Floote gave her a blank stare.
Perhaps he stil mistrusted Madame Lefoux for some other reason?
Since puzzling over the matter would certainly yield no results, and talking to Floote
—or, more precisely, at Floote—never did any good, Alexia swept by him and fol owed Monsieur Trouvé up the hal way to a tiny bedroom.
Alexia had changed into a claret-colored taffeta visiting dress and was just enjoying a little nap before supper when the most amazing racket awakened her. It seemed to be emanating from the downstairs clock shop.
“Oh, for the love of treacle, what now?”
Grabbing her parasol in one hand and her dispatch case in the other, she charged out into the hal way. It was very dark, as the lights in the apartment were not yet lit. A warm glow emanated up from the shop below.
Alexia bumped into Floote at the top of the stairs.
“Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé have been consulting on matters clock-related while you rested,” he informed her softly.
“That cannot possibly account for such a hul abaloo.”
Something crashed into the front door. Unlike London, the Paris shops did not stay open late in order to cater to werewolves and vampires. They shut down before sunset, locked firmly against any possible supernatural clientele.
Alexia and Floote bounded down the stairs—as much as a dignified butler-type personage and a pregnant woman of substance can be said to bound. There Alexia thought Paris’s closed-door policy might well have its merits. For just as she entered the clock shop, four large vampires did the same by way of the now-broken front door. Their fangs were extended, and they did not look in favor of formal introductions.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Trouble with Vampires
The trouble with vampires, thought Professor Lyal as he cleaned his glassicals with a handkerchief, was that they got hung up on the details. Vampires liked to manipulate things, but when things did not turn out as planned, they lost al capacity for refinement in the resulting chaos. The upshot was that they panicked and resorted to a course of action that never ended as elegantly as they had original y hoped.
“Where is our il ustrious Alpha?” asked Hemming, sitting down at the table and helping himself to several slices of ham and a kipper. It was dinnertime for most, but for the werewolves this was breakfast. And since gentlemen were never served at breakfast, the staff merely provided mounds of meat and let the pack and clavigers see to themselves.
“He is in the clink and has been al day, sobering up. He was so drunk last night he went wolf. The dungeon seemed like the best place to stash him.”
“Gol y.”
“Women wil do that to a soul. Best avoided, if you ask me.” Adelphus Bluebutton wandered in, fol owed shortly thereafter by Rafe and Phelan, two of the younger pack members.
Ulric, silently chomping on a chop at the other end of the table, glanced up. “No one did ask you. No one has ever been in any doubt as to your preferences.”
“Some of us are less narrow-minded than others.”
“More opportunistic, you mean to say.”
“I get bored easily.”
Everyone was grumpy—it was that time of the month.
Professor Lyal , with great deliberation, finished cleaning his glassicals and put them on. He looked around at the pack through the magnified lens. “Gentlemen, might I suggest that a discussion of preference is better suited to your club? It is certainly not the reason I have cal ed a meeting this evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You wil note that the clavigers have not been invited?”
Around him, al the immortal gentlemen nodded. They knew that this meant Lyal wanted to discuss a serious matter with the pack alone. Normal y, the clavigers were in on everyone’s business. Living with several dozen mostly out-of-work actors wil do that to a man’s private life—that is, make it considerably less private.
Al the werewolves seated about the large dining table tilted their heads so that their necks were exposed to the Beta.
Professor Lyal , aware that he now had their ful attention, began the meeting. “Given that our Alpha is pursuing a new and glorious career as an imbecilic twit, we must prepare for the worst. I require two of you to take leave of your military duties to help handle the extra BUR workload.”
No one questioned Professor Lyal ’s right to make changes to the status quo. At one point or another, each member of the Woolsey Pack had tested himself against Randolph Lyal . Al had discovered the damage inherent in such an undertaking. They had, as a result, settled into the realization that a good Beta was as valuable as a good Alpha, and it was best to be happy that they had both. Except, of course, that now their Alpha had gone quite decidedly off the rails. And their reputation and position as England’s premier pack was one that had to be defended constantly.
Professor Lyal continued. “Ulric and Phelan, it had best be you two. You have dealt with BUR paperwork and operational procedure before. Adelphus, you wil handle the military negotiations and make al accommodations needed to compensate for Channing’s absence.”
“Is he drunk, too?” one of the youngsters wanted to know.
“Mmm. No. Missing. I don’t suppose he told any of you where he was going?”
Silence met that question, broken only by the sound of chewing.
Lyal pressed his glassicals up the bridge of his nose and looked down through them at his cup of tea. “No? I suspected as much. Very well . Adelphus, you wil have to liaise with the regiment and persuade them to assign Channing’s majority temporarily to the nearest eligible officer. It wil probably have to be a mortal.” He looked at Adelphus, whose rank was lieutenant and who thought rather too well of his own abilities and rather too meanly of others’. In truth, he had fifty years more experience than most, but military protocol must be fol owed. “You wil continue to obey his orders as you would any supernatural superior officer. Is that clear? If there is any question of improper use of pack abilities, or excess risk due to immortal prejudice, you are to come directly to me.
