“Convinced, I tell you. How remarkable.”
“Anything more about the ghost, Ivy?”
“I think it might have had something to do with the OBO.”
This comment brought Alexia up short. “What did you just say?”
“The Order of the Brass Octopus—you must have heard of it.”
Lady Maccon blinked in shock and put her hand to her stomach where the infant-inconvenience kicked out in surprise as well. “Of course I have heard of it, Ivy. The question is, how have you?”
“Oh, Alexia, I have been working for Madame Lefoux for positively ages. She has been traveling overmuch of late, and her appearance can be very distracting, but I am not so unobservant as all that. I am well aware that when she is in town, she undertakes fewer hat-orientated activities than hat-focused ones. She runs an underground contrivance chamber as I understand it.”
“She told you?”
“Not exactly. If Madame Lefoux prefers to keep things a secret, who am I to gainsay her? But I did look inside some of those hatboxes of hers, and they do not always contain hats. I did inquire as to the specifics, and Madame Lefoux assured me it was better if I not become involved. However, Alexia, I wouldn’t want you to think me ignorant. Tunny and I do talk about such things, and I have eyes enough in my head to observe, even if I do not always understand.”
“I apologize for doubting you, Ivy.”
Ivy looked wistful. “Perhaps one day you, too, will take me into your confidence.”
“Oh, Ivy, I—”
Ivy held up a hand. “When you are quite ready, of course.”
Alexia sighed. “Speaking of which, you must excuse me. This news about the ghost, it is of no little importance. I must consult my husband’s Beta immediately.”
Ivy looked about. “But it is daylight.”
“Sometimes even werewolves are awake during the day. When the situation demands it. Conall is asleep, so Professor Lyall is probably awake and at his duties.”
“Is a cephalopod so dire as all that?”
“I am afraid it might be. If you would excuse me, Ivy?”
“Of course.”
“I shall inform Floote about the little matter of my patronage. He will set you up right and proper with the necessary pecuniary advance.”
Ivy grabbed at Lady Maccon’s hand as she passed. “Oh, thank you, Alexia.”
Alexia was as good as her word, going immediately to Floote and issuing him with instructions. Then, in the interest of economy and perhaps saving herself a trip to BUR, she casually asked, “Is there a local OBO chapter in this area? I understand it is quite the secret society but thought perhaps you might know.”
Floote gave her a meditative look. “Yes, madam, a block over. I noticed the marking just after you began visiting with Lord Akeldama.”
“Marking, Floote?”
“Yes, madam. There is a brass octopus on the door handle. Number eighty-eight.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Lair of the Octopus
Number 88 was not a very impressive domicile. In fact, it was one of the least elegant in the neighborhood. While its immediate neighbors were nothing when compared to Lord Akeldama’s abode, they still put their very best brick forward. They acknowledged, in an entirely unspoken way, that they were denizens of the most fashionable residential area in London and that architecture and grounds should earn this accolade. Number eighty-eight was altogether shabby by comparison. Its paint was not exactly peeling, but it was faded, and its garden was overgrown with herbs gone to seed and lettuces that had bolted.
Scientists, thought Alexia as she made her way up the front steps and pulled the bell rope. She wore her worst dress, altered to compensate for her stomach and made of a worsted fabric somewhere between dishwater brown and green. She couldn’t remember why she’d originally purchased the poor sad thing—probably to upset her mother. She had even borrowed one of Felicity’s ugly shawls, despite the fact that the day was too warm for such a conceit. With the addition of a full white mob cap and a very humble expression, she looked every inch the housekeeper she wished to portray.
The butler who answered her knock seemed to feel the same, for he did not even question her status. His demeanor was one of pedantic pleasantness, exacerbated by a round jolliness customarily encountered among bakers or butchers not butlers. He sported a stout neck and a head of wildly bushy white hair that called to mind nothing so much as a cauliflower.
“Good afternoon,” said Alexia, bobbing a curtsy. “I heard your establishment was in need of new staff, and I have come to inquire about the position.”
The butler looked her up and down, pursing his lips. “We did lose our cook several weeks ago. We have been doing fine with a temporary, and we certainly don’t wish to take on someone in your condition. You can understand that.” It was said kindly, but most firmly, and meant to discourage.
Alexia stiffened her spine. “Oh, yes, sir. My lying-in shouldn’t be a day over a fortnight, and I do make the best calf’s-feet jelly you will ever taste.” Alexia took a gamble with that. The butler looked like the kind of man who liked jelly, his shape being of the jelly inclination already.
She was right. His squinty eyes lit with pleasure. “Oh, well, if that is the case. Have you references?”
“The very best, from Lady Maccon herself, sir.”
“Indeed? How comprehensive is your knowledge of herbs and spices? Our gentlemen residents, you understand, are mostly bachelors. Their table requirements are simple, but their extracurricular requests can be a tad esoteric.”