“Of course, my lady, delighted. What hat should I wear?”
“Oh, your town topper should suit us well enough. We shan’t be going into society.”
His face fell slightly at that. “Very good, my lady. Should I retrieve it now?”
“Oh, no, please finish your meal. No sense in wasting food in the pursuit of information. The one is far more vital than the other, despite what Lord Akeldama may think.”
Biffy smiled slightly and continued on with the consumption of his raw steak and fried egg.
Madame Genevieve Lefoux was a woman of style and understanding. If that style leaned toward gentlemen’s dress and mannerisms and if that understanding leaned toward scientific theory and practice, Lady Maccon was certainly not the kind of person so in want of sensibility that she would critique a friend for such eccentricities. Some considerable intimacy had left Alexia with the distinct feeling that Madame Lefoux liked her and that she liked Madame Lefoux, but not a great deal more. Trust, for example, seemed still in question. Between them existed a friendship quite different from the one she shared with Ivy Tunstell. There was no discussion of the latest fashions or societal events. If asked, Alexia might say that she could not recall precisely what it was she and the French inventor did discuss, but whatever it was, it always left Alexia feeling intellectually stretched and vaguely exhausted—rather like visiting a museum.
Madame Lefoux had a new, pretty, young shopgirl behind the counter when they arrived at Chapeau de Poupe. Madame Lefoux’s shopgirls were always young and pretty. This one seemed overset by the unexpected arrival of the grand Lady Maccon and was mightily relieved when her mistress, elegant and refined in gray tails and top hat, appeared to take over the management of such an august personage.
“My dear Lady Maccon!”
“Madame Lefoux, how do you do?”
The Frenchwoman grasped both of Alexia’s hands and kissed first one and then the other of Alexia’s cheeks. No air was left between lips and flesh, as was the custom among women of fashion, nor was this an extravagant gesture for fashion’s sake. No, for Madame Lefoux, such a greeting was as natural as a handshake among American businessmen. Her actions were tender and her smile dimpled with genuine affection.
“What an unexpected pleasure! But are you certain you should be in public in your condition?”
“My dear Genevieve, you have been so long away I began to suspect you might never return to us. Then what should London do when in need of a new hat?”
Madame Lefoux acknowledged both the compliment and rebuke of Alexia’s statement with a tilt of her dark head.
Lady Maccon noted, with some concern, that her friend was looking practically gaunt. Mostly composed of sharp angles, Madame Lefoux could never be described as full figured, but during her most recent travels, she had lost flesh she could not afford to lose. The inventor always had been more concerned with the pursuits of the mind than the body, but never before had her lovely green eyes sported such dark circles.
“Are you well?” asked Alexia. “Is it Quesnel? He is supposed to be home for the month, is he not? Is he being perfectly beastly?”
Madame Lefoux’s son was a cheerful towheaded creature with an unfortunate nose for mischief. There was no malice to his actions, but his mere presence resulted in a kind of microcosmic chaos that kept his mother on edge whenever he was in residence.
Madame Lefoux flinched slightly and shook her head. “He did not make it home this time.”
“Oh, dear! But then if not Quesnel, what could possibly be the matter? Truly, you do not look at all well.”
“Oh, pray, do not concern yourself, Alexia. Some trouble sleeping, nothing more. How are you? I understand you have taken a residence in town. You certainly look amplified. Have you been maintaining a tranquil environment? I read recently that it is terribly important for the baby to be surrounded by peace. Knowing your disposition, this has me worried.”
Alexia blinked at her.
Perceiving that her solicitude was unwelcome, the Frenchwoman moved hastily on. “Did you come to pick up Woolsey’s new glassical order, or is this merely a social call?”
Lady Maccon accepted the conversational redirection. She respected her friend’s need for privacy and her expertly cultivated aura of mystery. She also did not want to appear nosy. “Oh, is there an order? I suppose I could collect it. But, in actuality, there is a matter I should very much like to discuss with you.” Alexia noticed the curiosity in the eyes of the new shopgirl. “In seclusion, perhaps?” And then, as she was not certain as to the extent of the shopgirl’s knowledge, she confined her voice to a whisper. “Below?”
Madame Lefoux lowered her eyelashes and nodded gravely. “Of course, of course.”
Alexia looked to her escort. “Biffy, will you find yourself entertainment enough here for a quarter of an hour, or should you prefer to run along to the Lottapiggle Tea Shop on Cavendish Square?”
“Oh, I can abide a while among such loveliness as this.” The young werewolf waved a graceful gloved hand at the forest of dangling hats displayed all about him. He brushed his fingers along an exaggerated ostrich feather, much as a young girl would trail her fingertips through a fountain. “Beautiful brim rolling.”
“I shan’t be very long,” replied his mistress before following her friend toward the back of the shop, where a door in the wall led to an ascension room that took them down to a passageway, underneath Regent Street, and into the inventor’s much-vaunted contrivance chamber.