Blameless

“I believe you were once fond of Miss Wibbley, my lord.”

“I was?” A frown. “How astonishing of me. Ah, yes, skinny little thing? You misconstrued—I was simply using her to needle Alexia at the time. Engaged, did you say? Who’s the unfortunate fellow?”

“Captain Featherstonehaugh.”

“Ah, now that name does sound familiar. Didn’t we serve with a Captain Featherstonehaugh on our last tour in India?”

“Ah, no, sir, I believe that was this one’s grandfather.”

“Really? How time flies. Poor man. Not much to hold on to with that chit. That’s what I like about my lass— she’s got a bit of meat on her bones.”

Professor Lyall could do nothing but say, “Yes, my lord.” Although he did shake his head over the obtuseness of his Alpha. Who, having decided all would once more be blissful in his marriage, already referred to Alexia as his again. Unless Lyall was wrong, and circumstances had already proved how improbable that outcome, Lady Maccon was unlikely to see the situation in the same light.

They swung themselves up easily into the grand crested coach and four that served as Woolsey’s main mode of transport when the wolves weren’t running.

“Now, what is this about Mrs. Tunstell and a hat shop?” Lord Maccon wanted to know, adding before Professor Lyall could answer, “Sorry about drinking your specimen collection, by the way, Randolph. I wasn’t quite myself.”

Lyall grunted softly. “I shall hide it better next time.”

“See that you do.”

CHAPTER TEN In Which Alexia Meddles with Silent Italians

Lady Alexia Maccon did not, of course, realize that they were Templars until she awoke, and even then there was a lengthy adjustment period. It took her several long moments to discover that she was, in fact, not exactly a prisoner but relaxing in the guest quarters of a lavish residence located in, if the view from the window was to be believed, some equally lavish Italian city. The room had a delightful southern aspect, and a cheerful spray of sunlight danced over plush furnishing and frescoed walls.

Alexia tumbled out of bed, only to find she had been stripped and redressed in a nightgown of such frilliness as might have given her husband conniption fits under other circumstances. She wasn’t comfortable with either the notion of a stranger seeing her in the buff nor the copious frills, but she supposed a silly nightgown was better than nothing at all. She soon discovered she had also been provided with a dressing gown of velvet-lined brocade and a pair of fluffy bed slippers. Her dispatch case and parasol, apparently unmolested, sat on a large pink pouf to one side of her bed. Figuring that any person of refined sensibility would have burned her unfortunate claret-colored gown by now and finding no more respectable attire anywhere in the room, Alexia donned the robe, grabbed her parasol, and stuck her head cautiously out into the hallway.

The hall proved itself to be more of a large vestibule, covered in thick carpets and lined with a number of religious effigies. The humble cross appeared to be a particularly popular motif. Alexia spotted a massive gold statue of a pious-looking saint sporting jade flowers in his hair and ruby sandals. She began to wonder if she was inside some kind of church or museum. Did churches have guest bedrooms? She had no idea. Having no soul to save, Alexia had always considered religious matters outside her particular sphere of influence and therefore interest.

All unbidden, her stomach registered its utter emptiness and the infant-inconvenience sloshed about sympathetically. Alexia sniffed the air. A delicious smell emanated from somewhere close by. Alexia had decent eyesight and adequate hearing—although she had been remarkably capable of tuning out her husband’s voice—but it was her sense of smell that set her apart from ordinary mankind. She attributed this to her oversized nose. Whatever the case, it stood her in good stead this particular day, for it led her unerringly down a side hallway, through a wide reception chamber, and out into a massive courtyard where a multitude of men were gathered about long tables to eat. Imagine that, eating outside and not for a picnic!

Alexia paused on the threshold, unsure. An assembly of masculinity, and her in only a dressing gown. Such a danger as this she had never before had to face. She braced herself against the horror of it all. Here’s hoping my mother never gets wind of this.

The seated masses made for a bizarrely silent assembly. Hand gestures were the main method of communication. Seated at the head of one of the tables, a single somberly dressed monk read unintelligible Latin out of a Bible in a monotonous tone. To a man, the silent eaters were darkly tan and dressed respectably but not expensively in the kind of tweed-heavy country garb young men about the hunt might favor—knickerbockers, vests, and boots. They were also armed to the teeth. At breakfast. It was disconcerting to say the least.

Alexia swallowed nervously and stepped out into the courtyard.

Strangely enough, none of the men seemed to notice her. In fact, none of them registered her existence at all. There were one or two very subtle sideways glances, but, by and large, Alexia Maccon was entirely and utterly ignored by everyone there, and there were at least a hundred assembled. She hesitated.

“Uh, hallo?”

Silence.

True, prior familial experiences had prepared Alexia for a life of omission, but this was ridiculous.

“Over here!” A hand waved her over to one of the tables. In among the gentlemen sat Madame Lefoux and Floote, who, Alexia saw with a profound feeling of relief, also wore robes. She had never seen Floote in anything less than professional attire, and he seemed, poor man, even more embarrassed than she by the informality of the dress.

Alexia wended her way over to them.

Madame Lefoux appeared comfortable enough, although startlingly feminine in her dressing gown. It was strange to see her without the customary top hat and other masculine garb. She was softer and prettier. Alexia liked it.

Floote looked drawn and kept darting little glances at the silent men around them.

“I see they absconded with your clothing as well.” Madame Lefoux spoke in a low voice so as not to interfere with the biblical recitation. Her green eyes glittered in evident approval of Alexia’s informal attire.

“Well, did you see the hem on my gown—mud, acid, dog drool? I cannot say I blame them. Are these the famous Templars, then? Well, Floote, I can see why you do not like them. Highly dangerous, mute clothing thieves. Ruthless providers of a decent night’s sleep.” She spoke in English but had no doubt that at least some of the men around them could entirely understand her language, and could speak it, too, if they ever did speak.

Madame Lefoux went to make room for Alexia, but Floote said firmly, “Madam, you had best sit next to me.”

Alexia went to do so, only to find that the continued complete disregard for her presence extended to offering her a seat on the long bench.

Floote solved this problem by pushing hard against one of his neighbors until the man shifted over.

Alexia squeezed into the space provided to find, once she had settled, that the gentleman nearest her had suddenly found himself needed elsewhere. In an organic manner, and without any obvious movement, her immediate area became entirely vacant of all personnel save Floote and Madame Lefoux. Odd.

No one brought her a plate of any kind, nor, indeed, any other means by which she could partake of the food currently being passed about the tables.

Floote, who had already completed his meal, shyly offered her his dirty trencher. “Apologies, madam, it is the best you’ll get.”

Alexia raised both eyebrows but took it. What an odd thing to have to do. Were all Italians this rude?

Madame Lefoux offered Alexia the platter of sliced melon. “Three nights of decent sleep. That’s how long you’ve been out.”