Miss Tarabotti nodded and retreated into the shadows of her sleeping chamber. “What's going on here, then, me lad?” she heard one constable ask as she closed the shutters firmly behind her.
“Attempted burglary, I believe, sir,” the vampire replied.
A sigh came from the constable. “Well, let me see your registration papers, please.” To the other vampires, “And yours as well, please, gentlemen.”
Miss Tarabotti had an understandably difficult time getting back to sleep after that, and when she finally managed it, her dreams were full of vampires with lifeless faces and shattered wrists who kept turning multiple Lord Maccons into wax statues tattooed with the word VIXI over and over again.
***
Miss Tarabotti's family was unexpectedly en masse and entirely in an uproar when she arose for breakfast the next morning. Usually this was the calmest time of day, with Squire Loontwill up first, Alexia second, and the remainder of the household a distant third. But, due to the excitement of the night, Miss Tarabotti was the last to awaken. She deduced she must be uncommonly late indeed, for when she went down the stairs, it was to find that her nearest and dearest were crowded in the hallway rather than the breakfast room.
Her mother came toward her, wringing her hands and looking more than usually dippy. “Fix your hair, Alexia, do, dear, do. Hurry! He has been waiting for nearly an hour. He is in the front parlor. Of course the front; nowhere else would do at all. He would not let us wake you. Lord knows why he wants to see you, but no one else will do. I hope it is not official business. You have not been up to anything, have you, Alexia?” Mrs. Loontwill left off wringing her hands to flutter them about her head like a herd of excited butterflies.
“He ate three cold roast chickens,” said Felicity in a shocked voice. “Three, at breakfast time!” She spoke as though she was not certain which to be more offended by, the quantity or the hour.
“And he still does not look happy,” added Evylin, big blue eyes even bigger and bluer than usual in awe.
“He arrived unfashionably early and did not even want to talk with Papa, and Papa was willing to visit with him.” Felicity was impressed.
Alexia peeked in the hallway mirror and patted her hair into place. Today she had dealt with the bruises on her neck by donning a teal paisley shawl over her black and silver day dress. The shawl's pattern clashed with the geometric design trimming the fold of the dress, and it covered over the flattering square neckline of the bodice, but some things could not be helped.
Seeing nothing at all wrong with her hair, except that perhaps the simple knot was a bit old-fashioned, she turned to her mother. “Please calm yourself, Mama. Who exactly is waiting in the parlor?”
Mrs. Loontwill ignored the question, hustling her eldest daughter down the hall as though she were a blue frilly sheepdog and Alexia a reluctant black sheep.
Alexia opened the door to the parlor and, when her mother and sisters would have followed her inside, shut it firmly and unceremoniously in their faces.
The Earl of Woolsey was sitting in stony silence on the sofa farthest from the window, with the carcasses of three chickens on silver platters before him.
Before she could prevent herself, Miss Tarabotti grinned at him. He simply looked so bashful, with all those chickens, like poultry skeleton sentries, standing guard before him.
“Ah,” said the earl, raising one hand as though to ward off her smile. “None of that, Miss Tarabotti. Business first.”
Miss Tarabotti would have been crestfallen, except for the “first.” She also remembered Professor Lyall's words. She was supposed to make the next move in this little dance of theirs. So, instead of taking offense, she lowered her eyelashes, filed her smile away for later, and took a seat near to him but not too near.
“Well, what brings you to call on me this morning, then, my lord? You certainly have thrown the Loontwill household into a tizzy.” She tilted her head to one side and strove for cool politeness.
“Um, aye, apologies for that.” He looked abashedly at the chicken carcasses. “Your family, they are a bit, well”—he paused, hunting for the right word and then appearing to have come up with a new one of his own— “fibberty-jibbitus, are they not?”
Alexia's dark eyes twinkled at him. “You noticed? Imagine having to live with them all the time.”
“I'd as soon not, thank you. Though it certainly speaks highly of your strength of character,” he said, smiling unexpectedly. The expression suffused his normally cross face.
Miss Tarabotti's breath caught. Until that moment, she had not actually thought of the earl as pretty. But when he smiled. Oh dear, it was most inconvenient to deal with. Particularly before breakfast. She wondered what exactly was entailed in her making a first move.
She removed her paisley shawl.
Lord Maccon, who had been about to speak, paused, arrested midthought by the low neckline of the dress. The stark silver and black coloration of the material brought out the creamy undertones of her Mediterranean skin. “That dress will make your complexion come over all tan,” Mrs. Loontwill had criticized when she ordered it. But Lord Maccon liked that. It was delightfully exotic: the contrast of that stylish dress and the foreign tones of her complexion.
“It is unseasonably warm this morning, wouldn't you say?” said Miss Tarabotti, putting her wrap to one side in a way that caused her torso to dip forward slightly.
Lord Maccon cleared his throat and managed to track down what he had been about to say. “Yesterday afternoon, while you and I were... otherwise engaged, someone broke into BUR headquarters.”