Lady Maccon ignored her sister, who sat waiting patiently in the parlor, and instead took in her new surroundings. The drones and the werewolves had done Woolsey Pack proud. Their new town house was quite filled to bursting with tasteful furniture, pleasingly arranged and minimally decorated. As the abode was intended to serve as a way station for those of the pack who had business in town, most personal items and vital survival necessities such as dungeons and clavigers were left back at Woolsey Castle. The result was that the new house had the look of a gentleman’s club, rather than a private residence (but a nicely up-market gentleman’s club). Lord Maccon muttered that it reminded him of one of the sitting rooms in the House of Lords. But he was muttering for the sake of it, and everyone knew it. Thick curtains kept harmful sunlight out, and thick, plush rugs kept heavy footfalls and claw scrapes to a minimum.
For the time being, Floote was to resume the post of butler to the secondary residence. He had not even batted an eye at this temporary demotion back to domestic staff. Alexia suspected that he had missed his former authority over the household and accompanying ability to monitor all business occurring within it. Personal secretary might be a higher position, but it did not carry with it quite the range of a butler’s command over gossip.
The front parlor, where Felicity sat, was decked out in rich chocolate brown leather and cream twill, with only a small touch of brass here and there for accent—the filigree of a gas lamp, the fringe on a tablecloth, a large Oriental floor vase to hold Alexia’s parasols, and a periscopic shoe-drying stand in front of the fireplace.
It was exactly the opposite of Lord Akeldama’s brocade-and-gilt splendor.
Lady Maccon was impressed. “Floote, where did you find such lovely furnishings at such short notice?”
Floote looked at Alexia as though she had asked him the secrets of his daily ablutions.
“Now, now, wife. If Floote prefers to be thought a conjurer, who are we to inquire as to his sleight of hand? We must preserve a sense of wonder and faith, eh, Floote?” Lord Maccon slapped the dignified gentleman amiably on the back.
Floote sniffed. “If you say so, sir.”
Lord Maccon turned to his wife’s sister, sitting in demure silence and drab gray, both so utterly out of character as to garner even Lord Maccon’s notice.
“Miss Felicity, has somebody died?”
Felicity stood and bobbed a curtsy at the earl. “Not that I am aware, my lord. Thank you for inquiring. How do you do?”
“There’s something rather singular about your appearance this evening, isn’t there? Have you done something different with your hair?”
“No, my lord. I’m simply a tad underdressed for visiting. Only, I had a favor to ask my sister and it couldn’t possibly wait.”
“Oh, did you?” The earl turned his tawny eyes on his wife.
Alexia tipped her chin up and to one side. “She wants to come stay with us.”
“Oh, she does, does she?”
“Here.”
“Here?” Conall took his wife’s point exactly. They could hardly have Felicity stay in their new town house and not actually be living there themselves. What if that information got out? Felicity would be known to have resided with a pack of werewolves and no chaperone.
“Why not at Woolsey? Bit of country air? Looks like she could do with it.” Lord Maccon grappled for a better solution.
“Felicity has involved herself in some”—Alexia paused—“questionable charitable work here in town. She seems to believe she may require our protection.”
Lord Maccon looked confused. As well he might. “Protection?.?.?.?protection from whom?”
“My mother,” replied his wife, with meaning.
Lord Maccon could understand that and was about to demand additional details when a ghost materialized up through the plush carpet next to him.
Under ordinary circumstances, ghosts were too polite to simply appear in the middle of a conversation. The better-behaved specters took pains to drift into front hallways at the very least, where a footman might notice and inquire as to their business. In a startling fashion, this one wafted into existence out of the center of the new rug, directly through the bouquet of flowers depicted there.
Lord Maccon exclaimed. Lady Maccon let out a little gasp and firmed her grip on her parasol. Floote raised one eyebrow. Felicity fainted.
Alexia and Conall looked at each other for a moment and then left Felicity slumped over in her chair by mutual and silent agreement. Alexia’s parasol did have a small bottle of smelling salts among its many secret accoutrements, but this ghost required immediate attention with no time to revive troublesome sisters. The Maccons turned the full force of their collective attention onto the specter before them.
“Floote,” asked Lady Maccon slowly, so as not to startle the creature, “did we know this house came with a ghost? Was that in the leasing documentation?”
“I don’t believe so, madam. Let me ascertain the particulars.” Floote glided off to find the deeds.
The ghost in question was rather fuzzy around the edges and not entirely cohesive in the middle either. She must be close to poltergeist state. When she began speaking, it became abundantly clear that this was indeed the case, for the ghost’s mental faculties were degenerated and her voice was high and breathy, sounding as though it emanated from some distance away.
“Maccon? Or was it bacon? I used to like bacon. Very salty.” The ghost paused and twirled about, trailing misty tendrils through the air. These eddied in Lady Maccon’s direction, pulled by the preternatural’s attraction for ambient aether. “Message. Missive. Mutton. Didn’t like mutton—chewy. Wait! Urgent. Or was that pungent? Important. Impossible. Information.”