Changeless (Parasol Protectorate #2)
Page 2Angelique placed the basin and a towel on Alexia’s dressing table and disappeared once more. She reappeared a polite ten minutes later with a cup of tea, whisked away the used towel and dirty water, and returned with a determined look and an air of quiet authority. Usually, there was a minor contest of wills when dressing Lady Maccon, but recent praise in the society column of the Lady’s Pictorial had bolstered Alexia’s faith in Angelique’s decisions à la toilette.
“Very well, you harridan,” said Lady Maccon to the silent girl. “What am I wearing tonight?”
Angelique made her selection from the wardrobe: a military-inspired tea-colored affair trimmed in chocolate brown velvet and large brass buttons. It was very smart and appropriate to a business meeting of the Shadow Council.
“You will have to leave off the silk scarf,” said Alexia, her token protest. “I shall need to show neck tonight.” She did not explain that bite marks were monitored by the palace guards. Angelique was not one of those who knew Alexia Maccon sat as muhjah. She may be Alexia’s personal maid, but she was still French, and despite Floote’s feeling on the matter, the domestic staff didn’t have to know everything.
Angelique acquiesced without protest and put Lady Maccon’s hair up simply, complementing the severity of the dress. Only a few loops and tendrils peeked out from under a small lace cap. Then Alexia made good her escape, aflutter with curiosity over her husband’s early departure.
There was no one to ask. No one waited at the dinner table; clavigers and pack alike had vanished along with the earl. The house was empty but for the servants. Alexia turned her concentrated interest on them, but they scattered about their various tasks with the ease of three months’ practice.
The Woolsey butler, Rumpet, refused, with an air of affronted dignity, to answer her questions. Even Floote claimed to have been in the library all afternoon and overheard nothing.
“Floote, truly, you simply must be acquainted with what has transpired. I depend upon you to know what is going on! You always do.”
Floote gave her a look that made her feel about seven years of age. Despite graduating from butler to personal secretary, Floote had never quite lost his severe aura of butlerness.
He handed Alexia her leather dispatch case. “I reviewed the documents from last Sunday’s meeting.”
“Well, what is your opinion?” Floote had been with Alexia’s father before her, and, despite Alessandro Tarabotti’s rather outrageous reputation (or perhaps because of it), Floote had learned things. Alexia was finding herself, as muhjah, more and more reliant upon his opinion, if only to confirm her own.
Floote considered. “My concern is with the deregulation clause, madam. I suspect that it is too soon to release the scientists on their own recognizance.”
“Mmm, that was my assessment as well. I shall recommend against that particular clause. Thank you, Floote.”
The elderly man turned to go.
“Oh, and, Floote.”
He turned back, resigned.
“Something substantial has happened to overset my husband. I suspect research in the library may be called for when I return tonight. Best to clear your schedule.”
Alexia finished her repast, gathered up her dispatch case, her latest parasol, and her long woolen coat, and wandered out the front door.
Only to discover exactly where everyone had gone—outside onto the sweeping front lawn that led up to the cobbled courtyard of the castle. They had managed to multiply themselves, don attire of a military persuasion, and, for some reason known only to their tiny little werewolf brains, proceed to engage in setting up a considerable number of large canvas tents. This involved the latest in government-issue self-expanding steam poles, boiled in large copper pots like so much metal pasta. Each one started out the size of a spyglass before the heat caused it to suddenly expand with a popping noise. As was the general military protocol, it took far more soldiers than it ought to stand around watching the poles boil, and when one expanded, a cheer erupted forth. The pole was grasped between a set of leather potholders and taken off to a tent.
Lady Maccon lost her temper. “What are you all doing out here?”
No one looked at her or acknowledged her presence.
Alexia threw her head back and yelled, “Tunstell!” She had not quite the lung capacity to match that of her massive husband, but neither was she built on the delicate-flower end of the feminine spectrum. Alexia’s father’s ancestors had once conquered an empire, and it was when Lady Maccon yelled that people realized how that was accomplished.
Tunstell came bouncing over, a handsome, if gangly, ginger fellow with a perpetual grin and a certain carelessness of manner that most found endearing and everybody else found exasperating.
“Tunstell,” Alexia said calmly and reasonably, she thought, “why are there tents on my front lawn?”
Tunstell, Lord Maccon’s valet and chief among the clavigers, looked about in his chipper way, as if to say that he had not noticed anything amiss and was now delighted to find that they had company. Tunstell was always chirpy. It was his greatest character flaw. He was also one of the few residents of Woolsey Castle who managed to remain entirely unfazed by, or possibly unaware of, either Lord or Lady Maccon’s wrath. This was his second-greatest character flaw.
“He didn’t warn you?” The claviger’s freckled face was flushed with exertion from helping to raise one of the tents.
“No, he most certainly did not.” Alexia tapped the silver tip of her parasol on the front stoop.
Tunstell grinned. “Well, my lady, the rest of the pack has returned.” He flipped both hands at the canvas-ridden chaos before her, waggling his fingers dramatically. Tunstell was an actor of some note—everything he did was dramatic.
“Tunstell,” said Alexia carefully, as though to a dim child, “this would indicate that my husband possessed a very, very big pack. There are no werewolf Alphas in England who can boast a pack of such proportions.”
“Oh, well, the rest of the pack brought the rest of the regiment with them,” explained Tunstell in a conspiratorial way, as though he and Alexia were partners engaged in the most delightful lark.
