Changeless

distracting.

“I understand you got into an argument late last night, after our little escapade.” Lady Maccon did not sugarcoat her words.

Madame Lefoux puffed out her lips. “I might have yelled at the steward for his negligence. He did take an inexcusably long time to get that rope ladder.”

“The argument was in French.”

Madame Lefoux made no response to that.

Lady Maccon switched tactics. “Why are you following me to Scotland?”

“Are you convinced it is you, my dear Lady Maccon, that I am following?”

“I hardly think you have also developed a sudden passion for my husband’s valet.”

“No, you would be correct in that.”

“So?”

“So, I am no danger to you or yours, Lady Maccon. I wish you could believe that. But I cannot tell you more.”

“Not good enough. You are asking me to trust you without reason.”

The Frenchwoman sighed. “You soulless are so very logical and practical, it can be maddening.”

“So my husband is prone to complaining. You have met a preternatural before, I take it?” If she could not convince the inventor to explain her presence, perhaps she could learn more about the mysterious woman’s past.

“Once, a very long time ago. I suppose I could tell you about it.”

“Well?”

“I met him with my aunt. I was perhaps eight years old. He was a friend of my father’s—a very good friend, I was given to believe. Formerly Beatrice is the ghost of my father’s sister. My father himself was a bit of a bounder. I am not exactly legitimate. When I was dumped on his doorstep, he gave me to Aunt Beatrice and died shortly thereafter. I remember a man coming to see him after that, only to find that I was all that was left. The man gave me a present of honey candy and was sad to learn of my father’s death.”

“He was the preternatural?” Despite herself, Lady Maccon was intrigued.

“Yes, and I believe they were once very close.”

“And?”

“You understand my meaning: very close?”

Lady Maccon nodded. “I fully comprehend. I am, after all, a friend of Lord Akeldama’s.”

Madame Lefoux nodded. “The man who visited was your father.”

Alexia’s mouth fell open. Not because of this insight into her father’s preferences. She knew his taste to run to both the exotic and the eclectic. From reading his journals, she guessed him to be, at best, an opportunist in matters of the flesh. No, she gasped because it was such an odd coincidence, to find out that this woman, not so much older than herself, had once met her father. Had known what he was like—alive.

“I never knew him. He left before I was born,” Lady Maccon said before she could stop herself.

“He was handsome but stiff. I remember believing that all Italian men would be like him: cold. I could not have been more wrong, of course, but he made an impression.”

Lady Maccon nodded. “So I have been given to understand by others. Thank you for telling me.”

Madame Lefoux switched topics abruptly. “We should continue to keep the full details of the incident last night a secret from your companions.”

“No point in worrying the others, but I shall have to tell my husband after we land.”

“Of course.”

The two women parted at that; Lady Maccon was left wondering. She knew why she wanted to keep the scuffle a secret, but why did Madame Lefoux?

CHAPTER EIGHT Castle Kingair

They landed just before sunset on a patch of green near the Glasgow train station. The dirigible came to rest as lightly as a butterfly on an egg, if the butterfly were to stumble a bit and list heavily to one side and the egg to take on the peculiar characteristics of Scotland in winter: more soggy and more gray than one would think possible.

Alexia disembarked with pomp and circumstance similar to her embarkation. She spearheaded a parade of bustle-swaying ladies, like so many fabric snails, onto firm (well, truthfully, rather squishy) land. The bustles were particularly prevalent due to the general relief at being able to wear a proper one once more and to pack the floating skirts away. The snails were followed by Tunstell, laden with a quantity of hatboxes and other package; four stewards with various trunks; and Lady Maccon’s French maid.

No one, thought Alexia smugly, could accuse her of traveling without the dignity due to the Earl of Woolsey’s wife. She might gad about town alone or in the care of only one unwed young lady, but clearly she traveled in company. Unfortunately, the effect of her arrival was undermined by the fact that the ground persisted in reeling about under her, causing Lady Maccon to tilt to one side and take an abrupt seat atop one of her trunks.

She dismissed Tunstell’s concern by sending him away to hire an appropriate conveyance to take them into the countryside.

Ivy wandered about the green to stretch her legs and look for wildflowers. Felicity came to stand next to Alexia and began immediately to carry on about the horrible weather.

“Why must it be so gray? Such a greeny sort of gray goes so badly with the complexion. And it is so awful to travel by coach anywhere in such weather. Must we go by coach?”

“Well,” said Lady Maccon, driven to annoyance, “this is the north. Do stop being silly about it.”

Her sister continued to complain, and Alexia watched out of the corner of her eye as Tunstell veered near to Ivy on his way across the landing green and hissed something in her ear. Ivy said something back, an excess of emotion coloring the sharp movements of her head. Tunstell’s back straightened and he turned away to walk on.

Ivy came to sit next to Alexia, trembling lightly.

“I do not know what I ever saw in that man.” Miss Hisselpenny was clearly overwrought.

“Oh dear, has something come between the lovebirds? Is there trouble afoot?” said Felicity.

When no one answered her, she trotted after the rapidly departing claviger. “Oh, Mr. Tunstell? Would you like some company?”

Lady Maccon looked to Ivy. “Am I to understand that Tunstell did not take your rejection well?” she inquired, trying not to sound as weak as she felt. She was still dizzy, and the ground seemed quite taken with shifting about like a nervous squid.

“Well, no, not as such. When I…” Ivy started and then broke off, her attention diverted by an exceedingly large dog charging in their direction. “Mercy me, what is that?”

The immense dog resolved into being, in actuality, a very large wolf, with a wad of fabric wrapped about its neck. Its fur was a dark brown color brindled gold and cream, and its eyes were pale yellow.

Upon reaching them, the wolf gave Miss Hisselpenny a polite little nod and then put its head in Lady Maccon’s lap.

“Ah, husband,” said Alexia, scratching him behind the ears, “I figured you would find me, but not so quickly as this.”

The Earl of Woolsey lolled his long pink tongue at his wife good-naturedly and tilted his head in Miss Hisselpenny’s direction.

“Yes, of course,” replied Alexia to the unspoken suggestion. She turned to her friend. “Ivy, my dear, I suggest you look away at this juncture.”