With great difficulty, they managed to reverse positions so that Miss Tarabotti could untie Lord Akeldama's gag. Then they were at least able to talk.
“Well,” said Lord Akeldama, “this is a pretty kettle of fish. I think those miscreants have just ruined one of my best evening jackets. How very vexing. It is a particular favorite of mine. I am sorry to have dragged you into this, my dear, almost as much as having dragged the evening jacket into it.”
“Oh, don't be so nonsensical. My head is still spinning from that blasted chloroform, and there is no need for you to be tiresome on top of it,” remonstrated Miss Tarabotti. “This situation could not possibly be misconstrued as your fault.”
“But they were after me.” In the dark, Lord Akeldama actually looked guilty. But that could have been a trick of the shadows.
“They would have been after me as well, if they only knew my name,” insisted Miss Tarabotti, “so let us hear nothing more about it.”
The vampire nodded. “Well,” he said, “my buttercup, I suggest we keep that name of yours quiet as long as possible.”
Alexia grinned. “You should not find that a particularly difficult endeavor. You never do use my real name anyway.”
Lord Akeldama chuckled. “Too true.”
Miss Tarabotti frowned. “We may not need to bother with subterfuge. The wax-faced man knows. He saw me in the carriage outside the Westminster hive, and he saw me at my window one night when they came to abduct a known preternatural. He will put two and two together and realize I am the same person.”
“Cannot be done, dewdrop,” said Lord Akeldama confidently.
Alexia shifted, trying to relieve the pain in her manacled wrists. “How could you possibly know that?” she asked, wondering at his confident tone.
“The wax-faced man, as you call it, cannot tell anyone anything. He has no voice, little tulip, none at all,” replied Lord Akeldama.
Alexia narrowed her eyes at him. “You know what he is? Do tell! He is not supernatural; I can tell you that much. “
“It, not him, my lightning bug. And, yes, I know what if is.” Lord Akeldama wore a coy expression, one that usually accompanied his fiddling with his cravat pin. As his arms were cuffed behind his back, and his pin had been judiciously removed, he could do nothing to add to the expression but purse his lips.
“Well?” Miss Tarabotti was itching with curiosity.
“Homunculus simulacrum,” said Lord Akeldama.
Miss Tarabotti looked back at him blankly.
He sighed. “A lusus naturae?”
Alexia decided he was playing with her and gave him a nasty look.
He explained further. “A synthetic creature formed by science, an alchemical artificial man...”
Miss Tarabotti wracked her brain and finally came up with a word from some long-ago religious text in her father's library. “An automaton?”
“Exactly! They have existed before.”
Miss Tarabotti's generous mouth fell open. She had thought them mere creatures of legend, like unicorns: freaks of a purely mythical nature. The scientific side of her intellect was intrigued. “But, what is it made of? How does it work? It seems so very much alive!”
Lord Akeldama took exception to her word choice once again. “It is moving, animated, and active, yes. But, my dear bluebell, alive it most certainly is not.”
“Yes, but how?”
“Who knows what dastardly science went into its creation—a metal skeleton perhaps, a small aetheromagnetic or steam engine of some kind. Perhaps it has clockwork parts. I am no engineer to know the truth of it.”
“But why should anyone wish to build such a creature?”
“You are asking me to explain the actions of a scientist? I hardly know how to put it, petunia petal. Your friend there would appear to be the perfect servant: unflagging and loyal to the last. Of course, one would suppose all orders must be very precise.” He would have continued, but Miss Tarabotti interrupted him.
“Yes, yes, but what about killing them?” Alexia went straight for the heart of the matter. Really, she quite adored Lord Akeldama, but he did tend to blather on.
Lord Akeldama looked at her reprovingly. “Now, do not be too hasty, my darling. All in good time.”
“That is easy for you to say,” grumbled Miss Tarabotti. “You are a vampire; all you have is time.”
“Apparently not. I need hardly remind you, sweetheart, that those men are coming back for me. Shortly. Or so they implied.”
“You were awake the entire time.” Miss Tarabotti was somehow unsurprised.
“I awoke in the carriage on the way here. I feigned sleep, as there seemed nothing advantageous in alerting them to my consciousness. Pretending afforded me an opportunity to overhear interesting information. Unfortunately, I heard nothing of any consequence. Those”— he paused as though searching for the right way to describe the men who had abducted them—”degenerates are mere minions. They know only what they have been told to do, not why they were told to do it. Just as bad as the automaton. They were not interested in discussing this business, whatever it is, among themselves. But, marigold—”
Miss Tarabotti interrupted him again. “Please, Lord Akeldama, I do not mean to be rude, but the homunculus simulacrum?”
“Quite right, my dear. If I am to be taken off presently, you should have as much information as I can relay. In my limited experience, automatons cannot be killed. Because how does one kill something that is not alive? The homunculus simulacrum can be disanimated, though.”