“I believe it is customary for the pack and fellow officers of a given regiment to separate upon returning home. So that, well, one doesn’t wake up to find hundreds of soldiers camping on one’s lawn.”
“Well, Woolsey has always done things a little differently. Having the biggest pack in England, we’re the only ones who split the pack for military service, so we keep the Coldsteam Guards together for a few weeks when we get home. Builds solidarity.” Tunstell gestured expansively once more, his fine white hands weaving about in the air, and nodded enthusiastically.
“And does this solidarity have to occur on Woolsey’s front lawn?” Tap tap tap went the parasol. The Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR) was experimenting with new weaponry of late. At the disbanding of the Hypocras Club several months previous, a small compressed steam unit had been discovered. It apparently heated continually until it burst. Lord Maccon had shown it to his wife. It made a ticking noise just prior to explosion, rather like that of Alexia’s parasol at this precise moment. Tunstell was unaware of this correlation or he might have proceeded with greater caution. On the other hand, being Tunstell, he might not.
“But why?” Tap tap tap.
“It is where we have always camped,” said a new voice, apparently belonging to someone equally unfamiliar with the ticking, exploding steam device.
Lady Maccon whirled to glare at the man who dared to interrupt her midrant. The gentleman in question was both tall and broad, although not quite to her husband’s scale. Lord Maccon was Scottish-big; this gentleman was only English-big—there was a distinct difference. Also, unlike the earl, who periodically bumped into things as though his form were larger than his perception of it, this man seemed entirely comfortable with his size. He wore full officer formals and knew he looked good in them. His boots were spit-shined, his blond hair coiffed high, and he boasted an accent that very carefully was no accent at all. Alexia knew the type: education, money, and blue blood.
She gritted her teeth. “Oh, it is, is it? Well, not anymore.” She turned back to Tunstell. “We are hosting a dinner party the evening after next. Have them remove those tents immediately.”
“Unacceptable,” said the large blond gentleman, moving closer. Alexia began to believe that he was no gentleman, despite his accent and immaculate appearance. She also noticed that he had the most cutting blue eyes, icy and intense.
Tunstell, a look of worry behind his cheery grin, seemed unable to decide whom to obey.
Alexia ignored the newcomer. “If they must camp here, move them around to the back.”
Tunstell turned to do her bidding but was stopped by the stranger, who put a large white-gloved hand on his shoulder.
“But this is preposterous.” The man’s perfect teeth snapped at Lady Maccon. “The regiment has always taken up residence in the forecourt. It is far more convenient than the grounds.”
“Now,” said Alexia to Tunstell, still ignoring the intruder. Imagine talking to her in such a tone of voice, and they hadn’t yet been introduced.
Tunstell, less cheerful than she had ever seen him, was looking back and forth between her and the stranger. Any moment now, he might place his hand upon his head and enact a swoon of confusion.
“Stay precisely where you are, Tunstell,” instructed the stranger.
“Who the devil are you?” Alexia asked, the man’s cavalier interference irritating her into using actual profanity.
“Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings.”
Alexia gawked. No wonder he was so very full of himself. One would have to be, laboring all one’s life under a name like that.
“Well, Major Channing, I shall ask you not to interfere with the running of the household. It is my domain.”
Alexia was not surprised by this assumption. She was very well aware of the fact that she was not of the appearance others patently expected of a Lady Maccon, being too Italian, too old, and too, frankly, ample. She was going to correct his error before further embarrassment ensued, but he did not provide her with the opportunity. Clearly Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings enjoyed the cadence of his own voice.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about our camping arrangements. I assure you, neither his lordship nor her ladyship will take you to task.” The ladyship in question flushed at his presumption. “You simply let us get on with our business and return to your duties.”
“I can assure you,” said Alexia, “everything that occurs in or around Woolsey Castle concerns me.”
Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings smiled his perfect smile and twinkled his blue eyes in a way Alexia was certain he believed to be alluring. “Now, really, neither of us has time for this, do we? Just you scamper off and get about your daily chores, and we shall see about a bit of a reward later for your obedience.”
Was that a leer? Alexia actually thought it might be. “Are you philandering with me, sir?” She was imprudently startled into asking.
“Would you like me to be?” he replied, grin widening.
Well, that certainly settled that. This was no gentleman.
“Uh-oh,” said Tunstell very softly, backing away slightly.
“What a nauseating thought,” said Lady Maccon.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Major Channing, moving in closer, “a fiery Italian thing like you, with a nice figure and not too old, might have a few lively nights left. I always did fancy a bit of the foreign.”
Alexia, who was only half Italian, and that only by birth, having been raised English to the bone, could not decide which part of that sentence offended her most. She sputtered.
The repulsive Channing person looked like he might actually try to touch her.
Alexia hauled off and hit him, hard, with her parasol, right on the top of his head.
Everyone in the courtyard stopped what they were about and turned to look at the statuesque lady currently engaged in whacking their third in command, Woolsey Pack Gamma, commander of the Coldsteam Guards abroad, with a parasol.
The major’s eyes shifted to an even icier blue and black about the rim of each iris, and two of his perfect white teeth turned pointed.
Werewolf, was he? Well, Alexia Maccon’s parasol was tipped with silver for a reason. She walloped him again, this time making certain the tip touched his skin. At the same time, she rediscovered her powers of speech.