“What are you researching, my lady?”
Alexia saw no reason to hide. “The old Kingair assassination attempt on Queen Victoria. Do you remember any of it?” Her tone was sharp.
The Gamma could not quite disguise the look of concern that suffused his face. Or was that guilt? “No. Why?”
“I think it might be relevant to our current situation.”
“I hardly think that likely.”
“Are you certain you remember nothing?”
Channing evaded the question. “Any success?”
“None. Dash it.”
“Well”—Channing shrugged and made his way nonchalantly back out of the library, without a book—“I think you’re on the wrong track. No good can come of meddling in the past, my lady.” Only Channing could put on such an air of dismissive disgust.
“Meddling! I like that.”
“Yes, you do,” said the Gamma, closing the door behind him.
After that, no one else intruded upon Alexia’s investigations until some few hours before dawn, when her husband came thumping in.
She looked up to see Conall watching her fondly, propping up a bookshelf with one massive shoulder.
“Ah, finally remembered me, have you?” She smiled, her eyes soft and dark.
He strode over and kissed her gently. “Never forgot. Simply misplaced while handling matters of pack and protocol.” He tugged playfully at a dark curl that had escaped to lie against her neck in a loose whorl.
“Anything of import?”
“Nothing that should concern you.” He had learned enough to add, “Although I’m happy to relay the inconsequential details, should you wish to hear them.”
“Oh, no thank you. Do restrain yourself. How is Biffy?”
“Not so good. Not so good.”
“I’m afraid your brand of roughness is not working as it ought to pull him into the pack.”
“You may be right. I am troubled, my love. I have never faced the problem of a reluctant werewolf before. Of course, in the Dark Ages they had to deal with this kind of thing all the time. Lord knows how they managed it. But our Biffy is such a unique case in this modern time of enlightenment that even I canna fix?.?.?.” He paused, struggling for the right words, almost stuttering. “I canna fix his unhappiness.”
He cleared himself some space among the piles of books and manuscripts around his wife and settled next to her, flush against her side.
Alexia took his big hand in both of hers, stroking the palm with her thumbs. Her husband was a gorgeous lout of a man, and she could not but admit she adored both his size and his temperament, but it was his caring mother-henishness she loved best of all. “I hold them both in the highest of esteem, but Biffy has become overly Byronic. He really must endeavor to fall out of love with Lord Akeldama.”
“Oh? And how does one fall out of love?”
“Unfortunately, I have absolutely no idea.”
The earl was learning to have a good deal of faith in his capable wife. “You will think of something. And how is my delicious wife? No ill effects from your tumble earlier this evening?”
“What? Oh, onto the chaise? No, none at all. But, husband, I am having very little success on the matter of this threat to the queen.”
“Perhaps the ghost was mistaken or misheard. We have not considered that. She was close to poltergeist phase.”
“That’s possible. And it might be possible that there is no connection to the Kingair attempt.”
Lord Maccon growled in irritation.
“Yes, I am well aware that you hate to be reminded.”
“Every man hates remembering failure. But we werewolves are the worst of the lot on the subject. I cannot believe there is a connection.”
“It is my only avenue of inquiry.”
“Perhaps you can leave it for the moment. I require your presence.”
Alexia bristled at the commanding tone. “Oh, yes?”
“In bed.”
“Oh. Yes.” Alexia relaxed and smiled, allowing her husband to help her to her feet.
Alexia slept on the far side of the bed from Conall. This was not because he was a restless sleeper. In fact, he was as still as any supernatural creature, though not quite so dead-looking as a vampire, and he snored softly. And, though Lady Maccon would never admit it to anyone, not even to Ivy, she was a bit of a cuddler. She simply didn’t want him vulnerable while he slept. Also, given his irreverence for physical appearance, she was in constant fear that should she touch him all night long, he would grow a beard and then neglect to shave.
On this particular day’s rest, the infant-inconvenience allowed Lady Maccon to doze only fitfully on her side, facing the tower window. Which was why she was partly awake when the burglar entered.
There were many things wrong with a thief breaking into Woolsey Castle in the middle of the day. First, what thief in his right mind travels all the way to Barking to perform a break-in? Prospects were much better in London. Second, why bother with Woolsey Castle, a den of werewolves? Just down the road was a small but wealthy ducal estate. And third, why aim for one of the challenging tower windows and not a downstairs parlor?
Nevertheless, the masked form clambered over the sill with graceful economy of movement and stood, light and balanced on his feet, silhouetted against the thick curtains that could not entirely block out the full afternoon sun. He inhaled sharply upon seeing Lady Maccon up on one elbow staring at him. Clearly, he expected to find the room abandoned.