CHAPTER FOUR
Tea and Insults
Lady Maccon was on her third piece of toast and her fourth pot of tea, entertaining herself by glaring at some young lady or another simply to evaluate the color of the blush that resulted. She was no closer to determining who might want her dead—there were just too many possibilities—but she had made some concrete decisions about her more immediate future. Not the least of these being that, without Lord Akeldama, her safest course of action was to leave London. The question was where? And did she have the necessary finances?
“Lady Maccon?”
Alexia blinked. Was someone actually talking to her? She looked up.
Lady Blingchester, a mannish-faced matron of the stout and square variety with curly gray hair and too-large teeth, stood frowning down at her. She was accompanied by her daughter, who shared much the same expression and teeth. Both of them were known for having decided opinions on matters of morality.
“Lady Maccon, how dare you show your face here? Taking tea in such an obvious manner with”—she paused—“an agitated hatbox for company. In a respectable establishment, frequented by honest, decent women of good character and social standing. Why, you should be ashamed! Ashamed to even walk among us.”
Alexia looked down at herself. “I believe I am sitting among you.”
“You should be at home, groveling at the feet of your husband, begging him to take you back.”
“Why, Lady Blingchester, what would you know about my husband’s feet?”
Lady Blingchester was not to be forestalled. “Or you should have hidden your shame from the world. Imagine dragging your poor family into the mire with you. Those lovely Loontwill girls. So sensible, with so much promise, so many prospects, and now your behavior has ruined them as well as yourself!”
“You couldn’t possibly be talking about my sisters, could you? They have been accused of many things, but never sense. I think they might find that rather insulting.”
Lady Blingchester leaned in close and lowered her voice to a hiss. “Why, you might have done them a favor by casting yourself into the Thames.”
Alexia whispered back, as if it were a dire secret, “I can swim, Lady Blingchester. Rather well, actually.”
This latest revelation apparently too shocking to tolerate, Lady Blingchester began to sputter in profound indignation.
Alexia nibbled her toast. “Oh, do shove off, Lady Bling. I was thinking some rather important thoughts before you interrupted me.”
The hatbox, rattling mildly against its confining cords throughout this conversation, gave a sudden enthusiastic upward lunge. Lady Blingchester squawked in alarm and seemed to feel this the last straw. She flounced away, followed by her daughter, but she paused and had some sharp words with the hostess before leaving.
“Blast,” said Alexia to the hatbox when the proprietress, looking determined, headed in her direction.
The hatbox ticked at her unhelpfully.
“Lady Maccon?”
Alexia sighed.
“You understand I must ask you to leave?”
“Yes. But tell me, is there a pawnshop in the vicinity?”
The woman blushed. “Yes, my lady, just down off Oxford Circus past Marlborough Bank.”
“Ah, good.” Lady Maccon stood, untied the hatbox, and gathered it up along with her reticule and parasol. All conversation quieted as she once again held everyone’s attention.
“Ladies,” said Alexia to the assembled faces. Then she made her way, with as much gravity as possible for a woman clutching an epileptic pink hatbox to her bosom, to the counter, where she paid her account. The door behind her did not close fast enough to cut off the excited squeals and babble that heralded her departure.
The road was now crowded enough for safety, but still Lady Maccon walked with unseemly haste down Regent Street and into a small pawnshop. There she sold all the jewelry she was currently wearing at a shockingly devalued rate, which nevertheless resulted in quite an obscene amount of money. Conall might be an untrusting muttonhead, a Scotsman, and a werewolf, but the man knew a thing or two about feminine fripperies. Mindful of her circumstances alone in the city, Alexia secreted the resulting pecuniary return in several of the hidden pockets of her parasol and proceeded furtively onward.
Professor Lyall looked at the French inventor with a cutting eye. “Why is Lady Maccon involving you in this matter, Madame Lefoux?”
“Alexia is my friend.”
“That does not explain
“You haven’t had many friends, have you, Professor Lyall?”
The werewolf’s upper lip curled. “Are you certain friendship is all you want from her?”
Madame Lefoux bristled slightly. “That is a low blow, Professor. I hardly think it your business to question my motives.”
Professor Lyall did something quite unusual for him. He colored slightly. “I did not intend to imply… that is, I had not meant to insinuate…” He trailed off and then cleared his throat. “I planned to hint at your involvement with the Order of the Brass Octopus.”
Madame Lefoux rubbed the back of her neck in an unconscious gesture. Hidden under her short dark hair, just there, was a small octopus tattoo. “Ah. The Order has no direct involvement, so far as I can tell.”
Professor Lyall did not miss the implication of that phrasing. Madame Lefoux might literally be unable to tell of the OBO’s interests if she had been instructed to remain silent.
“But it is undoubtedly scientifically intrigued by Lady Maccon?” Professor Lyall pressed her.
“Of course! She is the only female preternatural to enter our sphere since the Order’s inception.”
“But the Hypocras Club—”
“The Hypocras Club was only one small branch, and their actions became sadly public. Quite the embarrassment, in the end.”
“So why are you such an eager friend?”
“I cannot deny a certain fascination with Alexia as a scientific curiosity, but my research, as you well know, tends to be more theoretical than biological.”
“So I was inadvertently closer to the mark initially?” Professor Lyall regarded Madame Lefoux with a wealth of understanding.
Madame Lefoux pursed her lips but did not deny the romantic insinuation. “So you will allow my motives to be, if not pure, at least in Alexia’s best interest? Certainly, I care more for her well-being than that rubbish husband of hers.”
Professor Lyall nodded. “For now.” He paused and then said, “We must convince her to leave London.”
At which Lady Alexia Maccon herself bustled into the laboratory. “Oh, no convincing needed, I assure you, my dears. The ladybugs did that. In fact, that was why I summoned you. Well, not because of the ladybugs—because of the leaving.” She was clearly a little flustered. Still, all efficiency, she stripped off her gloves and dropped them, her reticule, her parasol, and a gyrating pink hatbox on a nearby worktable. “It is about time I visited the Continent, don’t you feel? I thought, perhaps, one or two of you might like to accompany me.” She gave them all a timid smile and then remembered her manners. “How do you do, Tunstell? Good day, Genevieve. Floote. Professor Lyall. Thank you all for coming. I do apologize for being late. There were the ladybugs, you see, and then I simply had to take tea.”
“Alexia.” Madame Lefoux was all concern. Lady Maccon’s hair was mussed, and it looked as though there might be a rip or two at the hem of her dress. The inventor took one of Alexia’s hands in both of hers. “Are you quite all right?”
At the same time, Professor Lyall said, “Ladybugs? What do you mean, ladybugs?”
“Ah, halloo, Lady Maccon.” Tunstell grinned and bowed. “Do you really intend to leave? How unfortunate. My wife will be most upset.”
Floote said nothing.
