Blameless (Parasol Protectorate #3)

Blameless (Parasol Protectorate #3) Page 5

Final y, Boots cleared his throat delicately. “Very good, Lady Maccon. If you do not require anything further?” And without waiting for her to reply, he turned to leave the room.

“Pip pip. Must, you understand, press on. Top of the morning to you.”

Alexia trailed him out of the room. “But where have they al gone?”

“Can’t tel you that, I’m afraid, Lady Maccon. I understand it’s not safe. Not safe at al .

”

Alexia’s confusion turned to worry.

“Not safe for whom? You, me, or Lord Akeldama?” She noticed he hadn’t actual y admitted to knowing his master’s new location.

Boots paused at the door and looked back. “Now, don’t you worry, Lady Maccon; it’l be al right in the end. Lord Akeldama wil see to it. He always does.”

“Where is he?”

“Why, with the others, of course. Where else would he be? Off and about, you know how it goes. A goodly numbered hunting party has gone afield, you understand, tracking, as it were. Gone to find…” He trailed off. “Oops. Never you mind, Lady Maccon. Just attend to what his lordship said about the cat. Toodles.” And, with that, he gave her a funny little half bow and let himself out of the house.

Alexia, mystified, returned to the drawing room where the calico stil held court. The only thing odd about the animal, apart from the creature’s murderous tendencies toward tassels, was the metal col ar about her neck. Alexia unclipped it and took it over to the window to examine it in the sunlight. It was thin enough to unrol into a flat ribbon and had been punched al along in an apparently random pattern of dots. It reminded Alexia of something. She ran one glove-covered fingertip along the indentations, trying to remember.

Ah, yes. It was very like the loops that fed through music machines, making those little chiming repetitive tunes that so delighted children and so annoyed adults. If this ribbon also made some kind of sound, she would need a means of listening to it. Rather than search Lord Akeldama’s entire house without knowing what exact device she was looking for, and figuring the vampire in question would not be so irresponsible as to leave it on the premises, anyway, she could think of but one person who could help her at this juncture—Madame Lefoux. She headed back out to her carriage.

CHAPTER THREE

Alexia Engages in Entomology

Someone was trying to kil Lady Alexia Maccon. It was most inconvenient, as she was in a dreadful hurry.

Given her previous familiarity with near-death experiences and their comparative frequency with regards to her good self, Alexia should probably have al owed extra time for such a predictable happenstance. Except that in this particular instance, the unpleasant event was occurring in broad daylight, while she was driving down Oxford Street—not, as a general rule, the expected time or location for such an event.

She wasn’t even in a rented hackney. She’d grown to anticipate regular attacks when hired transport was involved, but this time she was riding in a private conveyance. She had pinched Squire Loontwil ’s carriage. As her dear stepfather was giving her the royal heave-ho, she figured he wouldn’t mind if she loaded his personal mode of transport with al her worldly goods and stole it for the day. As it turned out, he did mind, but she wasn’t there to witness his annoyance. He had ended up borrowing his wife’s pony and trap, a contraption decked in yel ow tul e and pink rosettes, which was vastly il suited to both his dignity and girth.

Her attackers didn’t appear wil ing to fol ow previously established patterns in the murder arena. For one thing, they weren’t supernatural. For another, they were ticking

—quite loudly, in fact. Lastly, they were also skittering. They were undertaking the ticking because, so far as Alexia could determine, and she rather preferred not to get too close, they were clockwork, or some variety of windup mechanical. And they were undertaking the skittering because they were beetles—large, shiny red beetles with black spots and multifaceted crystal eyes, boasting nasty-looking syringes that poked upward in place of antennae.

Ladybugs were invading her carriage, a whole herd of them.

Each ladybug was about the size of Alexia’s hand. They were crawling al over the conveyance, trying to break inside. Unfortunately, this did not require much diligence, as the window above the door was open wide enough for any old kil er ladybug to sneak right in.

Alexia lurched up, crushing her poor hat against the ceiling of the cab, and tried to slam the sash closed, but she was far too slow. They were remarkably fast for such tubby creatures. A closer view of those antennae revealed tiny beads of moisture oozing from the tips—probably some brand of poison. She reworked her assessment of her attackers: homicidal mechanical dripping ladybugs— ugh.

She grabbed for her trusty parasol and bashed the first one that she could with the heavy handle. The bug crashed into the opposite wal , fel onto the back-facing seat, and scuttled once more in her general direction. Another mechanical beetle crawled up the wal toward her, and a third pushed itself off of the window sash at her shoulder.

Alexia squealed, half in fear, half in irritation, and began hitting at the creatures as hard and as fast as she could within the confines of the carriage, at the same time trying to think of some part of her parasol’s armament that might help her in this particular situation. For some reason, Madame Lefoux had never specified ladybug protective measures in its anthroscopy. The toxic mist wouldn’t cover enough territory to catch them al , and there was no guarantee either the lapis solaris or the lapis lunearis solutions would have any effect on the creatures. Those liquids were designed to eliminate organics, not metals, and the red and black shel looked to be some kind of shielding enamel or lacquer.

She struck out and whacked at three more of the bugs crawling across the cabin floor, holding the parasol by its tip and wielding it as though it were a croquet mal et. The carriage seemed to be positively swarming with the creatures, al attempting to stick those dripping antennae into some part of Alexia’s anatomy. One of them got perilously close to her arm before she punched it away. Another climbed al the way to her stomach and struck, only to be thwarted by the leather belt of her traveling dress.

She yel ed for help, hoping al the banging and clattering she was making would convince the driver to stop and come to her rescue, but he seemed oblivious. She continued to catalog her parasol options. The numbing dart was use-less, and the metal and wooden stakes equal y so. It was then that she remembered the parasol was equipped with a magnetic disruption field emitter. Desperately, she flipped the accessory around to its normal position and groped along the handle for the one carved lotus petal that protruded slightly more than the others. Catching it with her thumbnail, she pul ed it back, activating the emitter.

