at the front and disgorging some of the ton’s very highest and most progressive politicians, aristocrats, and artists. Alexia, as muhjah, knew (although others might not) that the assembled were all in the vampire’s enclave, or employ, or service, or all three. They were attired in their very best, collars starched high, dresses cut low, britches tight, and bustles shapely. It was a parade of consequence—Countess Nadasdy would allow nothing less.
High floating was assuredly a fashionable way to arrive at a party, the latest and greatest, some might say. But it was not at all convenient for a street already clogged with private carriages and hired hansoms. As the dirigible neared, a few of the horses spooked, rearing and neighing. Ground conveyances crashed into one another in their efforts to clear space, which resulted in a good deal of yelling.
“Who do they think they are, arriving like that?” wondered one elderly gentleman.
Vampires enjoyed investing in the latest inventions, and they did have trade concerns, most notably with the East India Company, but they were traditionalists at heart. So, too, were their guests. For no matter how modish the private pleasure dirigible might be in principle, no one approved of it disturbing their own dignified arrival with its puffed-up sense of novelty. Dignity aside, the dirigible was going to land whether they liked it or not, and consequently, space was eventually made. The gondola bumped down in front of the hive house’s wrought-iron fence.
Lady Maccon was left in a quandary. She now had to get out over the side of the passenger basket. She could conceive of no possible way her exit would be any less humiliating than her entry. She did not want to go through such a process again, let alone in front of such august bodies as those now glaring at her. But she could swear she heard the crashing sound of the octomaton, and she really had no time to spare for anyone’s decorum, even her own.
“Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps, Viscount, if you would be so kind?” She puffed out her cheeks and prepared herself for mortification.
“Of course, my lady.” The ever-eager Boots stepped over to assist her. Tizzy, it must be admitted, moved with less alacrity. As they prepared to boost her (there really was no other way of putting it) over the edge of the gondola (at which juncture she foresaw landing on her much-abused bustle yet again), a savior appeared.
No doubt alerted by the disapproving cries and exacerbation of activity in the street, Miss Mabel Dair emerged from the hive house, dramatically silhouetted against the crowded, well-lit interior. She paused, center stage, on the front stoop. She wore an evening gown the color of old gold with a low square neckline, trimmed with loops of black lace and pink silk roses. There were fresh roses in her hair and her bustle was full—the more risqué trends out of Paris with the smaller bustle and form-fitting bodice were not for her. No, here, under her mistress’s guarded eye, even an actress like Miss Dair dressed demurely.
Lady Alexia Maccon, at the side of a dirigible passenger basket, looked as though she was in imminent danger of not playing by the rules.
Miss Dair yelled from the step, using her stage voice to cut through the noise of the crowded street. “Why, Lady Maccon, how delightful. We did not expect you. Especially not in so elaborate a transport.”
“Good evening, Miss Dair. It is rather smart, isn’t it? Unfortunately, I seem to be having difficulty getting out.”
Miss Dair bit her lower lip, hiding a smile. “Let me fetch some help.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, Miss Dair, but I am in a wee bit of a hurry.”
“Of course you are, Lady Maccon.” The actress turned back into the house, signaling with a sharp gesticulation of a satin-gloved hand. Mere moments later, she turned and traipsed down the steps followed by a veritable herd of dignified-looking footmen, all of whom took to the lifting and depositing of Lady Maccon as they would any household task, with gravely serious faces and not one flicker of amusement.
Once Alexia had attained her freedom, Boots touched his hat brim with one gray-gloved hand. “A very good evening to you, Lady Maccon.”
“You won’t be joining me?”
Boots exchanged a telling look with Mabel Dair. “Not at this particular party, my lady. We would make things”—he paused delicately—“prickly.”
Lady Maccon nodded her understanding and gave the matter no further thought. There are some places where, despite their universal skills at being ubiquitous, even Lord Akeldama’s drones could not go.
Mabel Dair offered Lady Maccon her arm. Alexia took it gratefully, although she firmed her grip on her parasol with her free hand. She was, after all, entering a hive house, and despite the strictures of polite society, vampires had never looked upon her, and her soullessness, with any degree of acceptance. On every prior occasion but one, Lady Maccon had visited this hive with her husband. Tonight she was going in alone. Miss Mabel Dair may have her arm, but Alexia knew very well that the actress did not have her back.
Together the two women entered the party.
The house itself had not changed from when Alexia visited it that first time. Inside, it was far more luxurious than its exterior suggested, although all displays of prosperity were tasteful, without a hint of vulgarity. Persian carpets still lay thick and soft, in coordinating shades of deep red, their patterns subtle, but they were difficult to see as so many top boots and evening slippers trod over them. Striking paintings still hung on the walls, masterworks ranging from contemporary abstract pieces to one relaxed, porcelain-skinned lady that could only be by Titian. But Alexia only knew they were there because she had seen them before; this time as she wended her way through the throng, coiffured comb-outs and flowered headdresses obscured her view. The lavish mahogany furniture was actually being sat upon, and the many stone statues of Roman senators and Egyptian gods had become nothing more than stony members of the milling throng.
