Ivy privately felt her friend did not give the earl enough credit. Simply because Alexia was immune to his charm did not mean the rest of the world felt such indifference. He was Scottish, to be sure, but he had been Alpha for what, twenty years or so? Not long by supernatural standards, but good enough for the less discriminating of daylight society. There were rumors as to how he had defeated the last Woolsey Alpha. They said it had been far too rough for modern standards, though still legal under pack protocol. However, the preceding earl was generally known to have been a depraved individual wanting in all aspects of civility and decorum. For Lord Maccon to have appeared out of nowhere and eliminated him, however draconian his methods, had left London society part shocked, part thrilled. The truth of the matter was that most Alphas and hive queens in the modern age held power by the same civilized means as everyone else: money, social standing, and politics. Lord Maccon might be new to this, but twenty years in, he was now better at it than most. Ivy was young enough to be impressed and wise enough not to dwell on his northern origin.
“I really do think you are terribly hard on the earl, Alexia,” said Ivy as the two ladies turned down a side path, away from the main promenade.
“It cannot be helped,” Miss Tarabotti replied. “I have never liked the man.”
“So you say,” agreed Miss Hisselpenny.
They circumvented a coppice of birch trees and slowed to a stop at the edge of a wide grassy area. Recently, this particular meadow, open to the sky and off the beaten track, had come into use by a dirigible company. They flew Giffard-style steam-powered airships with de Lome propellers. It was the latest and greatest in leisurely travel. The upper crust, in particular, had taken to the skies with enthusiasm. Floating had almost eclipsed hunting as the preferred pastime of the aristocracy. The ships were a sight to behold, and Alexia was particularly fond of them. She hoped one day to ride in one. The views were reportedly breathtaking, and they were rumored to serve an excellent high tea on board.
The two ladies stood watching as one of the dirigibles came in for a landing. From a distance, the airship looked like nothing so much as a prodigiously long skinny balloon, with a basket suspended from it. Closer up, however, it became clear that the balloon was partly reinforced into semirigidity, and the basket was more like an overlarge barge. The barge part was painted with the Giffard company logo in bright black and white and suspended by a thousand wires from the balloon above. It maneuvered in toward the meadow and then, as the two ladies watched, cut and cranked down its propeller before sinking softly into a landing.
“What remarkable times we live in,” commented Alexia, her eyes sparkling at the spectacular sight.
Ivy was not as impressed. “It is not natural, mankind taking to the skies.”
Alexia tsked at her in annoyance. “Ivy, why do you have to be such an old fuddy-duddy? This is the age of miraculous invention and extraordinary science. The working of those contraptions is really quite fascinating. Why, the calculations for liftoff alone are—”
She was interrupted by a mellow feminine voice.
Ivy let her breath out in a huff of relief—anything to keep Alexia off all that loopy intellectual mumbo jumbo.
The two ladies turned away from the dirigible and all its wonders. Alexia reluctantly and Ivy with great alacrity. They found themselves facing an entirely different kind of spectacle.
The voice had come from atop a wholly fabulous phaeton that had drawn to a stop behind them without either woman noticing. The carriage was a high flyer: a dangerous open-topped contraption, rarely driven by a woman. Yet there, behind a team of perfectly matched blacks, sat a slightly chubby lady with blond hair and a friendly smile. Everything clashed about the arrangement; from the lady, who wore an afternoon tea gown of becoming dusty rose trimmed in burgundy rather than a carriage dress, to the high-spirited mounts, who seemed far better suited to draw some dandy of the Corinthian set. She had a pleasant expression and bobbing ringlets but kept iron-steady hands on the reins. Unfamiliar with the woman, the two young ladies would have turned back to their observations, presuming the interruption an embarrassing case of mistaken identity, except that the pretty young lady spoke to them again.
“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Tarabotti?”
Ivy and Alexia looked at each other. It was such a remarkable thing to happen—in the middle of the park, by the airfield, and without any introduction—that Alexia answered in spite of herself. “Yes. How do you do?”
“Beautiful day for it, wouldn't you say?” The lady gestured with her whip at the dirigible, which had now completed its landing and was preparing to disgorge its passengers.
“Indeed,” replied Alexia crisply, a bit put off by the woman's brash and familiar tone. “Have we met?” she inquired pointedly.
The lady laughed, a mellow tinkling sound. “I am Miss Mabel Dair, and now we have.”
Alexia decided she must be dealing with an original.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she replied cautiously. “Miss Dair, might I introduce Miss Ivy Hisselpenny?”
Ivy bobbed a curtsy, at the same time tugging on Alexia's velvet-trimmed sleeve. “The actress,” she hissed in Alexia's ear. “You know! Oh, I say, Alexia, you really must know.”
Miss Tarabotti, who did not know, surmised that she ought to. “Oh,” she said blankly, and then quietly to Ivy, “Should we be talking to an actress in the middle of Hyde Park?” She glanced covertly at the disembarking dirigible passengers. No one was paying them any notice.