It appeared that the deadly ladybugs had iron parts, for the disruption field did as designed and seized up their magnetic components. The beetles, in deference to their nature, al stopped in their tracks and turned upside-down, little mechanical legs drawn up against their undersides just as ordinary dead beetles might. Alexia sent a grateful thank-you to Madame Lefoux for her forethought in including the emitter, and began hurriedly scooping up and throwing the ladybugs out the carriage window before the disruption field wore off, careful not to touch those sticky, dripping antennae. Her skin shivered in disgust.

The driver, final y discerning that something was not quite right with his passenger, drew up the carriage, jumped down from the box, and came around to the door, just in time to get bonked on the head with a discarded ladybug.

“Al right there, Lady Maccon?” he asked, giving her a pained look and rubbing his forehead.

“Don’t just stand there waffling!” instructed her ladyship, as though she wasn’t bumping about the interior of the carriage, pausing only to throw enormous red bugs out of its windows. “Drive on, you cretin! Drive on!”

Best get myself into a public place, thought Alexia, until I’m certain I’m out of danger. And I need a moment to calm my nerves.

The driver turned to do her bidding, only to be forestal ed by a “Wait! I’ve changed my mind. Take me to the nearest teahouse.”

The man returned to his post with an expression that spoke volumes on his feelings over how low the aristocracy had fal en. He clicked the horses into a trot and pul ed the carriage back out into London traffic.

Showing worthy forethought, Alexia felt, under such trying circumstances, she trapped one of the bugs in a large pink hatbox, drawing the cords tight. In her agitation, she accidental y dumped the box’s previous occupant (a rather nice velvet riding topper with burgundy ribbon) out the window. Her precautionary measures were undertaken none too soon, for the disruption field wore off and the hatbox began to shake violently.

The bug wasn’t sophisticated enough to escape, but it would keep skittering about inside its new prison.

Just to be certain, Lady Maccon stuck her head out the window to look behind and see if the other ladybugs continued their pursuit. They were trundling in confused circles in the middle of the street. So was her velvet hat, burgundy ribbons trailing behind. It must have landed on top of one of the bugs. With a sigh of relief, Alexia sat back, placing one hand firmly on top of the hatbox.

The Lottapiggle Tea Shop on Cavendish Square was a popular watering hole among ladies of quality, and midmorning was a popular time to be seen there. Alexia alighted at the curb, instructed the driver to meet her at Chapeau de Poupe in two hours’ time, and then dashed inside. The streets were not yet busy, so she would have to wait out the quietest part of the day until the real shopping began.

The inside of Lottapiggle was, however, quite as crowded as Alexia might want. No one would dare attack her further there. Unfortunately, while she had momentarily forgotten her ruined reputation, no one else in London had, and ladybugs weren’t the only kinds of ladies with vicious tendencies.

Lady Maccon was al owed in, seated, and served, but the twitching hats and excited chattering of the women assembled abruptly ceased upon sight of her. The hats craned about eagerly, and the chattering evolved into whispered commentary and very pointed looks. One or two matrons, accompanied by impressionable young daughters, stood and left in a rustle of deeply offended dignity. Most, however, were far too curious to see Lady Maccon and were quite giddy at being in her disgraced presence. They basked in the delectable shock of the latest and greatest scandal calmly sipping tea and eating dry toast among them!

Of course, such marked attention might be attributed to the fact that said lady was carrying with her a ticking, quivering hatbox, which she proceeded to place careful y on the seat next to her and then tie to the seat back with the strap of her reticule for security.

As though the hatbox might try to escape. At that, al expressions indicated that the tea-swil ing ladies felt Lady Maccon had lost her sense along with her reputation.

Alexia ignored them al and took a moment to put her finer feelings back in order and soothe her ladybug-addled nerves with the necessary application of a hot beverage.

Feeling more the thing, she made several forthright decisions that resulted in her requesting pen and paper from the hostess. She dashed off three quick notes and then settled in to wait out the lazy part of the morning. Several hours passed thus agreeably, with nothing but an occasional lurch from the hatbox to disturb her reverie.

Upon entering Chapeau de Poupe, Professor Lyal thought that the proprietress was looking a little tired and substantial y older than when he’d seen her last. This was peculiar, as on al their previous encounters, the lady inventor had possessed that indefatigably French air of agelessness. Of the kind, of course, that did not come from actual y being ageless. She was dressed in her usual odd attire—that is to say, masculine clothing. Most of them considered this shockingly inappropriate, but some were coming to expect such eccentricities from artists, authors, and now mil iners. That said, Madame Lefoux may have been dressed as a man, but that did not stop her from being stylish about it, employing perfect tailoring and pleasing subtle grays and blues.

Professor Lyal approved.

Madame Lefoux glanced up from an emerald-green silk bonnet she was trimming with satin roses. “Ah, she wanted to see you as well ? Very good. Sensible of her.”

The establishment was devoid of customers despite the excel ent selection of headgear, probably because a polite little sign on the door indicated it was currently closed to visitors. The hats were beautiful y arranged, displayed not on stands but dangling at the ends of gold chains attached to the arched ceiling far above. They fel to different heights so that one had to brush through them to cross the shop. The hats swayed slightly as Professor Lyal did so, simulating a pleasing undersea forest.

Professor Lyal took off his hat and bowed. “Sent a note a few hours ago. She has her moments, does our Lady Maccon.”

“And you brought Woolsey’s librarian with you?” Madame Lefoux’s perfectly tended eyebrows arched in surprise. “That is unexpected.”