Heartless (Parasol Protectorate #4)

Heartless (Parasol Protectorate #4) Page 16

Mrs. Tunstell stood as well. “To Scotland I go, investigating assignation attempts of the past!”

“Assassination,” corrected Lady Maccon.

“Yes, that. I must find my extra special hairmuffs for dirigible travel. I had them made to match my own curls. They are rather stunning, if I do say so myself.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Lady Maccon returned to her new house and then made her way across to Lord Akeldama’s. Floote’s builders produced exemplary work. They had constructed a small secret drawbridge between the two balconies that operated by way of a hydraulic lever. It flipped downward. At the same time an elaborate spring mechanism caused the railing on each balcony to fold away. This allowed Alexia to easily traverse from one building to the next despite encumbrances.

She retired to her closet with alacrity. She had been keeping remarkably odd hours recently, what with having to consult daylight folk yet living with the supernatural set. It was of little consequence, as the infant-inconvenience was making it increasingly arduous to sleep for any length of time without some part of her body going numb or some unmentionable function driving her out of bed. Really, pregnancy was the most undignified thing she had ever had to endure in all her life, and for several years Alexia Tarabotti had been a confirmed spinster living with the Loontwills—a most undignified state—so that was saying something.

She slept restlessly, shifting aside when her husband joined her only to be awakened fully just after sunset by someone banging on the closet door.

“Conall, there is someone at the door to our bedroom!” She shook her massive husband where he lay in a boneless pile next to her.

He snuffled softly and rolled over, trying to gather her in closer. He had to settle for patting her belly absently and burrowing into her neck.

Alexia arched against him as much as she was able, enjoying the affection and the movement of his lips against her skin. For such a scruffy man, he had very soft lips.

“Darling, light of my life, lord of my heart, there is someone at the door to our closet, seeking entrance. And I don’t believe Lord Akeldama and his boys are awake yet.”

The earl merely burrowed in against her with greater interest, apparently finding the flavor of her neck most intriguing.

The door shook and rattled as whoever it was seemed to be trying to physically force it open. But for all Lord Akeldama’s frolicsome decorative choices, his town house was built with the supernatural in mind, the protection of his clothing being paramount. The door barely budged. Someone on the other side yelled, but a door so massive that it could withstand shoe thieves could also muffle even the loudest commentary on the subject.

Lady Maccon was becoming concerned. “Conall, get up and answer the door, do! Really, it sounds most pressing.”

“I, too, have matters that are pressing and must needs be taken into hand.”

Alexia giggled at the terribleness of both pun and innuendo. She was pleased her husband still thought her attractive, despite her beached-whale state, but was finding it increasingly awkward to accommodate him. The spirit was willing but the flesh was swollen. Still, she enjoyed the compliment and understood that there was no real demand behind the caresses. The earl knew her well enough to realize she valued his desire almost as much as his love. After a lifetime of feeling ugly and unworthy, Alexia was now tolerably assured that Conall genuinely did want her, even if they could do nothing about it at present. She also understood that he was expressing his conjugal interest partly out of knowledge of her own need for such assurances. A werewolf and a buffoon, her husband, but wonderfully caring once he’d blundered into the way of it.

And yet, someone was still torturing their poor door. Conall blinked awake, his tawny eyes wide and direct. He kissed the tip of his wife’s long nose and, with a massive sigh, rolled out of bed and lumbered over to the door.

Alexia, sleepy lidded, admired his backside, then shrieked, “Conall, robe! For goodness’ sake.”

Her husband ignored her, throwing open the door and crossing his arms over a wide, hairy chest. He was wearing not one stitch of clothing. Alexia sank down under the covers in mortification.

She need not have worried; it was only Professor Lyall.

“Randolph,” grumbled her husband, “what’s all the ruckus about?”

“It’s Biffy, my lord. Best come quickly. You’re needed.”

“Already?” Lord Maccon swore a blue streak, his blistering language the result of military service combined with a creative imagination. After a glance about the room, he seemed to decide that changing his form would be faster than getting dressed. He began to shift, the musculature underneath his skin rearranging, the hair on his head migrating downward and turning into fur. Quick enough, he dropped to all fours. Then he dashed out and down the hall, presumably to leap the gap between houses and see to whatever had gone wrong. Alexia caught sight of the brindled tip of his fluffy tail as he skidded out of sight without even a nod in her direction.

“What is it, Professor?” she demanded imperiously before her husband’s Beta could follow in his Alpha’s wake. It was rather unlike Professor Lyall to disturb them with such forcefulness. It was equally rare for there to be any issue so in need of the earl’s attention that his second could not delay the matter or handle the preliminaries himself.

Professor Lyall turned back to the dim interior with a reluctant droop to his posture. “It’s Biffy, my lady. He really is not handling the curse well this month. He fights it too much, and the more he fights it, the more painful it is.”

“But it’s over a week until full moon! How long will he suffer such bouts of early physiological disjunction?” Poor Biffy. It is so embarrassing—premature transfluctuation.

“Difficult to say. Could be years, could be decades of losing nights around full moon until he has better control. All new pups are like this, although they are not often taken so suddenly or so badly as Biffy. Usually it is only a few days before the moon. Biffy’s cycle is off.”

Alexia winced. “And you could not?.?.?.??”

Backlit by the expensively bright gas lighting of Lord Akeldama’s hallway, it was impossible to make out the werewolf’s expression. Even if she could, knowing Professor Lyall, his face would not reveal much.

“In the end, I am only a Beta, Lady Maccon. When a werewolf is in wolf form, moonstruck and rampaging, there is nothing that can calm or control him except an Alpha. You must have realized by now that there is much more to Alpha than being simply big and strong. There is power of restraint and wolf-form intelligence as well.”