“My goodness me,” yelled Alexia at her escort over the loud chatter. “This is quite the crush.”
The actress nodded enthusiastically. “The countess is supposed to make a very important announcement this evening. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, accepted her invitation.”
“Announcement, what kind of . . . ?”
But Miss Dair’s attention was back to pushing their way through the throng.
One or two people recognized Alexia—heads tilted in her direction, faces perplexed. “Lady Maccon?” came the confused acknowledgment of her presence, accompanied by small nods. She could hear the gossipmongers whirling away like so many steam engines gearing up to explode. What was the wife of an Alpha werewolf doing there? And so far along in her pre
gnancy. And alone! On full moon!
As they pressed on, Alexia became aware of a presence shadowing them through the crowd. Just as a tall, thin man accosted Miss Dair from the front, a person behind them cleared his throat.
Lady Maccon turned to find herself face-to-face with a nondescript gentleman, so nondescript in countenance as to be challenging to describe. His hair was just this side of brown, and his eyes just that side of blue, combined with an arrangement of other features neither striking nor interesting. He wore unremarkable but stylish clothing, all of which suggested a level of premeditated obscurity that reminded her irresistibly of Professor Lyall.
“Your Grace,” she said warily in greeting.
The Duke of Hematol did not smile, but that might have been because he did not wish to show her his fangs just yet. “Lady Maccon, what an unexpected pleasure.”
Alexia glanced at Miss Dair, who was engaging in a hushed and rather forceful conversation with Dr. Caedes, another member of Countess Nadasdy’s inner circle. He was a tall, thin vampire who Alexia always thought looked like a parasol without its fabric cover, all points and sharp angles. He unfolded rather than walked. He did not look pleased.
The duke was more subtle and better able to hide his feelings over Lady Maccon’s unanticipated presence. Alexia wondered where Lord Ambrose, the last member of this little band, was stashed. Probably near the countess, as he acted as her praetoriani. At a party as crowded as this, the queen would want her pet bodyguard as close as possible.
“We did not expect you on this particular night, Lady Maccon. We had assumed you would be assisting your husband with his”—a calculated pause—“disability.”
Alexia narrowed her eyes and fished about in her reticule, coming up with the required card. “I have an invitation.”
“Of course you do.”
“It is most urgent I speak with your mistress immediately. I have some vital information to impart.”
“Tell it to me.”
Alexia put on her most superior Lady Macconish expression and looked him up and down. “I think not.”
The vampire stood his ground.
He was not a very large man. Alexia figured if push came to shove, she could probably take him on even in her current state. Being soulless had its uses. She removed her gloves.
He watched this movement with concerned interest.
“No need for that, Lady Maccon.” If he was as much like Professor Lyall as Alexia believed, physical conflict would not be his preferred solution to any given confrontation. He looked up toward the storklike doctor and gestured sharply with his chin. The other vampire reacted with supernatural swiftness, grabbing Miss Dair’s arm and melting away into the crowd, leaving Lady Maccon with a new, far less attractive, escort.
“It really is most vital that I see her as soon as possible. She may be in grave danger.” Alexia left her gloves off and tried to impress upon the vampire her urgency without being too threatening.
The duke smiled. His fangs were small and sharp, barely present, as subtle as the rest of his projected image. “You mortals are always in a hurry.”
Lady Maccon gritted her teeth. “This time it is in your best interest—really, it is.”
The duke looked at her closely. “Very well, come with me.”
He led her through the crowd, which thinned as they left the main hallway that serviced the drawing room, parlors, dining hall, and receiving area. They rounded a corner into a part of the house Alexia loved, the museum of machinery, where the history of human innovation was displayed with as much care as the marble statuary and oil paintings of the public areas. The duke moved at a sedate pace, too sedate for Alexia, who, even pregnant and knowing she was going beyond the bounds of proper etiquette, pushed past him. She scuttled by the very first steam engine ever built and then past the model of the Babbage Engine with barely a glance to spare for either feat of human ingenuity.
The vampire hurried to catch up, pushing past her in turn when they reached the stairs, leading the way up rather than, as had occurred on previous occasions, into the back parlor that was the countess’s preferred sanctuary. This was a special evening, indeed. Lady Maccon was being let into the high sanctum of the hive. She had never before been allowed upstairs.
There were drones strategically placed on the staircase, all attractive and perfectly dressed, looking like they might be guests at the party, but Alexia knew from the way they watched her that they were as much fixtures in the house as its Persian rugs. Only more deadly than the rugs, one supposed. They did nothing, however, as Lady Maccon was in the company of the duke. But they did watch her carefully.
