Blameless

where doors were concerned.

“What ho, Professor? Lady Maccon’s note didn’t say you’d be here. What a pleasure, indeed. How’s the old wolf?” Tunstell doffed his hat and gave the assembly a sweeping bow and an even wider grin.

“Floppy.”

“You don’t say? I should think, from what I read in the paper this morning, he’d be rampaging about the countryside, threatening to tear folk limb from limb. Why—” Tunstell was warming to his topic, striding around the room in the sentimental style, arms waving, crashing into hats. He had recently earned himself a reputation as an actor of some note, but even before his fame, his mannerisms had leaned markedly in the dramatic direction.

A humorless little smile crossed Madame Lefoux’s lips, and she cut the former claviger off midgesticulation. “Not taking the marital separation well, your Alpha? I am very glad to hear it.” It wasn’t exactly rude of her to interrupt Tunstell. The redhead was a well-meaning fellow, with a perpetually jovial disposition and an undeniable stage presence, but, it must be admitted, he was prone to hyperbole.

Professor Lyall sighed heavily. “He has been intoxicated these last three days.”

“Good gracious me! I wasn’t even aware of the fact that werewolves could become intoxicated.” The Frenchwoman’s scientific interest was piqued.

“It takes some considerable effort and real allocation of resources.”

“What was he drinking?”

“Formaldehyde, as it turns out. Just this morning I deduced his source. It is most wearisome. He worked his way through all of my reserves and then demolished half my specimen collection before I realized what he was up to. I keep a laboratory, you see, on Woolsey Castle grounds in a converted gamekeeper’s hut.”

“Are you saying that you actually are a legitimate professor?” Madame Lefoux tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in newfound respect.

“Not as such. Amateur ruminantologist, to be precise.”

“Oh.”

Professor Lyall looked modestly proud. “I am considered a bit of an expert on the procreative practices of Ovis orientalis aries.”

“Sheep?”

“Sheep.”

“Sheep!” Madame Lefoux’s voice came over suddenly high, as though she were suppressing an inclination to giggle.

“Yes, as in baaaa.” Professor Lyall frowned. Sheep were a serious business, and he failed to see the source of Madame Lefoux’s amusement.

“Let me understand this correctly. You are a werewolf with a keen interest in sheep breeding?” A little bit of a French accent trickled into Madame Lefoux’s speech in her glee.

Professor Lyall continued bravely on, ignoring her flippancy. “I preserve the nonviable embryo in formaldehyde for future study. Lord Maccon has been drinking my samples. When confronted, he admitted to enjoying both the refreshing beverage and the ‘crunchy pickled snack’ as well. I was not pleased.” At which, Professor Lyall felt that nothing more was required of him on this particular topic. “Shall we proceed?”

Taking the hint, Madame Lefoux made her way to the back of the shop. In the farthest corner was a pretty marble-topped stand with an attractive display of gloves spread atop it. Lifting one of the many glove boxes, the Frenchwoman revealed a lever. She pressed it sharply down and a door swung open from the wall before her.

“Oh, I say!” Tunstell was impressed, never having visited Madame Lefoux’s laboratory before. Floote, on the other hand, was untroubled by the almost magical appearance of the doorway. Very little ever seemed to ruffle the feathers of the unflappable Floote.

The hidden doorway led into neither a room nor a passageway, but instead a large cagelike contraption. They entered, Tunstell with much highly vocalized trepidation.

“I’m not certain about this, gents. Looks like one of those animal-collecting thingamabobs, used by my friend Yardley. You know Winston Yardley? Explorer of some renown. He was off down this engorged river, the Burhidihing I think it was, and came back with a ruddy great ship packed with cages just like this, full of the most messy kinds of animals. Not certain I approve of getting into one myself.”

“It is an ascension room,” explained Madame Lefoux to the worried redhead.

Floote pushed a lever, which closed the door to the shop, and then he pulled the small metal safety grate closed across the open side of the cage.

“Cables and guide rails allow the chamber to move up and down between levels, like so.” Madame Lefoux pulled a cord on one side of the cage. She continued explaining to Tunstell as the contraption dropped downward, raising her voice above the din that accompanied movement. “Above us is a steam-powered windlass. Do not worry; it is perfectly capable of sustaining our weight and lowering us at a respectable speed.”

So it proved to be the case as, with many ominous puffs of steam floating into the cage and some creaking and groaning that made Tunstell jump, they moved down. Madame Lefoux’s definition of a respectable speed might be questioned, however, as the contraption plummeted quickly, bumping when it hit the ground, causing everyone to stumble violently up against one side.

“At some point, I suppose I shall have to get around to fixing that.” The Frenchwoman gave an embarrassed little smile, showing small dimples. Straightening her cravat and top hat, she led the three men out. The passageway they walked into was lit by neither gas lamps nor candles, but instead by an orange-tinted gas that glowed faintly as it traveled through glass tubing set in one side of the ceiling. It was carried by an air current of some kind. The gas swirled constantly, resulting in patchy illumination and a shifting orange glow.

“Oooh,” commented Tunstell, and then, rather unguardedly, “What’s that?”

“Aetheromagnetic currents with a gaseous electromagnetic illuminatory crystalline particulate in suspension. I was interested, until recently, in devising a portable version, but, if not precisely regulated, the gas has a tendency to, well, explode.”

Tunstell didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, some questions are best left unasked, I take it?” He gave the tubing a wary look and moved to walk on the opposite side of the passageway.

“Probably wise,” agreed Professor Lyall.

Madame Lefoux gave a half shrug. “You did ask, no?” She led them through a door at the end of the passage and into her contrivance chamber.

Professor Lyall sensed that there was something different about the place. He could not determine exactly what it was. He was familiar with the laboratory, having visited it in order to acquire various necessary instruments, gadgets, and devices for the pack, for the Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR), and sometimes for his own personal use. Madame Lefoux was generally thought to be one of the better young members of the mad-scientist set. She had a reputation for good, hard work and fair prices, her only idiosyncrasy of consequence, so far, being her mode of dress. All members of the Order of the Brass Octopus were notorious for their eccentricities, and Madame Lefoux stood comparatively low on the peculiarity scale. Of course, there was always the possibility she would go on to develop more offensive inclinations later. There were rumors, but, to date, Lyall had had no cause to complain. Her laboratory was everything that was to be expected from an inventor of her character and reputation—very large, very messy, and very, very interesting.

“Where is your son?” inquired Professor Lyall politely, looking around for Quesnel Lefoux’s mercurial little face.

“Boarding school.” The inventor dismissed her child with a faint headshake of disappointment. “He was becoming a liability, and then the muddle with Angelique last month made school the most logical choice. I anticipate his imminent expulsion.”

Professor Lyall nodded his understanding. Angelique, Quesnel’s biological mother and Alexia’s former lady’s maid, had been working undercover for a vampire hive when she fell to her death out of the window of an obscure castle in Scotland. Not that such information was common knowledge, nor likely to become so, but the hives were not above recrimination. Angelique had failed her masters, and Madame Lefoux had involved herself unnecessarily in the matter. It was probably safer for Quesnel to be out of town and away from society, but Professor Lyall had a soft spot for the little ragamuffin, and would miss seeing him around the place.

“Formerly Lefoux must be missing him.”