“But, Professor Lyall, you are very restrained all the time.”

“Thank you, Lady Maccon. There can be no higher compliment to a werewolf, but mine is a matter of self-control only. That does others little good.”

“Except that you lead by example.”

“Except that. And now I should leave you to get dressed. I believe we may expect your results from BUR shortly.”

“My results?”

“Those little OBO bottles of mysterious liquid.”

“Ah, yes, fantastic! Will you please arrange for Floote and I to have the carriage after supper? I must visit Woolsey’s library as soon as possible.”

The Beta nodded. “I have a feeling it will already be commissioned. We’ll have to take Biffy to the countryside for his confinement. His most recent inabilities have resulted in some rather disastrous redecoration of your back parlor.”

“Oh, no, really? And after the drones did such a lovely job with it.”

“We had to lock him somewhere, and that room has no windows.”

“I understand. But claw marks are murder on wallpaper.”

“Too true, Lady Maccon.”

Professor Lyall drifted away and, because he was Professor Lyall, managed to corral one of Lord Akeldama’s drones, just awakened, to help Lady Maccon dress.

Boots stuck his head in before catching sight of Lady Maccon still abed. The head instantly retreated and a back was presented in the doorway.

“Oh, dear me, most sorry, Lady M. Can’t be me. Couldn’t handle it a second time. Not that noble. I’ll go rustle up someone a little more suitable to assist you. Shall I? Be back in a jiff.”

Mystified, Alexia began the laborious process of squirming herself around and lurching by stages out of bed. She was just standing when Lord Akeldama came traipsing merrily into the room. “Top of the evening to you, my blooming marigold! My lovelorn little Boots said you could use a bit of twisting up, and I thought since I was awake I might avail myself of your delicious company and provide much-needed assistance simultaneously.”

Lord Akeldama himself was not yet properly dressed for the evening. His affected monocle was absent, as were the obligatory spots of rouge on his alabaster cheeks and the ridiculous spats about his ankles. Nevertheless, even in his least formal attire, Lord Akeldama excelled.

“But, my dear friend, your knees!”

He was wearing royal blue breeches of watered silk, a damask waistcoat of white and gold, and a quilted velvet smoking jacket ornamented with brandenbourgs. His trousers were of such very fine quality, Alexia was quite aghast that the vampire should even consider playing at lady’s maid, for he might have to kneel—on the floor!

“Oh, phooey, you know me, darling—always open to an adventure à la toilette.”

Lord Akeldama was a man who Lady Maccon very much doubted had had much to do with dressing—or undressing—ladies on a regular basis, yet he seemed more than equal to the task. In the early days of her pregnancy, Alexia might have managed it herself, rejecting her corset and selecting a carriage dress or some other gown that fastened up the front. However, at this point, she couldn’t even see her own feet, let alone touch them. So she acquiesced to this very strange new form of servant.

“I suppose it was courteous of Professor Lyall to think to send someone in. But really, if a gentleman who is not my husband is to see me bare, why not him?”

Lord Akeldama sashayed over to her, scooping up her underthings along the way. He tittered at the very idea. “Oh, my darling pea blossom, your professor might enjoy it a little too much. Like my poor Boots. And they are both gentlemen of principle.” His hands began nimbly dealing with ties and buttons.

“What could you possibly be implying, my lord?” Lady Maccon asked this from within a chemise partly stuck over her head.

The vampire pulled the fine muslin down and smoothed it out over her belly with a little pat. His other hand was on her naked arm, and the contact turned him human in that moment. His fine, sharp fangs vanished, his pale white skin flushed slightly peach, and his lustrous blond hair lost a mote of its brilliance. He grinned at her, his face more effeminate than ethereal. “La, honeysuckle, you are well aware that we here are all, in our own special way, deviants in our penchants.”

Lady Maccon thought about Lord Akeldama’s drawing room with all its gilt and tassels. Even knowing this was not the vampire’s point of reference, she nodded. “Oh, yes, I noticed.”

Lord Akeldama rarely shrugged, for this upset the fall of his jacket, but he looked as though he would have at this juncture. Instead, he flounced over to the side of the room where Alexia’s clothing hung on a long rack and began perusing various gowns, eyeing each with a discerning eye.

“Not that one,” said Alexia when he paused overlong, considering a green and gold stripe.

“No?”

“The décolletage is too low.”

“My dearest girl, this is a good design point, not a bad one. You should accentuate your best features.”

“No, honestly, my lord, these days I—how to put this?—overflow. It’s terribly incommodious.” Alexia made a kind of flip-forward gesture with both hands at her bosom area. Always substantial, that particular region had expanded to near scenic proportions over the last few months. Lord Maccon was delighted. Lady Maccon found it ridiculous. As if I weren’t well enough endowed to start with!

“Ah, yes. I do see your point, periwinkle.” He moved on.

“You were saying, about Professor Lyall?”

“What I mean to articulate, honey bee, is that there are levels of deviation. Some of us are, shall we say, more experimental than others in our tastes. In some, I believe it is a matter of boredom, in others it is nature, and for still others it is indifference.” The vampire’s tone of voice was filled with the usual airy flippancy, but Alexia had a feeling this was something he had studied much over the centuries. Also, Lord Akeldama never doled out information without good reason.

The vampire continued to prattle on as he sorted through her wardrobe without looking up at her, as though he were having a conversation with the dresses. “So few are lucky enough to love where they will. Or unlucky, I suppose.” Finally, he selected a walking outfit comprised of a ruffled purple skirt, cream blouse, and square cropped Spanish jacket in mauve. Despite the fact that there was very little trim, something about it clearly appealed to him. Alexia was delighted with this choice, as the outfit coordinated with one of her favorite hats, a little mauve bowler with a purple ostrich feather.