They arrived at a closed door. The Duke of Hematol knocked, a pattern of taps. It opened to reveal Lord Ambrose, as tall, as dark, and as handsome as any milk-water miss might wish her own personal vampire to be.
“Lady Maccon! How unexpected.”
“So everyone keeps pointing out.” Alexia tried to barge past him.
“You can’t come in here.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, I mean her no harm. Truth be told, quite the opposite.”
An exchange of glances occurred between Lord Ambrose and the duke.
“She is part of this new order. I think we must believe her.”
“You used to think Walsingham was right!” Lord Ambrose accused his compatriot.
“I still do. But in character, she is no more her father’s daughter than Lord Maccon is Lord Woolsey’s successor or Lord Akeldama is Walsingham’s.”
Lady Maccon glared. “If you mean that I think for myself and make my own choices, then you are spot-on. Now, I must see the countess immediately. I have—”
Lord Ambrose didn’t budge. “I must take possession of your parasol.”
“Absolutely not. We may need it shortly, especially if you don’t let me in. I tell you I have—”
“I must insist.”
“Let her in, Ambrose dear.” Countess Nadasdy had a voice as warm as butter and just as greasy. She could fry people with that voice, if she wanted to.
Immediately, Lord Ambrose moved out of Alexia’s direct line of sight, revealing the interior of the chamber. It was a very-well-appointed boudoir, complete with not only a massive canopied bed, but also a full sitting area and other highly desirable accoutrements. There was the latest and most sophisticated in exsanguination warmers, an overlarge teapot for storing blood with multiple spouts and tubing attached. Both the pot and the tubes wore knitted tea cozies, and there was a warming brazier underneath to keep the vital liquid moving through the tubes.
The countess was indeed at tea. Her version being a lavish affair, complete with lace-covered tea trolley set out with teacups and matched teapot of fine china painted with little pink roses and edged in silver. There were pink and white petits fours that no one was eating and cups of tea that no one was drinking. A three-tiered serving dish of silver held a tempting display of finger sandwiches and sugared rose petals, and there was even a small platter of . . . could it be? Treacle tart!
Lady Maccon was excessively fond of treacle tart.
The assembled drones and guests were all dressed in shades of white, pale green, and pink to accessorize the decor. Elegant Greek urns held massive arrangements of flowers—pale cream roses with pink edges and long leaf ferns. It was all very well coordinated, perhaps too well, as a scientific etching of an animal compares to the real thing.
A second tea trolley was also prominently displayed, similarly draped in a fine lace cloth. It was one of the lower styles meant for front parlors and afternoon visiting hours. Upon it lay the supine form of a young lady, dressed to match the china in a white damask evening gown with pink flowers. Her throat was bare and exposed, and her fine blond hair was piled high and off of her neck.
The countess, it would appear, had a very particular definition of high tea.
“Oh, dear. I do hate to interrupt you at mealtime,” said Lady Maccon, not at all apologetically. “But I have the mo
st important information to impart.”
She waddled forward, only to have her way blocked yet again by Lord Ambrose. “My Queen, I must protest, a soulless in your inner sanctum. While you are at table!”
Countess Nadasdy looked up from the young girl’s fine white neck. “Ambrose. We have been over this before.” Alexia had never thought the Westminster queen entirely suited the role of vampire. Not that Lady Maccon’s opinion mattered much. If the rumors were to be believed, Countess Nadasdy had been suiting the role for over a thousand years. Possibly two. But, unlike Lord Ambrose, she simply didn’t look the part. She was a cozy little woman—short and on the plump side. Her cheeks were round and rosy, and her big eyes sparked. True, the blush was mercuric and the eyes sparkled with belladonna and calculation, not humor, but it was hard to feel threatened by a woman who looked like the living incarnation of one of Lord Akeldama’s shepherdess seduction paintings.
“She is a hunter,” protested Lord Ambrose.
“She is a lady. Aren’t you, Lady Maccon?”
Alexia looked down at her protruding belly. “So the evidence would seem to suggest.” The baby inside of her moved around as though to punctuate the statement. Yes, said Alexia to it internally, I don’t like Lord Ambrose either. But now is not the time for histrionics.
“Ah, yes, felicitations on the imminent event.”
“Let us hope not all that imminent. Incidentally, my apologies, venerable ones. Until recently, you seem to have found the advent of my progeny discombobulating.”
“Exactly, My Queen, we cannot have that—”
Lady Maccon interrupted Lord Ambrose by the simple expedient of prodding his ribs with her parasol. She aimed exactly for that point in the rib cage that the ticklish find most discomposing. Not that vampires got ticklish, so far as Alexia was aware, but it was the principle of the thing. “Yes, yes, I know you still would prefer it if I were dead, Lord Ambrose, but never mind that now. Countess, listen to me. You have to get away.”
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