Lady Maccon was not fooled.
“My lord.” Alexia’s voice was soft and gentle, or as soft and as gentle as she could make it, being not a woman generally in command of such feminine wiles. “On our subject of brokenheartedness, should I now be saying poor Lord Akeldama?”
The vampire left without dignifying that with a reply.
Lady Maccon lowered the balcony drawbridge and made her way into Woolsey’s town home and down the stairs. Walking a gangplank when one cannot see one’s feet was a tad nerve-racking, but Alexia Maccon was a woman of forthright character and firm principle, not to be defeated by a mere fat belly. She encountered Felicity, obviously recently returned from one of her unmentionable jaunts, for she was once more attired in knitwear. They had no chance for idle conversation, thank goodness, for the house was in a veritable uproar.
Still, Felicity would not allow Alexia to pass without some commentary. “Sister! What is that tremendous ruckus in the back parlor?”
“Felicity, you did know, when you prevailed upon my hospitality, that this was the den of werewolves, did you not?”
“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.