Blameless

Madame Lefoux dimpled at that. “Oh, I doubt that. My aunt never did like children very much, even when she was a child.”

The ghost in question, Madame Lefoux’s dead aunt and fellow inventor, resided in the contrivance chamber and had been, until recently, responsible for Quesnel’s education—although, of course, not during the daytime.

Floote stood quietly while Professor Lyall and Madame Lefoux exchanged pleasantries. Tunstell did not. He began poking about the vast muddle, picking up containers and shaking them, examining the contents of large glass vials and winding up sets of gears. There were cords and wire coils draped over hat stands to investigate, vacuum tubes propped in umbrella stands to tip over, and large pieces of machinery to rap on experimentally.

“Do you think I should warn him off? Some of those are volatile.” Madame Lefoux crossed her arms, not particularly concerned.

Professor Lyall rolled his eyes. “Impossible pup.”

Floote went trailing after the curious Tunstell and began relieving him of his more dangerous distractions.

“I see there is a reason Lord Maccon never decided to bite him into metamorphosis.” Madame Lefoux watched the exchange with amusement.

“Aside from the fact that he ran away, got married, and left the pack?”

“Yes, aside from that.”

Tunstell paused to scoop up and put on a pair of glassicals as he walked. Since Madame Lefoux had entered the London market, the vision assistors were becoming ubiquitous. They were worn like spectacles but looked like the malformed offspring of a pair of binoculars and a set of opera glasses. More properly called “monocular cross- magnification lenses with spectra modifier attachments,” Alexia called them “glassicals,” and Professor Lyall was ashamed to admit even he had taken to referring to them as such. Tunstell blinked at them, one eyeball hideously magnified by the instrument.

“Very stylish,” commented Professor Lyall, who owned several pairs himself and was often to be seen wearing them in public.

Floote gave Professor Lyall a dirty look, removed the glassicals from Tunstell, and prodded him back to where Madame Lefoux leaned against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. Large diagrams drawn in black pencil on stiff yellow paper were haphazardly pinned behind her.

Professor Lyall finally realized what it was about the contrivance chamber that was so different from his last visit: it was quiet. Usually the laboratory was dominated by the hum of mechanicals in motion, steam puffing out of various orifices in little gasps and whistles, gears clanking, metal chains clicking, and valves squealing. Today everything was silent. Also, for all its messiness, the place had an air of being put away.

“Are you planning a trip, Madame Lefoux?”

The Frenchwoman looked at the Woolsey Beta. “That rather depends on what Alexia has summoned us together to discuss.”

“But it is a possibility?”

She nodded. “A probability at this juncture, if I know anything about Alexia.”

“Another reason to send Quesnel away to boarding school.”

“Just so.”

“You understand much of Lady Maccon’s character, for such a comparatively short acquaintance.”

“You were not with us in Scotland, Professor; it encouraged intimacy. In addition, I have made her a bit of a pet research venture.”

“Oh, have you, indeed?”

“Before Alexia arrives, I take it you all read the morning papers?” Madame Lefoux switched the subject, levered herself upright from the wall, and took up a peculiarly masculine stance: legs spread, like a boxer at White’s awaiting the first blow.

The men around her all nodded their affirmation.

“I am afraid they do not lie, for once. Alexia shows every sign of increasing, and we must presume that a physician has corroborated my initial diagnosis. Otherwise, Alexia would likely be back at Woolsey Castle, chewing Lord Maccon’s head off.”

“I never noticed any of the aforementioned signs,” protested Tunstell, who had also traveled to the north with Madame Lefoux and Lady Maccon.

“Do you think said signs are generally something you’re likely to observe?”

Tunstell blushed red at that. “No. You are perfectly correct, of course; most assuredly not.”

“So are we agreed that the child is Lord Maccon’s?” Madame Lefoux clearly wanted to find out where everyone stood on the matter.

No one said anything. The inventor looked from one man to the next. First Floote, then Tunstell, and then Lyall nodded their assent.

“I assumed as much, or none of you would have acquiesced to her request for this clandestine meeting, however desperate her circumstances. Still, it is curious that none of you challenges Alexia’s veracity.” The Frenchwoman gave Professor Lyall a sharp look. “I am aware of my own reasons, but you, Professor Lyall, are Lord Maccon’s Beta. Yet you believe it is possible for a werewolf to father a child?”

Professor Lyall had known this moment would come. “It is not that I know the answer as to how. It is simply that I know someone else who believes that this is possible. Several someones, in fact. And they are usually correct in these matters.”

“They? They who?”

“The vampires.” Never comfortable being the center of attention, he nevertheless attempted to explain himself further as all eyes turned to him. “Before she left for Scotland, two vampires tried to kidnap Lady Maccon. While she was on board the dirigible, her journal was stolen and someone tried to poison her. Most of the other incidents up north after that can be placed in Angelique’s hands.” Professor Lyall nodded to Madame Lefoux. “But those three episodes could not have been the maid. I believe the Westminster Hive was responsible for the attempted kidnapping and the theft of the journal, probably under Lord Ambrose’s orders. It seems like Ambrose; he always was ham-handed with his espionage. The kidnappers, whom I intercepted, said they were under orders not to harm Lady Maccon, but simply intended to test her—probably for signs of pregnancy. I believe they stole the journal for the same reason—they wanted to see if she was recording anything about her condition. Of course, she herself had not yet realized, so they wouldn’t have learned anything. The poisoning, on the other hand…”

Lyall looked at Tunstell, who’d been the inadvertent victim of that bungled attempt at murder. Then he continued. “Westminster would wait for confirmation before taking any action so final, especially against the wife of an Alpha werewolf. But those who are outside hive bonds are not so reticent.”

“There are very few rove vampires with the kind of social irreverence and political clout needed to risk killing an Alpha werewolf’s wife.” Madame Lefoux spoke softly, frowning worriedly.

“One of them is Lord Akeldama,” said Lyall.

“He wouldn’t! Would he?” Tunstell was looking less like an actor and more like the semiresponsible claviger he’d once been.

Professor Lyall tipped his head noncommittally. “Do you remember? Formal complaints were filed with the Crown when Miss Alexia Tarabotti’s engagement to Lord Maccon was first printed in the papers. We brushed them off at the time as a matter of vampire etiquette, but I am beginning to think some vampire suspected something like this might occur.”

“And with the morning gossip rags printing what they did…” Tunstell looked even more worried.

“Precisely,” said Professor Lyall. “The vampires have had all their worst fears confirmed—Lady Maccon is pregnant. And while the rest of the world sees this as proof of an infidelity, the bloodsuckers would appear to believe her.”

Madame Lefoux’s forehead creased with worry. “So the hives, originally inclined toward nonviolence, have had their fears confirmed, and Alexia has lost the protection of the Woolsey Pack.”

Floote’s normally dispassionate face showed concern.

Professor Lyall nodded. “All the vampires now want her dead.”