A delicate subject, indeed, as Kingair was Lord Maccon’s former pack, and they had betrayed him in order to attempt the ghastly deed. He had killed his Beta and moved to London to challenge for Woolsey as a result. Like politics, or personal dressing habits, this was not proper meal-time conversation.
Professor Lyall, a man of much delicacy, seemed to find the subject particularly uncomfortable. After all, Woolsey had ultimately benefited from the assassination attempt. Their previous Alpha was reputed to be a man of petty disposition and profound temper, and Lord Maccon was considered one of the better werewolf leaders. The best, if Alexia had anything to say on the subject. Which she did. Often.
The bell sounded in the front entranceway, and Professor Lyall glanced up gratefully. There came a rumble of voices as Floote answered the door. Alexia couldn’t make out who it was, but her husband and his Beta had werewolf hearing and their reactions—a slight smile from Lyall and a disgusted frown from Conall—gave her a pretty decent idea.
“Peaches!” Lord Akeldama wafted in on a wave of Bond Street’s best pomade and a lemon-scented eau de toilette. Alexia’s pregnancy had had a strange effect on her sense of smell, rendering it far more acute. She imagined she was getting some limited idea of how werewolves felt with their supernatural abilities in that arena.
The vampire, resplendent in a silver tailcoat and bright yellow waistcoat only one or two shades darker than his hair, paused in the doorway. “Isn’t this delightfully cozy? How perfectly splendid that I can simply pop next door and visit you all à la table!”
“And how nice that you are not a hive queen to be so entirely confined to your own home,” replied Alexia. She gestured for the vampire to draw up a chair. He did so with a flourish, shaking out his napkin and placing it in his lap, although he would, everyone knew, take no food.
Professor Lyall tilted his head at the teapot. When Lord Akeldama nodded, the Beta poured him out a cup. “Milk?”
“Lemon, if you would be so kind.”
Lyall raised his eyebrows in shock but signaled one of the maids to run and see to this odd request. “I thought most vampires didn’t tolerate citrus.”
“Dolly, my pet, I am most assuredly not most vampires.”
Professor Lyall did not pursue this, as he had a more pressing question in mind. “It has occurred to me to worry about this scheme of ours. I understand it is a delicate subject, but this last winter you did swarm, did you not? Because of that spot of bother with Biffy being stuck under the Thames.”
“Yes, poppet, what of it?”
“That swarming isn’t going to hinder the effectiveness of your residency now, is it? You understand I ask only with a mind toward the safety of the child and because I’ve no records pertaining to the consequences of a rove swarming. No insult is intended.”
Lord Akeldama grinned. “Dolly, such a careful little creature, aren’t you? But fret not—my house isn’t technically a hive. I’m not bound by the same kinds of instincts. I can return to my previous residence without psychological upset. Besides, that was half a year ago. I’m well recovered from the experience by now.”
Lyall did not look entirely convinced.
Lord Akeldama changed the subject. “So what say you, all my lupine darlings, to this new threat?”
Lord Maccon looked with shock at his Beta. “Randolph, you didn’t!”
Professor Lyall did not flinch. “Of course not.”
“Wife?”
Alexia swallowed her bit of pudding. “He knows because, well, this is Lord Akeldama. You are going to have to get accustomed to it, my dear.”
“Thank you, darling plum nubbin, for your faith in my meager resources.”
“Of course, my lord. So?”
“Ah, dandelion fluff, I regret that I have not yet formed a ready opinion as to the nature and origin of these latest twitterings.”
A footman appeared with the lemon, and Lyall poured the vampire a cup of tea. Lord Akeldama sipped it delicately.
Lord Maccon snorted. “You haven’t lacked for a ready opinion in the whole of your very long life.”
The vampire tittered at that. “True, but those expressed traditionally concern matters of dress, not politics.”
Floote came in with Alexia’s dispatch case. “You’re due at the palace shortly, madam.”
“Oh, my, yes, look at the time. Thank you, Floote. My parasol?”
“Here, madam.”
“And perhaps a bite to take along?”
Floote handed her a sausage roll wrapped in checked cloth, having anticipated just such a request.
“Oh, thank you, Floote.”
The earl looked up hopefully. Wordlessly Floote handed him another sausage roll. The earl downed it in two satisfied bites, even though he had just finished a rather large meal. Floote and Lyall exchanged knowing looks. It had become quite the task to keep both Lord and Lady Maccon fed these days.
Lady Maccon leaned forward onto the table, bracing against it with both hands, pleased to live in a household that did not favor the spindly furniture so in vogue with ladies of quality. By dint of some sizable effort, she managed to almost hoist herself to her feet before losing her balance and lurching back down.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she cried out in abject frustration. The gentlemen all leaped to her assistance. Lord Maccon made it to her first. Which was probably a good thing. With her preternatural touch, none of the others present would have been of any use. They were all too slight in their mortal forms to handle her clumsiness.