“Balderdash,” said Lord Maccon. “She cannot possibly have more than a quarter century or so.”
“And she is very”—the professor looked for a gentlemanly way of putting it—“assertive.”
“Pah.” The nobleman waved one large paw dismissively. “Simply got a jot more backbone than most females this century. There must be plenty of discerning gentlemen who'd cop to her value.”
Professor Lyall had a well-developed sense of self-preservation and the distinct feeling that if he said anything desultory about the young lady's appearance, he might actually get his head bitten off. He, and the rest of polite society, might believe Miss Tarabotti's skin a little too dark and her nose a little too prominent, but he did not think Lord Maccon felt the same. Lyall had been Beta to the fourth Earl of Woolsey since Conall Maccon first descended upon them all. With barely twenty years gone and the bloody memory still strong, no werewolf was yet ready to question why Conall had wanted the bother of the London territory, not even Professor Lyall. The earl was a confusing man, his taste in females equally mystifying. For all Professor Lyall knew, his Alpha might actually like Roman noses, tan skin, and an assertive disposition. So instead he said, “Perhaps it's the Italian last name, sir, that keeps her unwed.”
“Mmm,” agreed Lord Maccon, “probably so.” He did not sound convinced.
The two werewolves exited the duke's town house into the black London night, one bearing the body of a dead vampire, the other, a puzzled expression.
CHAPTER TWO
An Unexpected Invitation
Miss Tarabotti generally kept her soulless state quite hush-hush, even from her own family. She was not undead, mind you; she was a living, breathing human but was simply... lacking. Neither her family nor the members of the social circles she frequented ever noticed she was missing anything. Miss Tarabotti seemed to them only a spinster, whose unfortunate condition was clearly the result of a combination of domineering personality, dark complexion, and overly strong facial features. Alexia thought it too much of a bother to go around explaining soullessness to the ill-informed masses. It was almost, though not quite, as embarrassing as having it known that her father was both Italian and dead.
The ill-informed masses included her own family among their ranks, a family that specialized in being both inconvenient and asinine.
“Would you look at this!” Felicity Loontwill waved a copy of the Morning Post at the assembled breakfast table. Her father, the Right Honorable Squire Loontwill, did not divert his concentrated attention from the consumption of an eight-minute egg and toast. But her sister, Evylin, glanced up inquiringly, and her mama said, “What is it, my dear?” pausing in midsip of her medicinal barley water.
Felicity pointed to a passage in the society section of the paper. “It says here that there was a particularly gruesome incident at the ball last night! Did you know there was an incident? I do not remember any incident!”
Alexia frowned at her own egg in annoyance. She had been under the impression Lord Maccon was going to keep everything respectfully quiet and out of the society papers. She refused to acknowledge the fact that the sheer number of people who had seen her with the dead vampire meant that any such endeavor was practically impossible. After all, the earl's purported specialty was accomplishing several impossible things before dawn.
Felicity elaborated, “Apparently someone died. No name has been released, but a genuine death, and I missed it entirely! A young lady discovered him in the library and fainted from the shock. Poor lamb, how horrific for her.”
Evylin, the youngest, clucked her tongue sympathetically and reached for the pot of gooseberry jelly. “Does it say who the young lady is?”
Felicity rubbed her nose delicately and read on. “Unfortunately, no.”
Alexia raised both eyebrows and sipped her tea in un-characteristic silence. She winced at the flavor, looked with narrowed eyes at her cup, and then reached for the creamer.
Evylin spread jelly with great attention to applying a precisely even layer over the top of the toast. “How very tiresome! I should love to know all the relevant details. It is like something out of a gothic novel. Anything else interesting?”
“Well, the article continues on with a more extensive review of the ball. Goodness, the writer even criticizes the Duchess of Snodgrove for not providing refreshments.”
“Well, really,” said Evylin in heartfelt agreement, “even Almack's has those bland little sandwiches. It is not as if the duke could not see to the expense.”
“Too true, my dear,” agreed Mrs. Loontwill.
Felicity glanced at the byline of the article. “Written by 'anonymous.' No commentary on anyone's attire. Well, I call that a pretty poor showing. He does not even mention Evylin or me.”
The Loontwill girls were quite popular in the papers, partly for their generally well-turned-out appearance and partly because of the remarkable number of beaux they had managed to garner between them. The entire family, with the exception of Alexia, enjoyed this popularity immensely and did not seem to mind if what was written was not always complimentary. So long as something was written.
Evylin looked annoyed. A small crease appeared between her perfectly arched brows. “I wore my new pea- green gown with the pink water lily trim simply so they'd write about it.”
Alexia winced. She would prefer not to be reminded of that gown—so many ruffles.
The unfortunate by-product of Mrs. Loontwill's second marriage, both Felicity and Evylin were markedly different from their older half sister. No one upon meeting the three together would have thought Alexia related to the other two at all. Aside from an obvious lack of Italian blood and completely soul-ridden states, Felicity and Evylin were both quite beautiful: pale insipid blondes with wide blue eyes and small rosebud mouths. Sadly, like their dear mama, they were not much more substantive than “quite beautiful.” Breakfast conversation was, therefore, not destined to be of the intellectual caliber that Alexia aspired to. Still, Alexia was pleased to hear the subject turn toward something more mundane than murder.
“Well, that's all it says about the ball.” Felicity paused, switching her attention to the society announcements. “This is very interesting. That nice tearoom near Bond Street has decided to remain open until two am to accommodate and cultivate supernatural clientele. Next thing you know, they will be serving up raw meat and flutes of blood on a regular basis. Do you think we should still frequent the venue, Mama?”
Mrs. Loontwill looked up once more from her barley and lemon water. “I do not see how it can do too much harm, my dear.”
Squire Loontwill added, swallowing a bite of toast, “Some of the better investors run with the nighttime crowd, my pearl. You could do worse when hunting down suitors for the girls.”
“Really, Daddy,” admonished Evylin, “you make Mama sound like a werewolf on the rampage.”
Mrs. Loontwill gave her husband a suspicious glance. “You haven't been frequenting Claret's or Sangria these last few evenings, have you?” She sounded as though she suspected London of being suddenly overrun with were- wolves, ghosts, and vampires, and her husband fraternizing with them all.
The squire hurriedly backed away from the conversation. “Of course not, my pearl, only Boodles. You know I prefer my own club to those of the supernatural set.”
“Speaking of gentlemen's clubs,” interrupted Felicity, still immersed in the paper, “a new one opened last week in Mayfair. It caters to intellectuals, philosophers, scientists, and their ilk—of all things. It calls itself the Hypocras Club. How absurd. Why would such a class of individual need a club? Isn't that what they have public museums for?” She frowned over the address. “Terribly fashionable location, though.” She showed the printed page to her mother. “Isn't that next door to the Duke of Snodgrove's town house?”
Mrs. Loontwill nodded. “Quite right, my dear. Well, a parcel of scientists coming and going at all hours of the day and night will certainly lower the tenor of that neighborhood. I should think the duchess would be in a veritable fit over this occurrence. I had intended to send round a thank-you card for last night's festivities. Now I think I might pay her a call in person this afternoon. As a concerned friend, I really ought to check on her emotional state.”
“How ghastly for her,” said Alexia, driven beyond endurance into comment. “People actually thinking, with
