Changeless

same conclusion.

He was, however, decidedly against the idea that she should go trailing after.

“Well, who else should go? I, at least, will remain entirely unaffected by the affliction.”

Professor Lyall glared at her. “No one should go after it. The earl is perfectly capable of handling the situation, even if he doesn’t yet know he has two problems to deal with. You seem to have failed to realize we all wandered around undamaged for centuries before you appeared in our lives.”

“Yes, but look what a mess you have made of things prior to my arrival.” Lady Maccon was not to be dissuaded from her chosen course of action. “Someone has to tell Conall that Kingair is to blame.”

“If none of them are changing, he’ll find out as soon as he arrives. His lordship would not like you following him.”

“His lordship can eat my fat—” Lady Maccon paused, thought the better of her crass words, and said, “—does not have to like it. Nor do you. The fact remains that this morning Floote will secure for me passage on the afternoon’s dirigible to Glasgow. His lordship can take it up with me when I arrive.”

Professor Lyall had no doubt that his poor Alpha would do just that and be similarly humbled. Still, he would not give in so easily. “You shall have to take Tunstell with you, at the very least. The lad has been pining to visit the north ever since his lordship left, and he will be able to keep an eye on you.”

Lady Maccon was truculent. “I do not need him. Have you seen my new parasol?”

Lyall had seen the purchase order and been suitably impressed, but he was no fool. “A woman, even a married woman, cannot float without proper escort. It is simply not done. You and I are both well aware of that fact.”

Lady Maccon frowned. He was right, bother it. She sighed and figured that at least Tunstell was a pushover.

“Oh, very well, if you insist,” she conceded with ill grace.

The intrepid Beta, older than most werewolves still living in the greater London environs—Lord Maccon and the dewan included—did the only thing he could under the circumstances. Pulled his cravat aside to expose his neck, gave a little bow, and took himself off to bed without another word, leaving Lady Maccon in possession of the field.

Her ladyship sent the hovering Floote to rouse poor Tunstell from his bed and give him the unexpected news that he would be departing for Scotland. The claviger, who had only just climbed into bed, having spent the better part of the night looking at ladies’ hats, wondered a tad about the sanity of his mistress.

Just after sunrise, having gotten very little sleep, Lady Maccon commenced packing. Or, it should be said more precisely that Lady Maccon commenced arguing with Angelique over what should be packed. She was interrupted by a visit from the only person on the planet capable of consistently routing her in verbal skirmishes.

Floote brought up the message.

“Good gracious, what on earth is she doing here? And at such an early hour!” Alexia put the calling card back down on the little silver tray; checked her appearance, which was only just passable for receiving; and wondered if she should take the time to change. Should one risk keeping a caller waiting or face criticism for being dressed in attire unbecoming to a lady of rank? She chose the latter, deciding to get the encounter over and done with as quickly as possible.

The woman waiting for her in the front parlor was a diminutive blond with a rosy complexion that owed more to artifice than nature, wearing a visiting dress of pink and white stripes that would better suit a lady half her age.

“Mama,” said Lady Maccon, presenting her cheek for the halfhearted kiss her mother wafted in her direction.

“Oh, Alexia,” cried Mrs. Loontwill, as though she had not seen her eldest in years. “I am quite overset with the most nervous misery; such a to-do is afoot. I require your immediate assistance.”

Lady Maccon was dumbfounded—a state that did not afflict her often. Firstly, her mother had not insulted her appearance. Secondly, her mother actually seemed to be seeking her help in some matter. Her help.

“Mama, do sit. You are quite discombobulated. I shall order tea.” She gestured to a chair, and Mrs. Loontwill sank into it gratefully. “Rumpet,” Alexia addressed the hovering butler, “tea, please. Or would you prefer sherry, Mama?”

“Oh, I am not that overset.”

“Tea, Rumpet.”

“However, the situation is very dire. Such poopitations of the heart as you would not believe.”

“Palpitations,” corrected her daughter softly.

Mrs. Loontwill relaxed slightly, and then all of a sudden sat up straight as a poker, looking wildly about. “Alexia, none of your husband’s associates are in residence, are they?”

This was her mother’s delicate way of referring to the pack.

“Mama, it is full daylight. They are all in residence, but they are also all abed. I, myself, have been up most of the night.” She said this last as a subtle hint, but her mother existed well beyond subtlety.

“Well, you would marry into the supernatural set. Not that I am complaining about your catch, my dear, far from it.” Mrs. Loontwill puffed up her chest like a pink-striped quail. “My daughter, Lady Maccon.”

It was a constant source of amazement to Alexia that the only thing she had ever done in her entire life that pleased her mama was marry a werewolf.

“Mama, I really have a great deal to accomplish this morning. And you indicated you were visiting regarding a matter of some considerable urgency. What has happened?”

“Well, you see, it is your sisters.”

“You finally comprehend what intolerable little ninnies they both are?”

“Alexia!”

“What about them, Mama?” Lady Maccon was wary. It wasn’t that she did not love her sisters; it was simply that she did not like them very much. They were half sisters to be precise: Misses Loontwills the pair of them, while Alexia had been a Miss Tarabotti before her marriage. They were as blond, as silly, and as nonpreternatural as their pink-striped mama.

“They are in the most terrible argument at the moment.”

“Evylin and Felicity are fighting? How surprising.” The sarcasm was entirely lost on Mrs. Loontwill.

“I know! But I speak nothing but truth. You must comprehend perfectly my distress at this. You see, Evylin has become engaged. Not a catch quite up to your standards, of course—we cannot expect lightning to strike twice—but a tolerable match. The gentleman is not supernatural, thank heavens; one irregular in-law is more than enough. Regardless, Felicity cannot countenance the fact that her younger sister will marry before her. She is being perfectly beastly over the whole thing. So Evylin suggested, and I agree, that perhaps she needs to get out of London for a spell. So I suggested, and Mr. Loontwill agreed, that a trip to the countryside would be just the thing to brighten up her spirits. So I have brought her here, to you.”

Lady Maccon did not quite follow. “You have brought Evylin?”

“No, dear, no. Do pay attention! I have brought Felicity.” Mrs. Loontwill produced a ruffled fan and began waggling it about violently.

“What, here?”

“Now you are being purposefully dull-witted,” accused her mother, prodding her with the fan.

“I am?” Where was Rumpet with the tea? Lady Maccon was in desperate need. Her mother often caused that kind of reaction.

“I have brought her here to stay with you, of course.”

“What! For how long?”

“As long as is required.”

“But, what?”

“I am certain you could use the company of family,” insisted her mother. She took a moment to glance about the parlor, a cluttered but friendly room, full of books and large pieces of leather furnishing. “And this place could