No dueling, Adelphus, not even under the most trying circumstances. That goes for the rest of you as well .”
Professor Lyal took off the glassicals and issued the table of large men a cutting glare.
They al hung their heads and focused on their food.
“Too much dueling gives a pack a reputation. Any questions?”
No one had any. Professor Lyal himself held the rank of lieutenant colonel with the Coldsteam Guards, but had, in the last fifty years, rarely had cause to serve. He was beginning to regret not maintaining a more consistent presence within the regiment by letting his BUR duties supersede his military obligations. But even he, a man of considerable forethought, had not planned for a contingency wherein the regiment would be in residence and both Lord Maccon and Major Channing would, essential y, not be in residence.
He al owed the pack to continue the rest of their meal untroubled. They were nervous and a little restless. Merely through his presence alone, Lord Maccon kept them tame.
Professor Lyal could fight them each individual y, but he hadn’t the charisma to control them en masse, and if Lord Maccon continued to remain sloshed, problems might well arise from within the pack as easily as from without it. Either that, or England would run out of formaldehyde.
Just as the gentlemen were finishing their meal, a timid knock sounded against the closed door. Professor Lyal frowned; he had left orders they were not to be disturbed.
“Yes?”
The door creaked open and a very nervous-looking Rumpet entered, carrying a brass tray with a single card resting atop it.
“Begging your pardon, Professor Lyal , sir,” said the butler. “I know you said only in cases of emergency, but the clavigers don’t know what to do, and the staff is in an uproar.”
Professor Lyal took the card and read it.
Sandalius Ulf, Barrister. Messrs. Ulf, Ulf, Wrendofflip, & Ulf. Topsham, Devonshire.
Underneath that in very smal letters was one additional printed word: Loner.
The Beta flipped over the card. On the back had been scrawled, in the appropriate medium—blood—the fated phrase, Name your second.
“Oh, just wonderful.” Professor Lyal rol ed his eyes. And he had taken such prodigious care with his dress for the evening. “Bother.”
Lyal had spent a good deal of his existence as a werewolf avoiding becoming an Alpha. Not only was his temperament il -suited to the job, but he had no desire for that kind of physical responsibility, quite apart from the fact that he was unable to affect Anubis Form. Alphas had, he observed over the centuries, remarkably short life spans for immortals. His circumspect attitude toward brawling had served him in good stead.
The devil in his current situation was that despite himself, Professor Lyal was rather fond of his current Alpha and was, as yet, unwil ing to acquiesce to a regime change. Which meant that when upstart loners came to Woolsey to fight for the right to lead England’s most powerful pack because the Alpha was rumored to be incapacitated, there was only one thing poor Lyal could do—fight in Lord Maccon’s stead.
“Lieutenant Bluebutton, if you would attend me?”
One of the stronger and more senior pack members objected to that. “Shouldn’t I be Gamma in Channing’s place?”
“Given that the regiment is stil here, it had better be a ranking officer.”
Professor Lyal had to maintain military support and, with the Gamma gone, this could prove difficult. Major Channing might be a pain in the proverbial posterior as a pack mate, but he was an excel ent officer with a reputation as a fire-eater, and he had the respect of both soldiers and fel ow officers. Without him standing as second, Lyal needed another officer to act the part so that the pack was seen as united with the regiment, should he need to bring soldiers in to support Woolsey as a last resort. It was a truly horrible idea, using Her Majesty’s army to prevent an Alpha coup. Werewolves had served their military contracts with dedication since Queen Elizabeth first integrated them, but they had always strived to keep pack protocol separate. Nevertheless, Lyal was a man of ingenuity, and he would cal up the Coldsteam Guards if he had to.
Hemming was no Beta, so he objected further. “Yes, but—”
“My decision is final.” Professor Lyal finished his tea in one gulp, stood, summoned Adelphus to fol ow him, and left for the cloakroom.
There, both gentlemen stripped down to the skin and donned long wool cloaks before exiting through the front door, where an excited mil ing mass of clavigers and Woolsey staff waited in the cold evening air.
Professor Lyal could smel the loner even before he saw him. His scent was not that of the Woolsey Pack, nor of any distant association. The bloodline was off, making Lyal ’s nose twitch.
Professor Lyal went forward to greet him. “Mr. Ulf? How do you do?”
The werewolf looked at Lyal suspiciously. “Lord Maccon?”
“Professor Lyal ,” said Professor Lyal . And then to make matters clear to this upstart,
“And this is my second, Lieutenant Bluebutton.”
The loner looked offended. Lyal could tel from the man’s scent that this was for show. He was neither upset nor nervous at seeing Lyal instead of Lord Maccon. He had not expected the earl to meet his chal enge. He had heard the rumors.