“Yes, but to behave like animals? Surely that’s not polite.”
Lady Maccon narrowed her eyes, tilted her head, and gave her sister a look and the time to contemplate what she had just said.
Felicity sputtered. “You mean to say? Changed! Here! In town? How unspeakably shameful!” She turned to walk with her sister back down the stairs. “May I see?”
Lady Maccon wondered if she did not prefer the cuttingly nasty Felicity of previous incarnations.
“No, you most certainly may not! Really, what has gotten into you of late? You are not at all yourself.”
“Is it so unlikely that I should wish to improve myself?”
Alexia fingered the dull gray shawl draped over her sister’s faded dress. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
Felicity huffed in annoyance. “I must go change for supper.”
Lady Maccon looked her up and down, emitting a lip curl that was, quite frankly, remarkably Felicity-like. Sometimes, although not too often, there came an indication that they were, indeed, related. “Yes, I do believe you must.”
Felicity wiggled her shoulders and emitted the “Oh, la,” of an insult being shaken off, and proceeded back up to the best bedroom, which she had, naturally, commandeered as her own.
Lady Maccon waddled on down, one careful stair at a time. The urgency of the noises below made her increasingly annoyed by her own inability to move with any kind of alacrity. Really this is simply too ridiculous! I’m trapped by my own body. She attained the main hall only to find that the door to the back parlor was locked and shaking. Professor Lyall and two clavigers were milling about unhappily, crowding the passageway with masculine concern.
“Why aren’t you at supper?” demanded Lady Maccon imperiously. “I am certain Floote and the staff have gone to substantial lengths to provide.”
Everyone stilled and looked at her.
“Go on, go eat,” she said to them, as though they were small children or pet dogs.
Professor Lyall raised a quizzical brow at her.
Lady Maccon lowered her voice. “Biffy wouldn’t want anyone to see.”
“Ah.” Then the Beta, obedient to his mistress’s will, followed his fellows into the dining room, shutting the door behind him.
Lady Maccon let herself into the back parlor. Which was an absolute mess. Lord Maccon, now a massive brindled wolf—quite handsome, Alexia always thought, even in lupine form—was squared off against a younger, lankier animal. Biffy’s fur was a deep chocolate color, much the same as his hair, except for his stomach and up to the ruff, which was oxblood. His eyes were yellow and crazed.
Lord Maccon barked at his wife authoritatively. Lord Maccon was always barking at his wife, the form of his body mattering not one jot.
Alexia dismissed the commanding tone. “Yes, yes, but you must admit I can be quite useful under such circumstances as these, even in my less-than-nimble state.”
Lord Maccon growled in evident annoyance.
Biffy caught Lady Maccon’s scent and turned instinctively to hurl himself at her, a new threat. The earl twisted to place his own body in the way. The slighter wolf charged full tilt into his Alpha. Biffy reeled, shaking his head and whining. Lord Maccon feinted toward him, teeth nipping, backing him flush against the now mostly destroyed chaise.
“Oh, Conall, look at this room!” Lady Maccon was displeased. The place was in chaos—furniture overturned, drapes shredded, and one of the cook’s precious journals had been bitten into and slobbered all over.
“Oh, doesn’t that just take the biscuit! That’s evidence, that is.” Alexia’s hand was to her breast in distress. “Oh, dear, I suppose I ought to have kept it with me.” She couldn’t really blame Biffy, of course, but it was vexing. She toddled her way toward him, stripping off her gloves.
Biffy continued to snap and slather in her direction, growling in uncontrollable rage, the cursed monster of folklore made flesh and fur before her.
Alexia tsked at him. “Really, Biffy, must you?” Then she used her best Lady Maccon voice. “Behave! What kind of conduct is this for a gentleman!”
Alexia was Alpha, too, and the commanding tone sunk in. Biffy mellowed his snapping frenzy. Some measure of sense entered his yellow eyes. Lord Maccon seized the opportunity and charged, clamping down hard on the other wolf’s neck, bearing him down to the floor by sheer superiority of mass.
Lady Maccon approached and looked down at the tableau. “It’s no good, Conall. I can’t bend down to touch him without falling over.”
Her husband let out a snort of amusement. Then, with a casual flick of his head, he hurled the young wolf upward. A surprised Biffy landed on his back on the chaise lounge, scrambling to right himself and attack once more.
Lady Maccon grabbed his tail. He jerked in surprise, enough to overbalance her so that she fell with an oof onto the chaise next to him. In that same instant, the power of her preternatural touch forced him back into human form. Even as Biffy’s tail retreated, Alexia reached for a paw with her other hand.
In very short order, a nak*d Biffy lay sprawled in a most undignified way upon the chaise lounge with his foot firmly grasped by his mistress. Since contact with Alexia made him mortal, with all the physical responses such a state entailed, it was not unsurprising to find him blushing crimson in humiliation.
Alexia, while sympathetic to his plight, maintained her grasp and noted, with scientific detachment, that his blush went all the way down. Remarkable.
Her husband’s growl drew her attention back to him. He, too, was back in his human form and nak*d.
