Heartless

course.”

Lord Akeldama tapped one fang with the edge of his monocle. “I dare say your last option is best.”

“Werewolves?” Alexia looked into her teacup.

“A werewolf, yes, my gherkin.”

Alexia put down her cup and then flicked the two sounding rods on the harmonic device to encourage greater auditory disruption. “A loner I suppose, which leaves me in the same situation as a ghost. Most of the local loners were eliminated by the Hypocras Club’s illegal experiments last year.” She poured herself a second cup of tea, added a small dollop of milk, and lifted it to her lips.

Lord Akeldama shook his head, looking unusually pensive. The monocle stopped tapping. “You are missing a piece in this game, I think, butterball. My instincts are inclined to say pack, not loner. You don’t know what the local pack was like at that time. But I remember. Oh, yes. There were rumors all over town. Nothing proven, of course. The last Alpha wasn’t right in the head. A fact kept well away from public and press, and from daylight musings for that matter, but a fact, nonetheless. What he was doing to earn that reputation, well . . .”

“But even twenty years ago, the local pack was . . .” Alexia sat back, sentence unfinished, hand instinctively and protectively pressed upon her belly.

“Woolsey.”

Alexia mentally catalogued the Woolsey Pack members. Aside from her husband and Biffy, all of them were holdovers from the previous Alpha. “Channing,” she said finally. “I’ll wager it was Channing. He certainly didn’t like the idea of my investigating the past. Interrupted me in the library just the other day. I’ll need to check the military records, of course, find out who was in England at the time and who was billeted overseas.”

“Good girl,” approved the vampire. “Nice and thorough, but I have something more for you. That cook who worked for the OBO who you were investigating? The little poisoner?”

“Oh, yes. How did you know about her?”

“Please, darling.” He gestured with the monocle toward himself, as if pointing a finger.

“Oh, of course. I apologize. Do go on.”

“She preferred a tannin-activated dosing mechanism. Very hard to detect, you understand. Her preferred brand of poison at the time was stimulated by the application of hot water and a chemical component most commonly found in tea.”

Alexia put down her teacup with a clatter.

Lord Akeldama continued, eyes twinkling. “It requires a specialized automechanical nickel-lined teapot. The teapot was to arrive as a gift for Queen Victoria, and the first time she drank from it—death.” The vampire made a gesture with two slim, perfectly manicured fingers curving down toward his own neck, like fangs. “Your little ghost may have supplied the poison, but teapots of that type were made by only one specialty manufacturer.”

Lady Maccon narrowed her eyes. Coincidence was a fateful thing. “Let me guess, Beatrice Lefoux?”

“Indeed.”

Alexia stood, slowly and cautiously by degrees but with evident firmness of intent, leaning upon her parasol. “Well, this has been most edifying, Lord Akeldama. Most edifying. Thank you. I must be on my way.”

Right at that moment, there was a scuffle in the hallway and the door to the drawing room burst open to reveal the dewan.

“What is the meaning of such a summons as I just received?” He barreled into the room all loud bluster, bringing along an odor of London night air and raw meat.

Lady Maccon waddled past him as though the summons had nothing whatsoever to do with her. “Oh, hello, Dewan. The potentate will be happy to explain everything. Please excuse me, my lords. Important business.” She paused, searching for an excuse. “Shopping. I’m certain you understand. Hats. Very critical hats.”

“What?” said the werewolf. “But you directed me to attend you! Here, Lady Maccon! At the house of a vampire!”

Lord Akeldama stood up from his consciously relaxed posture as though he might try to waylay Lady Maccon.

Alexia waved at them both cheerily from the doorway before hobbling out and into her waiting carriage. “Regent Street, please, posthaste. Chapeau de Poupe.”

Lady Maccon barely glanced at the hats. She headed straight through the shop past the sputtering attendant in a, it must be said, very grand Lady Maccon–like manner. “I shall make my own way,” she said to the fretful girl, and then, “She is expecting me.” Which was, of course, an outfight fib but served to mollify the chit. Luckily, for all concerned, the shopgirl had the presence of mind to flip the CLOSED sign and shut the door before anyone could observe Lady Maccon’s disappearance into the wall.

Madame Lefoux was in her contrivance chamber, looking, if possible, even more gaunt and unwell than when Alexia had seen her last.

“My dear, Genevieve! I thought I was the one meant to be laid up. You look as though you could use a week’s rest. Surely this new project cannot be so vital you must damage your health over its completion.”

The inventor smiled wanly but barely glanced up from her work, concentrating on some engine schematic rolled out on a metal crate before her. The massive bowler-hat contraption she was still building loomed behind her, looking more of-a-piece. It was at least three times Lord Maccon’s height, with its podlike driving chamber now seated atop multiple tentacle-like supports.

Alexia thought perhaps her friend’s intense focus on work was a necessary distraction from her aunt’s terminal condition. “Goodness me, quite a fearsome thing, is it not? How do you intend to get it out of the chamber, Genevieve? It will never fit through that passageway of yours.”

“Oh, it’s only loosely assembled. I shall take it out in pieces. I have an arrangement with the Pantechnicon to utilize a warehouse for the final stage of construction.” The Frenchwoman stood, stretched, and turned to face Lady Maccon full-on for the first time. She scrubbed her grease-covered hands with a rag and then came over to greet her guest properly. A soft kiss was pressed lovingly against Alexia’s cheek, and Alexia was reminded of her friend’s consistently solicitous care in the past.

“Are you certain there is nothing you wish to talk about? I assure you I am the soul of discretion; it should go no further. Is there nothing I can do to help?”

“Oh, my dearest lady, I wish there were.” Madame Lefoux moved away, elegant shoulders hunched.

Alexia wondered if there might not be some other component to her friend’s unhappiness. “Has Quesnel been asking about his real mother again?”

Genevieve and she had discussed such matters in the past. Angelique’s violent death was deemed too much for an impressionable young boy. As was the former maid’s identity as his biological mother.

Madame Lefoux’s soft chin firmed. “I am his real mother.”

Lady Maccon understood such defensiveness. “It must be hard, though, not telling him about Angelique.”

Genevieve dimpled wanly. “Oh, Quesnel knows.”

“Oh, oh, dear. How did he . . . ?”

“I should prefer not to talk about it just now.” The inventor’s face, always tricky to read, shut down completely, her dimples vanishing as surely as poodles after a water rat.

Alexia, saddened by such icy reticence, nevertheless respected her friend’s wishes. “I actually have a matter of business to consult you on. I recently learned something of your aunt’s past activities. She undertook the manufacture of special automated teapots, I understand, very special ones. Nickel plated?”

“Oh, yes? When was this?”

“Twenty years ago.”

“Well, I should hardly remember that myself, I’m afraid. You may be correct, of course. We can attempt to converse with my aunt on the subject or look through her records. I warn you, she is difficult.” She switched to her perfect musical French. “Aunt Beatrice?”

A ghostly body shimmered out of a wall nearby. The specter was looking worse than last time, her form barely recognizable as human, misty with lack of cohesion. “Do I hear my name? Do I hear bells? Silver bells!”