“Yes, my lord?”
“If”—the earl swal owed nervously—“if I am wrong, and I’m na saying I am, but if I am, well , I’l have to grovel again, won’t I?”
Professor Lyal had seen Lady Maccon’s face when she returned home to pack up her clothing and quit Woolsey Castle. She wasn’t big on crying—practical minded, tough, and unemotional even at the worst of times, like most preternaturals—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t utterly gutted by her husband’s rejection. Professor Lyal had seen a number of things in his lifetime he hoped never to see again; that look of hopelessness in Alexia’s dark eyes was definitely one of them.
“I am not convinced groveling wil be quite sufficient in this instance, my lord.” He was not disposed to al ow his Alpha any quarter.
“Ah. well , bol ocks,” said his lordship eloquently.
“That is the least of it. If my deductions are correct, she is also in very grave danger, my lord. Very grave.”
But Lord Maccon had already gone back to sleep.
Professor Lyal went off to hunt down the earl’s source of inebriation. Much to his distress, he found it. Lord Maccon hadn’t lied. It was, in fact, not alcohol at al .
Alexia Maccon’s parasol had been designed at prodigious expense, with considerable imagination and much attention to detail. It could emit a dart equipped with a numbing agent, a wooden spike for vampires, a silver spike for werewolves, a magnetic disruption field, and two kinds of toxic mist, and, of course, it possessed a plethora of hidden pockets. It had recently been entirely overhauled and refurbished with new ammunition, which, unfortunately, did little to improve its appearance. It was not a very prepossessing accessory, for al its serviceability, being both outlandish in design and indifferent in shape. It was a drab slate-gray color with cream ruffle trim, and it had a shaft in the new ancient Egyptian style that looked rather like an elongated pineapple.
Despite its many advanced attributes, Lady Maccon’s most common application of the parasol was through brute force enacted directly upon the cranium of an opponent. It was a crude and perhaps undignified modus operandi to be certain, but it had worked so well for her in the past that she was loath to rely too heavily upon any of the newfangled aspects of her parasol’s character.
Thus she left Lord Akeldama’s chubby calico reclining in untroubled indolence and dashed to the side of the door, parasol at the ready. It was an odd set of coincidences, but every time she visited Lord Akeldama’s drawing room something untoward happened. Perhaps this was not quite so surprising if one knew Lord Akeldama intimately.
A top hat, with attached head, peeked into the room and was soon fol owed by a dashing figure sporting a forest-green velvet frock coat and leather spats. For a moment, Alexia almost pul ed back on her swing, thinking the intruder was Biffy. Biffy was Lord Akeldama’s favorite, and prone to wearing things like velvet frock coats. But then the young man glanced toward her hiding spot—a round face sporting muttonchops and a surprised expression. Not Biffy, for Biffy abhorred muttonchops. The parasol hurtled in the unfortunate gentleman’s direction.
Thwack!
The young man shielded his head with a forearm, which took the brunt of the blow, and then twisted to the side and out of the parasol’s reach.
“Good gracious me,” he exclaimed, backing away warily and rubbing at his arm. “I say there, do hold your horses! Pretty poor showing, wal oping a gent with that accessory of yours without even a by-your-leave.”
Alexia would have none of it. “Who are you?” she demanded, changing tactics and pressing one of the lotus petals on the shaft of her parasol, arming the tip with a numbing dart. This new stance did not look quite so threatening, as she now appeared to be about to issue a prod instead of a thwack.
The young gentleman, however, remained respectful y wary. He cleared his throat.
“Boots, Lady Maccon. Emmet Wilberforce Bootbottle-Fipps, but everyone cal s me Boots. How do you do?”
Wel , there was no excuse for rudeness. “How do you do, Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps?”
The self-titled Boots continued. “Al apologies for not being someone more important, but there’s no need to take on so vigorously.” He eyed the parasol with deep suspicion.
Alexia lowered it.
“What are you, then?”
“Oh, no one of significance, my lady. Just one of Lord Akeldama’s”—a hand waved about, indicating the general splendor of the house—“newer boys.” The young gentleman paused, frowning in concentration and stroking one of his muttonchops. “He left me behind to tel you something. A sort of secret message.” He winked conspiratorial y and then seemed to think better of the flirtation when the parasol was raised against him once more. “I think it is in code.” He laced his hands behind his back and stood up straight as though about to recite some long Byronic poem. “Now what was it? You were expected sooner, and my memory is not so… Ah, yes, check the cat. ”
“That was al he had to tel me?”
Green-clad shoulders shrugged. “ ’Fraid so.”
They spent several moments staring at each other in silence.
Final y, Boots cleared his throat delicately. “Very good, Lady Maccon. If you do not require anything further?” And without waiting for her to reply, he turned to leave the room.
“Pip pip. Must, you understand, press on. Top of the morning to you.”
Alexia trailed him out of the room. “But where have they al gone?”