Blameless

business. He and Lord Maccon had never exactly liked each other ever since that fateful game of bridge. Lord Maccon had, in fact, given up cards as a result.

With his usual inappropriate timing, Lord Maccon returned from his jaunt at that very moment. He marched in, clad only in a cloak, which he removed in a sweeping motion and flung carelessly in the vicinity of a nearby hat stand, clearly intent on striding on to the small changing room to don his clothes.

He stilled, naked, sniffing the air. “Oh, hello, Fluffy. What are you doing out of your Buckingham penitentiary?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Professor Lyall, frustrated. “Do hush up, my lord.”

“Lord Maccon, indecent as always, I see,” snapped the dewan, ignoring the earl’s pet name for him.

Now, bound and determined to remain nude, the earl marched around Lyall’s desk to see what he was reading, as it clearly had some connection with the unexpected presence of the second most powerful werewolf in all of Britain.

The dewan, showing considerable self-restraint, ignored Lord Maccon and continued his conversation with Professor Lyall as though the earl had not interrupted them. “I am under the impression the gentleman in question may have also managed to persuade the Westminster Hive to his line of thinking, or he would not have sent that order.”

Professor Lyall frowned. “Ah, well, given—”

“Official extermination mandate! On my wife!”

One would think, after twenty-odd years, Professor Lyall would be used to his Alpha’s yelling, but he still winced when it was conducted with such vigor so close to his ear.

“That lily-livered, bloodsucking sack of rotten meat! I shall drag his sorry carcass out at high noon—you see if I don’t!”

The dewan and Professor Lyall continued their conversation as if Lord Maccon weren’t boiling over next to them like a particularly maltreated porridge.

“Really, by rights, preternaturals,” Lyall spoke coldly, “are BUR’s jurisdiction.”

The dewan tilted his head from side to side in mild agreement. “Yes, well, the fact remains that the vampires seem to think they have a right to take matters onto their own fangs. Clearly, so far as the potentate is concerned, what that woman is carrying is not preternatural and thus no longer BUR’s jurisdiction.”

“That woman is my wife! And they are trying to kill her!” A sudden deep suspicion and sense of betrayal caused the Alpha to turn upon his Beta in accusation. “Randolph Lyall, were you aware of this and yet didna tell me?” He clearly didn’t require an answer. “That’s it; I’m leaving.”

“Yes, yes, well, never mind that.” Professor Lyall tried unsuccessfully to calm his Alpha down. “The question is, what do they think she is carrying?”

The dewan shrugged and pulled his cloak back up over his head, preparing to leave. “I rather think that is your problem. I’ve risked enough bringing this to your attention.”

Professor Lyall stood, reaching over his desk to grasp the other werewolf’s hand. “We appreciate you giving us this information.”

“Just keep my name out of it. This is a domestic matter between Woolsey and the vampires. I wash my fur of the entire debacle. I told you not to marry that woman, Conall. I said no good could possibly come of it. Imagine contracting to a soulless.” He sniffed. “You youngsters, so brash.”

Lord Maccon began to protest at that, but Professor Lyall shook the dewan’s hand firmly in the manner of pack brothers, not challengers. “Understood, and thank you again.”

With one last mildly offended look at the naked, red-faced, sputtering Alpha, the dewan left the office.

Professor Lyall, drawing on long years of practice, said, “We have got to find Lord Akeldama.”

Lord Maccon sobered slightly at that abrupt change in subject. “Why is that vampire never around when you need him, but always around when you don’t?”

“It is an art form.”

Lord Maccon sighed. “Well, I canna help you find the vampire, Randolph, but I do know where the potentate has his object stashed.”

Professor Lyall perked up. “Our ghost overheard something significant?”

“Better, our ghost saw something. A map. I thought we might just go steal the object back, before I leave to fetch my wife.”

“And you still haven’t told me where you sent Channing.”

“It’s possible I was too drunk to remember.”

“It’s possible, but I think not.”

Lord Maccon took that as an opportunity to get dressed, leaving Professor Lyall in possession of the field but not the information.

“So, about this theft?” Lyall was always one to cut his losses and move on when necessary.

“It should be fun.” Lord Maccon’s voice emerged from the little changing closet.

When the Alpha reemerged, Professor Lyall wondered, not for the first time, if gentlemen’s garb was not made complex through vampire influence as a dig at werewolves who, by their very nature, were often in a tearing hurry to get dressed. He himself had mastered the art, but Lord Maccon never would. He stood to go around his desk and help his Alpha rebutton a lopsided waistcoat.

“It should be fun, you said, this reacquisition operation, my lord?”

“Especially if you like swimming.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN Wherein Alexia Encounters Both Pesto and a Mysterious Jar

Hadn’t we better go to the local dirigible station? Didn’t Monsieur Trouvé say he would send our luggage there?” Alexia looked down in disgust at the orange frilly dress she was wearing. “I could very much use the comfort of my own wardrobe.”

“I could not agree with you more.” Madame Lefoux’s feelings of maltreatment were equally evident, as she was clearly uncomfortable in her pink frilly version of the same gown. “I should like to pick up some supplies as well.” The inventor looked meaningfully at Alexia’s parasol. “You understand, for a reconstitution of the necessary emissions.”

“Of course.”

There was no one around them in the temple hallway, but Madame Lefoux’s use of euphemisms seemed to indicate that she felt they were in danger of being overheard.

They made their way to the front entrance of the temple and out into the cobbled streets of Florence.

Despite its generally orange overtones—Alexia’s dress fit right in—Florence was indeed an attractive metropolis. It had a soft, rich quality about it that Alexia felt was the visual equivalent of consuming a warm scone heaped with marmalade and clotted cream. There was a pleasantness to the air and a spirit about the town that did not come from its color, but from some inner, tasty citrus quality. It made Alexia wonder fancifully if cities could have souls. Florence, she felt, under those circumstances, probably had extra. There were even little bitter bits of rind scattered about the place: the dense clouds of tobacco smoke emanating from various cafes and an overabundance of unfortunates begging from the church steps.

There were no hansoms, nor any other ready form of public transportation. Indeed, the entire city was apparently possessed of only one means of locomotion: walking. Alexia was a profuse walker. Even though she was a little sore from her mountaintop peril, she was equal to further exercise. After all, she had been asleep for three days. Floote valiantly headed their expedition. He was suspiciously familiar with the city, leading them unerringly through a wide open plaza called the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, which Alexia thought sounded like an assembly of sainted literary pundits; down the Via dei Fossi, which sounded like a fascinating geological discovery; across a bridge; and down into Piazza Pitti, which sounded like a pasta dish. It was a long walk, and Alexia had reason to be grateful for her parasol, for Italy did not appear to notice that it was November and poured sun down upon them with unremitting cheerfulness.