Blameless

quite a number of individuals who would count her as better off deceased. She rang the bell for one of the maids and sent her to retrieve her parasol-cum-weapon before the butler packed it away. The maid returned shortly, and Alexia felt slightly comforted by having her favorite accessory on hand.

Her thoughts, unbidden, returned once more to her husband, who had so thoughtfully gifted her with the deadly ornament. Damn and blast Conall. Why didn’t he believe her? So what if all known history contradicted her? History wasn’t precisely revered for its accuracy at the best of times. Nor was it overflowing with female preternaturals. Scientifically, no one understood how she was what she was or did what she did even now, with all England’s vaunted technology. So what if he was mostly dead? Her touch turned him mortal, didn’t it? Why couldn’t it also turn him human enough to be able to give her a child? Was that so impossible to believe? Horrible man. So like a werewolf to get overly emotional and fluff up the duster like that.

Just thinking about him and Alexia became overcome with sentiment. Annoyed at her own weakness, she dabbed the tears away and looked to her other note, expecting more bad news. However, the writing on this one, bold and entirely too flowery, made her give a watery smile. She’d sent a card ’round shortly after she returned to London. She wouldn’t be so rude as to ask, but she had hinted at her uncomfortable domestic situation, and he, of course, would know what had happened. He always knew what was happening.

“My darling Chamomile Button!” he wrote. “I received your card, and given certain recent intelligence, it has occurred to me that you may be in ever-increasing need of accommodation but were far too polite to request it openly. Let me tender my most humble offer, to the only person in all of England currently thought more outrageous than myself. You would be welcome to share my unworthy domicile and hospitality, such as they are. Yours, et cetera, Lord Akeldama.”

Alexia grinned. She had been hoping he would read the appeal behind her formal social nicety. Even though his card had been written before her condition had become public knowledge, she suspected her vampire friend would still be amenable to an extended visit and had probably already known about the pregnancy. Lord Akeldama was a rove of such consistently shocking dress and manner that his reputation could only be amplified by taking in the now-ruined Lady Maccon. In addition, he would have her at his mercy and disposal, thus able to extract all truths from her ad nauseam. Of course, she intended to accept his offer, hoping that, as the invitation had been made yesterday—damn the irascible Swilkins—she was not too late. She was rather looking forward to the prospect. Lord Akeldama’s abode and table were quite the opposite of humble, and he kept the companionship of a large collective of such shining paragons of foppishness as to make any sojourn in his company one of unending visual delight. Relieved that she was no longer homeless, Lady Maccon sent a note to that effect. She took pains to ensure that the missive was carried by the Loontwills’ most attractive footman.

Maybe Lord Akeldama would know something that would explain the presence of a child parasiting about inside her. He was a very old vampire; perhaps he could help prove to Conall her upstanding virtue. The ludicrousness of that thought—Lord Akeldama and virtue in the same sentence—made her smile.

Her luggage packed and her hat and cape in place, Alexia was preparing to quit her family’s house, probably for the last time, when yet more mail arrived addressed to her. It was in the form of a suspicious package accompanied by a message. This time she intercepted it before Swilkins could get his mitts on it.

The package contained a hat of such unparalleled biliousness that Alexia had no doubt as to its origin. It was a felt toque, bright yellow in color and trimmed with fake black currants, velvet ribbon, and a pair of green feathers that looked like the feelers from some unfortunate sea creature. The accompanying note boasted remarkably exclamatory grammar and, if possible, attained new heights of flowery penmanship above and beyond that of Lord Akeldama. It was, admittedly, a tad harrowing to read.

“Alexia Tarabotti Maccon, how could you behave so wickedly! I just read the morning paper. You had my heart in my chest, you really did! Of course, I should never have believed such a thing in all my born days! Never! In fact, I do not believe a word of it now. You understand that we—Tunny and I—would love to have you to stay, but circumstances being, as they say, indefensible—or it is indefatigable?—we cannot possibly tender the offer. You understand? I’m certain you do. Don’t you? But I thought you might require some consoling, and I remembered how much attention you paid this adorable hat last time we were out shopping together—ah, these many months ago, in our careless youth, or do I mean carefree youth?—so I picked this out for you at Chapeau de Poupe. I had intended it to be a Christmas gift, but such an emotional crisis as you must be suffering clearly indicates that now is obviously a far more important time for hats. Wouldn’t you say? Love, love, love, Ivy.”

Alexia perfectly understood all the things Ivy hadn’t written, if such a thing was to be believed possible given the length of the missive. Ivy and her new husband were committed theatricals and, quite frankly, could not afford to lose patronage through association with the now-besmirched Lady Maccon. Alexia was relieved she would not have to turn them down. The couple lived in the most horrible little set of apartments imaginable, down in the West End. They had, for example, only one parlor. Lady Maccon shuddered delicately.

Tucking the repulsive hat under her arm and grabbing her trusty parasol, Alexia made her way down to the waiting carriage. She gave Swilkins a haughty sniff as he handed her up and directed the driver on to Lord Akeldama’s town house.

CHAPTER TWO In Which Lord Maccon Is Likened to a Small Cucumber

Lord Akeldama’s house was located in one of the most fashionable parts of London. A part that had probably become fashionable because it was fortunate enough to host said town house. Lord Akeldama did everything fashionably, sometimes to the exclusion of all else, including common sense. If Lord Akeldama were to take up wrestling in vats of jellied eels, it would probably become fashionable within a fortnight. The exterior of his house had been recently redecorated to the height of modern taste and the worshipful approval of the ton. It was painted pale lavender with gold trim swirling and flouncing around every window and aperture. An herbaceous border of lilac bushes, sunflowers, and pansies had been planted as a complement, forming a pleasing three-level effect as visitors wandered up to the front steps, even in winter. The house stood as a solo bastion of cheer, battling valiantly against the London sky, which had undertaken its customary stance halfway between an indifferent gray and a malnourished drizzle.

No one responded to Lady Maccon’s knock, nor to her tug on the bell rope, but the gilded front door had been left unlocked. Waving at the driver to wait, Alexia made her way cautiously inside, parasol up and at the ready. The rooms lay in unabashed splendor—fluffy carpets depicting romantically inclined shepherds, paired with arched ceilings playing host to equally amorous cherubs painted a la Roma.

“Halloo. Anybody home?”

The place was completely and utterly deserted, obviously in exceptional haste. Not only was there no Lord Akeldama, but there was no Biffy, nor any other drone. Lord Akeldama’s abode was normally a carnival of delights: discarded top hats and piles of playbills, the scent of expensive cigars and French cologne, and it boasted a background hum of chatter and hilarity. The silence and stillness were all the more noticeable by comparison.

Alexia made her way slowly through the empty rooms, as though she were an archaeologist visiting an abandoned tomb. All she found was evidence of departure, certain items of importance taken down from places of honor. The gold pipe was missing, the one that normally sat atop the mantelpiece in the drawing room like some revered item of plumbing but that—Alexia knew from personal experience—hid two curved blades. The fact that Lord Akeldama saw fit to take that particular item with him did not bode well for the reason behind his departure.

The only living thing on the premises, aside from Alexia, appeared to be the resident cat. The feline in question was a fat calico that possessed the disposition of a placid narcoleptic and that roused only periodically to enact potent and vicious revenge upon the nearest tasseled throw pillow. Currently, the animal lay sprawled across a puffy hassock, the remains of three decapitated tassels nestled near her chin. Cats, as a general rule, were the only creatures that tolerated vampires. Most other animals had what the scientists termed a well-developed prey response behavior pattern. Felines, apparently, didn’t consider themselves vampire prey. This one, however, was so