While she sipped cautiously at the tin mug, surprised to find the offering a delicious Assam, he lit up the small hydraulic engine she had noticed at the back of the carriage. With much creaking and groaning, a massive parasol pulled itself upright and then unfolded to shade the open carriage. Alexia snapped her own small parasol shut, glaring at it with an entirely unwarranted sense of inadequacy. It was a good little parasol and hardly deserving of such a jaundiced look.
They passed a distinctly pleasant additional hour in each other's company, sipping tea and nibbling a box of rosewater and lemon Turkish delight that Mr. MacDougall had invested in for this occasion especially. In no time, it seemed, Mr. MacDougall was lowering the gigantic parasol and driving Miss Tarabotti back home.
The young gentleman helped her down from his carriage at the Loontwills' front steps feeling justifiably pleased with the success of their outing, but Alexia forestalled him when he tried to see her all the way to the door.
“Please do not mistake my refusal for rudeness,” she explained delicately. “But you do not wish to encounter my relations just now. They are not up to your caliber of intellect, I am ashamed to say.” She suspected her mother and sisters were out shopping, but she needed some excuse. The way his eyes looked right now, he might make a declaration, and then where would she be?
The scientist nodded gravely. “I completely understand, my dear Miss Tarabotti. My own relatives are similarly afflicted. May I call again?”
Alexia did not smile. It would not do to be coy when she had no intention of returning his advances. “You may, but not tomorrow, Mr. MacDougall. You will be preparing for your speech.”
“The next day?” He was persistent. “That way I can tell you how the opening celebrations went.”
Very forward, American men. Alexia sighed inwardly but nodded her acquiescence.
Mr. MacDougall assumed the driver's seat, tipped his hat, and urged his chestnut beauties into a sedate withdrawal.
Miss Tarabotti pretended she was remaining on the stoop to wave him off. Once he was out of sight, however, she nipped furtively back down the front steps and round the side of the house.
“You certainly kept a close watch,” she accused the man lurking there.
“Good afternoon, Miss Tarabotti,” he said in a polite if mild voice—milder than usual, even for Professor Lyall, almost weak sounding.
Alexia frowned in concern. She tried to get a good look at his face under the ostentatious hat. “How came you to be on duty today, sir? I would have thought Lord Maccon required your expertise elsewhere.”
The professor looked pale and drawn, normal in a vampire but not in a werewolf. The lines on his face had deepened with strain, and his eyes were bloodshot. “Miss Tarabotti, it is getting on to full moon; his lordship has to be careful who he puts out to guard you come daylight. The young ones are not very stable at this time of the month.”
Alexia sniffed. “I appreciate his concern for my well-being. But I had thought there were others in BUR who might not be so taxed by daylight service. When is the moon?”
“Tomorrow night.”
Miss Tarabotti frowned. “Same time as Mr. MacDougall's speech at the Hypocras Club,” she said softly to herself.
“What?” The professor looked too tired to be interested.
Alexia waved a hand in the air. “Oh, nothing of import. You should go home, Professor, get some rest. You look absolutely awful. He should not work you so hard.”
The Beta smiled. “It is part of my purpose.”
“To exhaust yourself protecting me?”
“To safeguard his interests.”
Miss Tarabotti gave him a horrified look. “I hardly think that an apt description.” Lyall, who'd seen the crested carriage parked just the other side of the Loontwill house, did not reply to that.
There was a pause.
“What did he do?” Alexia asked.
“Who?” replied Professor Lyall, although he knew perfectly well what she was asking about.
“The man you pretended to stumble into.”
“Mmm.” The werewolf was cagey. “It was more what he had.”
Miss Tarabotti tilted her head and looked inquiring.
“I wish you a pleasant evening, Miss Tarabotti,” said Professor Lyall.
Alexia gave him an exasperated look, then marched back up the front stairs and inside her house.
The family was clearly out, but Floote was waiting for her in the foyer with a most un-Floote-like expression of perturbation on his face. The door to the front parlor was open, a certain sign of visitors. Alexia was shocked. The Loontwills could not possibly have been expecting company, otherwise they would never have left the premises.
“Who is here, Floote?” she asked, fumbling with her hatpin.
The butler raised both eyebrows at her.
Alexia swallowed, suddenly nervous. She removed her hat and gloves and put them carefully on the hall table.
She took a moment to compose herself, checking her hair in the framed gilt hallway mirror. The dark mass was arranged a tad long for daytime, but she had a bite mark to cover up, and it was too hot for high necklines. She twitched several curls into place to better cover her bruise. Her own face looked back at her: firm chin, dark eyes, militant expression. Alexia touched her nose. Mr. Mac-Dougall thinks you are lovely, she told her reflection.
Then she set her spine as straight as possible and marched into the front parlor.
Lord Conall Maccon whirled about from where he stood. He had been facing the closed velvet curtains of the front window, staring at them as though he might be able to see right through the heavy material. In the dim light of the room, his eyes looked accusatory.
Miss Tarabotti paused on the threshold. Without a word, she turned back around, reached out, and slammed the parlor door shut firmly behind her.
Floote gave the closed door a long, hard look.
Outside in the street, Professor Lyall set his bone-weary self toward the BUR offices—just a few more records to check before bed. With one free hand, he patted a new bulge in his many-pocketed waistcoat. Why, he wondered, was a man with a syringe wandering Hyde Park? He turned back once to look at the Loontwills' house. A sudden smile creased his angular face as he noted the Woolsey Castle carriage waiting nearby. Its crest shone in the late afternoon sun: a quartered shield, two parts a moon-backed castle, two parts a moonless starry night. He wondered if his lord and master would, in fact, grovel.
The Earl of Woolsey wore a suit of dark chocolate, a cravat of caramel silk, and an air of ill-disguised impatience. He had been holding his kid gloves in one hand and slapping them rhythmically into the other when Miss Tarabotti entered the front parlor. He stopped instantly, but she had noted the fidget.
“What bee has gotten into your britches?” Miss Tarabotti asked without any attempt at a formal greeting. Formality was wasted on Lord Maccon. She took up position, arms akimbo, standing on the round primrose rug before him.
The earl countered with a gruff “And where have you been all day?”
Miss Tarabotti was disposed to be elusive. “Out.”
The earl would have none of it. “Out with whom?”
Alexia raised both eyebrows. He would find out from Professor Lyall eventually, so she said archly, “A nice young scientist.”
“Not that butterball chap you were nattering away with at dinner last night?” Lord Maccon looked at her in horror.
Miss Tarabotti glared viciously down her nose at him. Inside she was secretly delighted. He had noticed! “It just so happens that Mr. MacDougall has some absolutely fascinating theories on a wide range of topics, and he is interested in my opinion. Which is more than I can say for certain other gentlemen of my acquaintance. It was a beautiful day and a lovely drive, and he makes for quite an enjoyable conversation partner. A position, I am certain,
