Heartless

“Rather.”

“Well, perhaps he could come play a bit for me, then? I must say, Conall, it is exceedingly dull being bedridden.”

Her husband grunted at that—his version of a sympathetic murmur.

Eventually, the earl resorted to pulling Floote back from London in order to cater to Alexia’s whims. No one could manage Lady Maccon quite so well as Floote. As a result, most of Woolsey’s library and a goodly number of newspapers and Royal Society pamphlets took up residence about Alexia’s bed, and her imperious bell ringing and strident demands ebbed slightly. She began receiving hourly reassurances that Queen Victoria was under guard. Her Majesty’s Growlers, special werewolf bodyguards, were on high alert, and in deference to the muhjah’s conviction that werewolves might be a risk factor, there was also a rove vampire and four Swiss guards in attendance at all times.

Lord Akeldama sent Boots around with not only inquiries as to Lady Maccon’s health, but also a small spate of useful information. The ghosts around London seemed to be in turmoil, for they were appearing and disappearing and wafting here and there, whispering dire threats concerning imminent danger. If queried directly, none of them seemed to know exactly what was going on, but the ghostly community was certainly all aflutter about something.

Alexia went nearly spare at this information combined with the fact that she was unable to rush off to London at that very moment in order to continue inquiries. She turned from demanding to positively imperious and made life rather unbearable for those unfortunate enough to be at Woolsey. As full moon was just around the corner, older members of the pack were out running, hunting, or working in the moonlight hours and the youngsters were now locked in with Biffy. This meant only the household staff really had to suffer the yoke of Lady Maccon’s impatience, and Floote, ever saintly, undertook the bulk of her amusement.

No one was particularly surprised when on the evening of the fifth day, even Floote’s powers failed and Lady Maccon threw off her covers, put weight upon her ankle, which seemed perfectly functional, if a tad achy, and pronounced herself fit enough for a carriage ride into London. No, what surprised everyone was that she had lasted that long.

She had just persuaded a blushing claviger to help her dress when Floote appeared in the doorway clutching several pieces of paper and looking thoughtful. So thoughtful that he did not, initially, attempt to prevent her from her planned departure.

“Madam, the most interesting series of aetherograms have just come in through the transmitter. I believe they are intended for you.”

Alexia looked up with interest. “You believe?”

“They are directed to the Ruffled Parasol. I doubt someone would actually attempt to communicate with an accessory.”

“Indeed.”

“From someone calling himself Puff Bonnet.”

“Herself. Yes, go on.”

“From Scotland.”

“Yes, yes, Floote, what does she say?”

Floote cleared his throat and began to read. “ ‘To Ruffled Parasol. Vital information regarding super-secret subject of confabulation.’ ” He moved on to the next bit of paper. “ ‘Past persons of Scottishness in contact with mastermind of supernatural persuasion in London, aka Agent Doom.’ ” Floote moved on to the third bit of paper. “ ‘Lady K says Agent Doom assisted depraved Plan of Action. May have all been his idea.’ ” Moving on to the last one, he read out, “ ‘Summer permits Scots to expose more knee than lady of refinement should have to withstand. Hairmuffs much admired. Yours etc., Puff Bonnet.’ ”

Lady Maccon put out her hand for Ivy’s correspondence. “Fascinating. Floote, send a message back thanking her and telling her she can return to London. Would you, please? And call up the carriage. My husband is at BUR tonight? I must consult with him immediately on the subject.”

“But, madam!”

“It’s no good, Floote. The fate of the nation may be at stake.”

Floote, who knew well when he had no chance of winning an argument, turned to do as ordered.

CHAPTER EIGHT Death by Teapot

“Why, Lady Maccon, I understood you to be confined to the countryside for two more days at the very least.” Professor Lyall was the first to notice Alexia as she let herself into BUR’s head office. The building was situated just off of Fleet Street and was a mite grimy and bureaucratic for Alexia’s taste. Lyall and her husband shared a large front office, crammed with two desks, a changing closet, a settee, four chairs, multiple hat stands, and a wardrobe full of clothing for visiting werewolves. Since the Bureau was always untangling some significant supernatural crisis or another and didn’t seem to employ a decent cleaning staff, it was also crammed with paperwork, metal aethographic slates, dirty teacups, and, for some strange reason, a large number of stuffed ducks.

Lord Maccon looked up from a pile of antiquated parchment rolls. His tawny eyes were narrowed. “She bloody well was. What are you doing here, wife?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” protested Alexia, trying not to look as though she were leaning on her parasol for assistance in walking. Although, truth be told, she was grateful for its support, as her waddle had evolved into a lurching hobble.

Her husband, with a long-suffering sigh, came out from behind his desk and loomed over her. Alexia expected recriminations, but instead the big man administered an enthusiastic embrace by which masterful tactic he managed to maneuver her backward and down onto a chair in one corner of the room.

Bemused, Lady Maccon found herself firmly off her feet. “Well,” she sputtered, “I say.”

The earl took that as an excuse to give her a blistering kiss. Presumably to stop her from saying anything further.

Professor Lyall chuckled at their antics and then returned to quietly going about official business, papers rustling softly as he calculated and correlated some complex mathematical matter of state.

“I have just come by the most interesting bit of information,” was Lady Maccon’s opening gambit.

This statement effectively distracted her husband from any further admonishments. “Well?”

“I sent Ivy to Scotland to find out from Lady Kingair what really happened with that previous assassination attempt.”

“Ivy? As in Mrs. Tunstell? What a very peculiar choice.”

“I shouldn’t underestimate Ivy if I were you, husband. She has discovered something.”

Conall ruminated a brief moment on this absurd statement and then said, “Yes?”

“It wasn’t simply that the poison was to come from London; there was a London agent involved, a mastermind if you would believe it. Ivy seems to think that this man orchestrated the whole attempt.”

Lord Maccon stilled. “What?”

“Here you thought you had put the matter to rest.” Alexia was feeling justifiably smug.

The earl’s face became still—the quiet before the storm. “Did she provide any details concerning the identity of this agent?”

“Only that he was supernatural.”

Behind them, Professor Lyall’s paper rustling stopped. He looked over at them, his vulpine face sharpened further by inquisitiveness. Randolph Lyall’s position at BUR was not held because he was Beta to Lord Maccon, but because of his innate investigative abilities. He had an astute mind and a nose for trouble—literally, being a werewolf.

Lord Maccon’s temper frothed over. “I knew the vampires had to be involved somehow! The vampires are always involved.”

Alexia stilled. “How do you know it was vampires? It could have been a ghost, or even a werewolf.”