The drones couldn’t have been more excited if Queen Victoria were gracing them with her presence. A female in their midst, a baby in their future, and a room to decorate in the interim—pure heaven. After a brief scuffle over repapering the walls, it was decided, wholly without Alexia’s say-so, that a new carpet and some additional lighting were sufficient to brighten up the closet.
Once Covert Operation Fling Furniture was concluded, the two other werewolves jumped easily from one balcony to the other and came to see if there was anything further their Alpha female wished of them. There was a good deal more, as she readily informed them. She desired the bed be moved slightly to the right and her armoire moved to the other side of the room, and then back again. Also the drones wished to inquire as to the werewolves’ opinion on the matter of stacking Lady Maccon’s hatboxes, and the correct order in which to hang Lord Maccon’s cloaks.
By the end, Rafe wore the long-suffering look of an eagle being ordered about by a flock of excited pigeons.
Floote heralded completion by coming in with the last of Lady Maccon’s most prized possessions: her parasol, dispatch case, and jewelry box.
“What do you think, Floote?”
“It’s rather glossy, madam.”
“No, not that. What do you think about the whole arrangement?”
They had been organizing and packing for several days, and Floote had taken charge of leasing the house adjacent to Lord Akeldama’s (although not, much to the vampire’s disappointment, repainting it), but Alexia had not found the time to consult with him on his opinion of the scheme itself.
Floote looked grave and very much the butler. He was ostensibly Lady Maccon’s personal secretary and librarian now but had never been one to let go of good training. “It is a unique solution, madam.”
“And?”
“You have always done things differently, madam.”
“Will it work?”
“Anything is possible, madam,” was Floote’s noncommittal answer. Very diplomatic was Floote.
It was well into the night and no longer quite the time for social calls, even among the supernatural set, when Lord Akeldama’s doorbell sounded, interrupting Alexia’s conversation and the drone’s bustling.
Emmet Wilberforce Bootbottle-Fipps—whom everyone, including Lady Maccon when she forgot herself, called Boots—trotted off in a flutter of green velvet frock coat to see who would call at such an hour. Lord Akeldama didn’t always keep a butler; he said his drones needed the practice. Whatever that meant.
Alexia thought of something she had better see dealt with before it slipped her mind and became inconvenient. “Floote, would you please see about some very discreet carpenters to build a bridge between the balconies?”
“Madam?”
“I realize that they are hardly more than a yard apart, but my stability is not what it once was. It seems likely we must persist in this charade of actually living in the one abode while sneaking into the other. I refuse to be hurled willy-nilly between houses, no matter how strong my husband or how diverting he would find the attempt. Clothing isn’t always enough of a barrier to preternatural contact, and I should hate to be the victim of unreliable catching, if you take my meaning.”
“Perfectly, madam. I shall see to the builders directly.” Floote kept a remarkably straight face for a man having heard such a preposterous statement come out of the mouth of an overly pregnant aristocrat.
Boots reappeared wearing a look of mild shock under his sculpted topiary of muttonchops. “The caller is for you, Lady Maccon.”
“Yes?” Alexia held out her hand for a card.
There was none forthcoming, only Boots’s shocked statement. “It is a lady, what!”
“They do happen, Boots, much as you would prefer to deny it.”
“Oh, no, sorry ’bout that. I mean to say, how’d she know you were here?”
“Well, if you told me which lady, I might be able to elucidate.”
“It’s a Miss Loontwill, Lady Maccon.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks. Which one?”
Miss Felicity Loontwill sat in Lord Akeldama’s drawing room in a dress of sensible heathered tweed with only one layer of trim and six buttons, a hat with minimal feathers, and a gray knit shawl with a ruffled collar.
“Oh, my heavens,” exclaimed Lady Maccon upon seeing her sister in such a state. “Felicity, are you quite all right?”
Miss Loontwill looked up. “Why, yes, of course, sister. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Is there something amiss with the family?”
“You mean, aside from Mama’s predilection for pink?”
Alexia, blinking in flabbergasted shock, lowered herself carefully onto a chair. “But, Felicity, you are wearing last season’s dress!” She lowered her voice, in genuine fear that her sister might be deranged. “And knitwear.”
“Oh.” Felicity wrapped the ghastly shawl tighter about her neck. “It was necessary.”
Lady Maccon was only further shocked by such an unexpected statement. “Necessary? Necessary!”
“Well, yes, Alexia, do pay attention. Have you always been this frazzled, or is it your unfortunate condition?” Felicity lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Necessary because I have been fraternizing.”
“You have? With whom?” Alexia became suspicious. It was very late at night for an unmarried young lady of quality to be cavorting about unchaperoned, especially one who kept daylight hours and whose parents shunned association with the supernatural set.