“What?”
“Stop looking at him. He’s bare.”
“So are you, husband.”
“Yes, well, you can look at me all you like.”
“Yes, well. Oh.” Lady Maccon clutched suddenly at her stomach with her free hand.
Conall’s mild jealousy translated instantly to overbearing solicitude. “Alexia! Are you ailing? Oh, you shouldna hae come in here! It’s too dangerous. You fell.”
Biffy sat up, also concerned. He tried to extract his ankle, but Lady Maccon refused to let go. “My lady, what is wrong?”
“Oh, stop it! Both of you. The infant is simply kicking up a fuss over such sudden activity. No, Biffy dear, we must stay in contact, however indecorous you find it.” Biffy offered her his hand instead of his foot. Alexia accepted the exchange of prisoners.
“Shall I ring for Floote?” suggested Biffy, blushing slightly less now that he had something to be worried about that wasn’t his own shame.
Alexia hid a smile. “You should find that rather difficult, as you seem to have chewed up the bell rope.”
Biffy looked around, blushing again. He covered his face with one hand, peeking through open fingers as though he couldn’t stand to look, yet was unable to drag his eyes away. “Oh my ruffled bacon! What have I done? Your poor parlor. My lord, my lady, please forgive me. I was not myself. I was in thrall to the curse.”
Lord Maccon was having none of it. “That’s the problem, pup. You were yourself. You continue to refuse to accept that.”
Lady Maccon understood her husband’s meaning and tried to phrase it in a more sympathetic manner. “You must begin to accustom yourself to being a werewolf, Biffy dear. Even attempt to enjoy it. This continued resistance is unhealthy.” She looked around. “Mainly to my furniture.”
Biffy looked down and nodded. “Yes, I know. But, my lady, it’s so undignified. I mean to say, one must strip before shifting. And then after?.?.?.” He looked down at himself, attempting to cross his legs. Lord Maccon took sympathy on him and tossed him a velvet throw pillow. Biffy placed it into his lap gratefully. Alexia noted her husband took no such pains himself.
Biffy’s blue eyes were wide. “Thank you, my lady, for bringing me back. It hurts, but it is worth anything to be human again.”
“Yes, but the question is, how are we to get you dressed while I maintain contact?” Alexia wanted to know, ever practical.
Lord Maccon grinned. “Something can be arranged. I shall call Floote in, shall I? He will know how to manage.” In the absence of the bellpull, Conall strode out into the hall, yelling for the butler.
Mere moments later, Floote appeared. He took in the wretched condition of the room, furniture everywhere, and the entirely unfurnished condition of two of its occupants without even the flicker of an eyelid.
“Sirs. Madam.”
“Floote, my man,” said the earl jovially. “We will need someone to see to this room. It’s a wee bit messy. A re-covering of the chaise, I think; repairs to the wallpaper and curtains; and a new bell rope. Oh, and Biffy here needs to be dressed without letting go of my wife’s paw.”
“Yes, sir.” Floote turned to see to the matter.
Lady Maccon cleared her throat and looked meaningfully at her husband, up and down and then up again.
“What? Oh, yes, and send one of the clavigers next door for some kit for me as well. Deuced inconvenient, but I suppose I may need garments at some point tonight.”
Floote vanished and then reappeared in due time carrying a stack of clothing for Biffy. The young werewolf looked as though he would like to object to the butler’s selection but didn’t want to cause any more of a fuss. It did seem that Floote had chosen the most somber attire possible out of all of the dandy’s peacocklike closet. Biffy’s bottom half was seen to rather simply. After which Floote suggested the young man kneel at the edge of the chaise lounge and Lady Maccon touch the back of his head while shirt, waistcoat, jacket, and cravat were summarily dealt with. Floote handled everything with consummate skill, an ability Alexia attributed to his many years as valet to her father. Alessandro Tarabotti, by all accounts, had been a bit of a dandy himself.
While Floote, Alexia, and Biffy performed their complicated game of knotted parts on the chaise, a claviger arrived with apparel for Lord Maccon. The earl threw it on in an arbitrary way, showing all the attention to detail a ferret might employ if called upon to decorate a hat. Lord Maccon believed that if his trousers were on his legs, and something else was on his torso, he was dressed. The less done after that, the better. His wife had been startled to find that in the summertime, he actually went around their room barefoot! Once—and only once, mind you—he even attempted to join her for tea in such a state. Impossible man. Alexia put a stop to that posthaste.
Professor Lyall stuck his head in to see if everything was sorted.
“Ah, good. You’ve managed matters.”
“Doesn’t she always?” grumbled her husband.
“Yes, Professor Lyall?” asked Alexia.
“I thought you should know, my lady, those results you wanted came in from our laboratory at BUR.”
“Yes?”
“On those little vials you, uh, found?”
“Yes?”
“Poison. All of them. Different kinds, different effectiveness levels. Some detectable, some not as such. Mostly for mortals but one or two that might put even a supernatural under the weather for some time. Nasty stuff.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Werewolves of Woolsey Castle