Heartless

like a parasol without its fabric cover, all points and sharp angles. He unfolded rather than walked. He did not look pleased.

The duke was more subtle and better able to hide his feelings over Lady Maccon’s unanticipated presence. Alexia wondered where Lord Ambrose, the last member of this little band, was stashed. Probably near the countess, as he acted as her praetoriani. At a party as crowded as this, the queen would want her pet bodyguard as close as possible.

“We did not expect you on this particular night, Lady Maccon. We had assumed you would be assisting your husband with his”—a calculated pause—“disability.”

Alexia narrowed her eyes and fished about in her reticule, coming up with the required card. “I have an invitation.”

“Of course you do.”

“It is most urgent I speak with your mistress immediately. I have some vital information to impart.”

“Tell it to me.”

Alexia put on her most superior Lady Macconish expression and looked him up and down. “I think not.”

The vampire stood his ground.

He was not a very large man. Alexia figured if push came to shove, she could probably take him on even in her current state. Being soulless had its uses. She removed her gloves.

He watched this movement with concerned interest.

“No need for that, Lady Maccon.” If he was as much like Professor Lyall as Alexia believed, physical conflict would not be his preferred solution to any given confrontation. He looked up toward the storklike doctor and gestured sharply with his chin. The other vampire reacted with supernatural swiftness, grabbing Miss Dair’s arm and melting away into the crowd, leaving Lady Maccon with a new, far less attractive, escort.

“It really is most vital that I see her as soon as possible. She may be in grave danger.” Alexia left her gloves off and tried to impress upon the vampire her urgency without being too threatening.

The duke smiled. His fangs were small and sharp, barely present, as subtle as the rest of his projected image. “You mortals are always in a hurry.”

Lady Maccon gritted her teeth. “This time it is in your best interest—really, it is.”

The duke looked at her closely. “Very well, come with me.”

He led her through the crowd, which thinned as they left the main hallway that serviced the drawing room, parlors, dining hall, and receiving area. They rounded a corner into a part of the house Alexia loved, the museum of machinery, where the history of human innovation was displayed with as much care as the marble statuary and oil paintings of the public areas. The duke moved at a sedate pace, too sedate for Alexia, who, even pregnant and knowing she was going beyond the bounds of proper etiquette, pushed past him. She scuttled by the very first steam engine ever built and then past the model of the Babbage Engine with barely a glance to spare for either feat of human ingenuity.

The vampire hurried to catch up, pushing past her in turn when they reached the stairs, leading the way up rather than, as had occurred on previous occasions, into the back parlor that was the countess’s preferred sanctuary. This was a special evening, indeed. Lady Maccon was being let into the high sanctum of the hive. She had never before been allowed upstairs.

There were drones strategically placed on the staircase, all attractive and perfectly dressed, looking like they might be guests at the party, but Alexia knew from the way they watched her that they were as much fixtures in the house as its Persian rugs. Only more deadly than the rugs, one supposed. They did nothing, however, as Lady Maccon was in the company of the duke. But they did watch her carefully.

They arrived at a closed door. The Duke of Hematol knocked, a pattern of taps. It opened to reveal Lord Ambrose, as tall, as dark, and as handsome as any milk-water miss might wish her own personal vampire to be.

“Lady Maccon! How unexpected.”

“So everyone keeps pointing out.” Alexia tried to barge past him.

“You can’t come in here.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, I mean her no harm. Truth be told, quite the opposite.”

An exchange of glances occurred between Lord Ambrose and the duke.

“She is part of this new order. I think we must believe her.”

“You used to think Walsingham was right!” Lord Ambrose accused his compatriot.

“I still do. But in character, she is no more her father’s daughter than Lord Maccon is Lord Woolsey’s successor or Lord Akeldama is Walsingham’s.”

Lady Maccon glared. “If you mean that I think for myself and make my own choices, then you are spot-on. Now, I must see the countess immediately. I have—”

Lord Ambrose didn’t budge. “I must take possession of your parasol.”

“Absolutely not. We may need it shortly, especially if you don’t let me in. I tell you I have—”

“I must insist.”

“Let her in, Ambrose dear.” Countess Nadasdy had a voice as warm as butter and just as greasy. She could fry people with that voice, if she wanted to.

Immediately, Lord Ambrose moved out of Alexia’s direct line of sight, revealing the interior of the chamber. It was a very-well-appointed boudoir, complete with not only a massive canopied bed, but also a full sitting area and other highly desirable accoutrements. There was the latest and most sophisticated in exsanguination warmers, an overlarge teapot for storing blood with multiple spouts and tubing attached. Both the pot and the tubes wore knitted tea cozies, and there was a warming brazier underneath to keep the vital liquid moving through the tubes.

The countess was indeed at tea. Her version being a lavish affair, complete with lace-covered tea trolley set out with teacups and matched teapot of fine china painted with little pink roses and edged in silver. There were pink and white petits fours that no one was eating and cups of tea that no one was drinking. A three-tiered serving dish of silver held a tempting display of finger sandwiches and sugared rose petals, and there was even a small platter of . . . could it be? Treacle tart!

Lady Maccon was excessively fond of treacle tart.

The assembled drones and guests were all dressed in shades of white, pale green, and pink to accessorize the decor. Elegant Greek urns held massive arrangements of flowers—pale cream roses with pink edges and long leaf ferns. It was all very well coordinated, perhaps too well, as a scientific etching of an animal compares to the real thing.

A second tea trolley was also prominently displayed, similarly draped in a fine lace cloth. It was one of the lower styles meant for front parlors and afternoon visiting hours. Upon it lay the supine form of a young lady, dressed to match the china in a white damask evening gown with pink flowers. Her throat was bare and exposed, and her fine blond hair was piled high and off of her neck.

The countess, it would appear, had a very particular definition of high tea.

“Oh, dear. I do hate to interrupt you at mealtime,” said Lady Maccon, not at all apologetically. “But I have the most important information to impart.”

She waddled forward, only to have her way blocked yet again by Lord Ambrose. “My Queen, I must protest, a soulless in your inner sanctum. While you are at table!”

Countess Nadasdy looked up from the young girl’s fine white neck. “Ambrose. We have been over this before.” Alexia had never thought the Westminster queen entirely suited the role of vampire. Not that Lady Maccon’s opinion mattered much. If the rumors were to be believed, Countess Nadasdy had been suiting the role for over a thousand years. Possibly two. But, unlike Lord Ambrose, she simply didn’t look the part. She was a cozy little woman—short and on the plump side. Her cheeks were round and rosy, and her big eyes sparked. True, the blush was mercuric and the eyes sparkled with belladonna and calculation, not humor, but it was hard to feel threatened by a woman who looked like the living incarnation of one of Lord Akeldama’s shepherdess seduction paintings.

“She is a hunter,” protested Lord Ambrose.

“She is a lady. Aren’t you, Lady Maccon?”