The massive tub, with its smal steam-heating attachment, was extremely well constructed and had been imported from the Americas at great expense because there they knew steel. But it stil wobbled dangerously on its four clawed feet under Lord Maccon’s weight.
“If a bul et’s bil et, you are doomed to fal ,” sang out the drenched werewolf, skipping several of the words.
“You gave Channing a direct order? In this state?” Professor Lyal tried once more to extract the earl from the tub. “And he obeyed you?”
For one brief second, Lord Maccon’s eyes sharpened and he looked quite sober. “I am stil his Alpha; he had better obey me.”
Professor Lyal final y managed to get his Alpha out of the water and into the robe in a desultory kind of way. The thin material stuck indecently close in places, but the earl, never one to suffer the strain of modesty under any circumstances, clearly didn’t give a fig, or a fig leaf.
Professor Lyal was used to it.
Lord Maccon began swaying back and forth in time with his singing. “Take your glass and fil it, laugh and drink with al !”
“Where did you send him?” Professor Lyal , supporting the brunt of his Alpha’s weight, blessed his own supernatural strength, which made the massive man merely awkward rather than hopeless to maneuver. Lord Maccon was built like a brick outhouse, with opinions twice as unmoving and often equal y ful of crap.
“Aha, wouldna you like ta know tha?” The Alpha did not do coy well , and Professor Lyal was not amused at the lack of a direct answer.
“Did you send him after Lord Akeldama?”
Lord Maccon came over slightly sober once more. “That pansy. Missing, is he?
Good. He reminds me of limp custard fil ing, al cream and no crust. Never could understand what Alexia saw in that pointy-toothed ninnyhammer. My wife! Cavorting about with a crustless vampire. Least I know he isna the father.” The Alpha’s yel ow eyes squinted, as if he were trying to keep from thinking about that.
Suddenly, he flopped downward with al his weight, slipped out of Professor Lyal ’s hold, and landed in a cross-legged heap in the middle of the floor. His eyes were starting to go completely yel ow, and he was looking altogether too hairy for Professor Lyal ’s liking. Ful moon wasn’t for a couple more nights, and Lord Maccon, by Alpha rights and strength, ought to be able to resist the change easily. Apparently, he wasn’t bothering to try.
The earl continued to sing even as his slurring from the drink gave way to slurring from his jawbones breaking and re-forming into those of a wolf’s muzzle. “Drink and sing a ditty, good-bye to the past, al the more’s the pity, if this cup’s our last!”
Professor Lyal was Woolsey Pack Beta for many reasons, one of them being that he knew perfectly well when he needed to ask for assistance. A quick run to the door and one loud yel had four of Woolsey’s strongest clavigers in to help him navigate his lordship, now a very drunken wolf, down into the cel ar lockup. Four legs offered no improvement in the matter of the earl’s wobbling, and instead of singing, he merely took to letting forth with a mournful howl or two. An aggravating day was looking to become an equal y aggravating night. With Major Channing vanished, Professor Lyal real y had only one recourse left to him: he cal ed for a pack meeting.
CHAPTER SIX
Under the Name Tarabotti
It was early evening, the sun just setting, when three unlikely-looking companions boarded the last dirigible for Calais, leaving from its mooring atop the white cliffs of Dover. No reporters managed to capture the departure of the notorious Lady Maccon.
This may have had something to do with the swiftness of her response to the publication of her al eged indiscretion, or it may have been the fact that the lady in question was traveling incognito by means of being outrageous in entirely new ways. Instead of her fashionable but severely practical garb, Alexia sported a black floating dress with chiffon ruffles, yel ow modesty straps dangling about the skirt, and a hideous yel ow hat. She bore, as a result, some passing resemblance to a self-important bumblebee. It was a truly ingenious disguise, for it made the dignified Lady Maccon look and act rather more like an aging opera singer than a societal grande dame. She was accompanied by a well -dressed young gentleman and his valet. Only one conclusion might be drawn from such a party—that it was an impropriety in action.
Madame Lefoux gave herself over to the portrayal of a boy paramour with enthusiasm, affecting many acts of sycophant-like solicitousness. She donned an extraordinarily realistic-looking mustache for the charade—a large black waxed affair that curled up at each side just over her dimples. It managed to disguise much of the femininity of her face through sheer magnitude, but the protuberance had the unfortunate side effect of causing Alexia fits of intermittent giggles whenever she had to look Madame Lefoux directly on. Floote had an easier time of it, sliding comfortably back into his old role of valet, dragging behind him Madame Lefoux’s boxes and his own battered portmanteau, which looked about as old as he was and much the worse for wear.
They were greeted with il -disguised contempt by the float staff and with actively shocked avoidance by the rest of the passengers. Imagine, such a relationship openly flaunted on board! Disgusting. The resulting isolation suited Alexia perfectly. At Floote’s suggestion, she had purchased her ticket under her maiden name, Tarabotti, never having gotten around to commissioning new travel papers after her marriage.
