“Do I detect an honest-to-goodness apology?” asked Alexia, but she smiled, still fiddling with his cravat. “I do not mind the bruise. What I mind is that I cannot produce the same.” The bite mark she had given him only moments before had promptly vanished during the few seconds they separated while she straightened her dress. Then, she added, because Alexia never stayed silent when she ought, “These feelings you engender in me, my lord, are most indelicate. You should stop causing them immediately.”
He gave her a quick look to assess the seriousness, and then, unable to determine if she was joking or not, remained silent.
Miss Tarabotti finished with the cravat. He had arranged her hair so that it at least covered all signs of his amorous attentions. She walked across the room to draw the curtains and look out the front window to see who might have arrived.
The knocking continued on the parlor door until finally it burst open.
Of all odd couples, Miss Ivy Hisselpenny and Professor Lyall entered the room.
Ivy was talking nonstop. She spotted Miss Tarabotti instantly and flitted over to her, looking like an excited hedgehog in a loud hat. “Alexia, my dear, did you know there was a BUR werewolf lurking in your hallway? When I came for tea, he was squaring off against your butler in a most threatening manner. I was terribly afraid there might be fisticuffs. Why would such a person be interested in visiting you? And why was Floote terribly set on keeping him away? And why...?” She did not finish, having finally spotted Lord Maccon. Her large red and white striped shepherdess hat, with a curved yellow ostrich feather, quivered in agitation.
Lord Maccon was glaring at his second. “Randolph, you look awful. What are you doing here? I sent you home.”
Professor Lyall took in his Alpha's disheveled appearance, wondering what atrocious thing had been done to his poor cravat. His eyes narrowed and shifted toward Miss Tarabotti's loose hair. However, Lyall had been Beta for three consecutive pack leaders, and he was nothing if not discreet. Instead of commenting or answering Lord Maccon's question, he simply walked over to the earl and whispered rapidly into his ear.
Miss Hisselpenny finally noticed her friend's tousled state. Solicitously, she urged Alexia to sit and took up residence next to her on the little settee. “Are you feeling quite well?” She removed her gloves and felt Alexia's forehead with the back of her hand. “You are very hot, my dear. Do you think you might be running a fever?”
Miss Tarabotti looked under her eyelashes at Lord Maccon. “That is one way of phrasing it.”
Professor Lyall stopped whispering.
Lord Maccon's face flushed. He was newly upset about something. “They did what?” Was he ever not upset?
Whisper, whisper.
“Well, proud Mary's fat arse!” said the earl eloquently.
Miss Hisselpenny gasped.
Miss Tarabotti, who was getting very used to Lord Maccon's ribald mannerisms, snickered at her friend's shocked expression.
Issuing forth several additional creative statements of the gutter-born variety, the earl strode to the hat stand, shoved his brown topper unceremoniously on his head, and marched out of the room.
Professor Lyall shook his head and made a tut-tutting noise. “Fancy going out into public with a cravat like that.”
The cravat in question, with head attached, reappeared in the doorway. “Watch her, Randolph. I will send Haverbink round to relieve you as soon as I get to the office. After he arrives, for all our sakes, go home and get some sleep. It is going to be a long night.”
“Yes, sir,” said Professor Lyall.
Lord Maccon disappeared once more, and they heard the Woolsey Castle carriage clattering off at a breakneck speed down the street.
Miss Tarabotti felt forsaken, bereft, and not entirely unworthy of the pitying glances Ivy was casting in her direction. What was it about kissing her that caused the Earl of Woolsey to feel it necessary to disappear with such rapidity?
Professor Lyall, looking uncomfortable, removed his hat and overcoat and hung them up on the stand just made vacant by vanished Lord Expletive. He then proceeded to check the room. What he was looking for, Alexia could not guess, but he did not seem to find it. The Loontwills kept to the height of what was required of a fashionable receiving parlor. It was greatly overfurnished, including an upright piano that none of the ladies of the house could play, and cluttered to capacity with small tables covered with embroidered drop cloths and crowded with assemblages of daguerreotypes, glass bottles with suspended model dirigibles, and other knickknacks. As he conducted his investigation, Professor Lyall avoided all contact with sunlight. In style since the supernatural set rose to prominence several centuries ago, the heavy velvet drapes over the front window nevertheless allowed some small amount of daylight to creep into the darkness. The Beta was fastidious in his avoidance of it.
Miss Tarabotti figured he must be very tired indeed to feel such ill effects. Older werewolves could go several days awake during the daytime. The professor must be pushing his time limit, or suffering some other ailment.
Miss Tarabotti and Miss Hisselpenny watched with polite curiosity as the urbane werewolf wandered about the room. He checked behind Felicity's insipid watercolors and underneath the infamous wingback armchair. Alexia blushed inwardly thinking about that chair and trying not to remember what had so recently occurred there. Had she really been so forward? Disgraceful.
When the silence became too unbearable, Miss Tarabotti said, “Do sit down, Professor. You look positively dead on your feet. You are making us dizzy wandering about the room like that.”