Madame Lefoux had initial y objected. “Is that wise, do you think, given your father’s reputation?”
“Wiser than traveling under the name of Lady Maccon, I suppose. Who wants to be associated with Conal ?” Safely ensconced in her apartments, Alexia pul ed off the bumblebee hat and flicked it, as though it were a poisonous snake, across the room.
While Floote puttered about seeing to the unpacking, Madame Lefoux came over and stroked Alexia’s hair, now freed from its confines, as though Alexia were a skittish animal. “Only among the supernatural set does the name Tarabotti carry much meaning.
There are those who wil make the connection eventually, of course. I am hoping we wil move through France faster than the gossip does.”
Alexia did not object to the petting—it was comforting. She assumed Madame Lefoux was simply entering into the spirit of her role. Very enthusiastic about such things, the French.
They ate a private meal in their quarters, declining to join the rest of the passengers.
Judging by the rapid appearance and freshness of the foodstuffs, the staff approved of this maneuver. Most of the offerings were cooked over the steam engine—a refreshing, if bland, method of preparation.
After supper they left their quarters and made their way up to the squeak deck for some air. Alexia was amused to find that those already relaxing in the evening aether breezes hurriedly departed as soon as she and her party arrived.
“Snobs.”
Madame Lefoux dimpled slightly from behind her preposterous mustache and leaned against Alexia as they both propped their elbows on the railing, looking down at the dark waters of the channel far below.
Floote watched. Alexia wondered if her father’s faithful valet mistrusted Madame Lefoux because she was French, because she was a scientist, or because she was so consistently inappropriately dressed. With Floote, al three qualities were likely to engender suspicion.
Alexia herself had no such reservations. Genevieve Lefoux had proved herself a most loyal friend over the past month, perhaps a little guarded in matters of the heart, but she was kind of word and more importantly, intel igent of action.
“You miss him?” The Frenchwoman did not need to specify further.
Alexia stuck out one gloved hand and let it ride the rushing aether currents.
“I don’t want to. I’m so blasted angry with him. I’ve come over al numb. Makes me feel slow and stupid.” She glanced sideways at the inventor. Genevieve, too, had experienced loss. “Does it get better?”
Madame Lefoux closed her eyes for a long moment. Probably thinking of Angelique.
“It changes.”
Alexia looked up at the almost-ful moon, not yet high enough in the sky to vanish behind the enormous bal oon section of the ship. “It’s already changing. Tonight”—she gave a tiny shrug—“hurts differently. Now I’m thinking about ful moon. It was the one night we remained close, touching, the entirety of the night. Other times, I tried to refrain from extended contact with him. He never cared, but I didn’t feel it worth the risk, to keep him mortal for longer than necessary.”
“Were you afraid you would age him?”
“I was afraid some loner wolf with madness in his eyes would savage him before I could let go.”
They were silent for a brief while.
Alexia pul ed her hand back in and tucked it under her chin. It was numb. Familiar sensation. “Yes. I miss him.”
“Even after what he did?”
Unconsciously, Alexia slid her other hand down to her stomach. “He was always a bit of a jackass. To be smart, he should never have married me in the first place.”
“Wel ”—Madame Lefoux tried to lighten the mood by changing the subject—“at the very least, Italy should be interesting.”
Alexia gave her a suspicious look. “Are you quite certain you entirely understand what that word means? I understand English is not your native tongue, but real y.”
The inventor’s fake mustache was wiggling dangerously in the breezes. She put one elegant finger up to her face to hold it in place. “It is a chance to find out how you got pregnant. Isn’t that interesting?”
Alexia widened her dark eyes. “I am perfectly well aware of how it happened. What it is, is a chance to force Conal to recant his accusations. Which is more useful than interesting.”
“You know what I mean.”
Alexia looked up into the night sky. “After marrying Conal , I assumed children were not possible. Now it’s like some exotic disease has happened to me. I cannot bring myself around to being pleased. I should like to know how, scientifical y, such a pregnancy occurred. But thinking about the infant too much frightens me.”
“Perhaps you just do not want to become attached to it.”
Alexia frowned. Trying to understand one’s own emotions was a grueling business.
Genevieve Lefoux had raised another woman’s child as her own. She must have lived constantly with the fear that Angelique would come and simply take Quesnel away from her.
“I could be doing it unintentional y. Preternaturals are supposed to be repel ed by one another, and we are supposed to breed true. By rights, I ought to be al ergic to my own child, unable even to be in the same room with it.”
“You believe you are going to miscarry?”
“I believe that, if I do not lose this child, I may be forced to attempt to rid myself of it, or go insane. That, even if, by some miracle, I manage to carry through my confinement, I wil never be able to share the same air as my own baby, let alone touch it. And I am so angry that my great lout of a husband has left me to deal with this alone. Couldn’t he have, oh, I don’t know, talked to me about it? But, no, he gets to blunder about acting al put-upon and getting sloshed. While I—” Alexia interrupted herself. “That’s a fantastic idea! I should do something equal y outrageous.”