The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (107 page)

The handkerchief lowered and Ivy's face became suffused with a naive cunning. “Is there anything in particular you wish me
to look out for?”

“Why, Ivy!”

Mrs. Tunstell sipped her tea coquettishly.

Lady Maccon took the plunge. “As a matter of fact, there have been rumors of late with regards to a threat upon a certain
peer of the realm. I cannot say more, but if you wouldn't mind?”

“Well, I did hear Lord Blingchester's carriage was to be decommissioned.”

“No, Ivy, not that kind of threat.”

“And the Duchess of Snodgrove's chambermaid was so incensed recently that she indicated she might actually not affix her hat
properly for the midsummer ball.”

“No, not quite that either. But this is all intriguing information. I should appreciate your continued conversation and company
even after your evolved circumstances.”

Ivy closed her eyes and took a small breath. “Oh, Alexia, how kind of you. I did fear…” She flipped open a fan and fluttered
it in an excess of sentimental feeling. “I did fear that once Tunny and I launched this endeavor, you would be unwilling to
continue the association. After all, I intend to perhaps take on some small roles myself.
Tunny thinks I may have dramatic talent. Being seen to take tea with the wife of an actor is one thing, but taking tea with
the actress herself is quite another.”

Lady Maccon shifted forward as much as possible and stretched out a hand to rest softly atop Mrs. Tunstell's. “Ivy, I would
never even consider it. Let us say no more on the subject.”

Ivy seemed to feel the time had come to move on to yet another pertinent bit of news. “I did have one other thing to relate
to you, my dear Alexia. As you may have surmised, I have had to give over my position as assistant to Madame Lefoux. Of course,
I shall miss the society of all those lovely hats, but I was there just the other evening when a very peculiar event occurred.
Given your husband's state, I immediately thought of you.”

“How very perspicacious.” Much to her own amazement, Lady Maccon had found that Mrs. Tunstell, a lady of little society and
less apparent sense, often had the most surprising things to relate. Knowing well that the best encouragement was to say nothing,
Alexia drank her tea and gave Ivy a dark-eyed look of interest.

“Well, you should never believe it, but I ran into a scepter in the street.”

“A scepter… what, like the queen's?”

“Oh, no, you know what I mean. A ghost. Me, can you imagine? Right through it I went, all la-di-da. I could hardly countenance
it. I was completely unnerved. After I had recovered my capacities, I realized the poor thing was a tad absent of good sense.
Subsequent to much inane burbling, she did manage to articulate some information. She seemed peculiarly attracted to my parasol,
which I was carrying at night only because my business with Madame
Lefoux had taken longer than expected. Otherwise, you understand, I have always found your habit of toting daytime accessories
at all hours
highly
esoteric. Never mind that. This ghost seemed peculiarly interested in my parasol. Kept asking about it. Wanted to know if
it
did
anything, apart from shield me from the sun, of course. I informed her flat out that the only person I knew who boasted a
parasol that extruded things was my dear friend Lady Maccon. You remember I saw yours emit when we were traveling in the north?
Well, I told this to the ghost in no unceremonious terms, at which point she got most stimulated and asked as to your current
whereabouts. Well, since she was a ghost and, as such, tethered within a shortened area of the location, I saw no reason not
to relay your new address to her. It was all very odd. And she kept repeating the most peculiar turn of phrase, regarding
a cephalopod.”

“Oh, indeed? What exactly did she say, Ivy?”

“ ‘The octopus is inequitable,' or some such drivel.” Ivy looked as though she might continue her discussion, except at that
moment she caught sight of Felicity through the open parlor door.

“Alexia, your sister appears to be most unbalanced. I am quite convinced I just observed her wearing a lemon-yellow knit shawl.
With a fringe. Going out into public. I cannot countenance it.”

Lady Maccon closed her eyes and shook her head. “Never mind that now, Ivy.”

“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.”

N
umber 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.”

Alexia pretended shock.

The butler made haste to correct any miscommunication. “Oh, no, no, nothing like that. They simply may ask for quantities
of dried herbs for their experiments. They are all men of intellect.”

“Ah. As to that, my knowledge is unequaled by any I have ever met before or since.” Alexia was rather enjoying bragging about
things about which she knew absolutely nothing.

“I should find that very hard to believe. Our previous cook was a renowned expert in the medicinal arts. However, do come
in, Mrs.…?”

Alexia scrabbled for a name, then came up with the best she could at short notice. “Floote. Mrs. Floote.”

This butler didn't seem to know
her
butler, for his expression did not alter at the improbability of such a pairing as Floote and Alexia. He merely ushered her
inside and led her down and into the kitchen.

It was like no kitchen Alexia had ever seen. Not that she had spent much time in kitchens, but she felt she was at least familiar
with the general expectations of such a utilitarian room. This one was pristinely clean and boasted not only the requisite
number of pots and pans, but also steam devices, one or two massive measuring buckets, and what looked like glass jars filled
with specimen samples lining the counters. It resembled the combination of a bottling factory, a brewery, and Madame Lefoux's
contrivance chamber.

Alexia made no attempt to disguise her astonishment—any normal housekeeper would be as surprised as she
upon seeing such a strange cooking arena. “My goodness, what a peculiar arrangement of furnishings and utensils.”

They were alone in the kitchen, and it was just that time of the afternoon when most household staff had a brief moment to
satisfy their own concerns before the tea was called for.

“Ah, yes, our previous cook had some interest in other endeavors apart from meal preparation. She was a kind of intellectual
herself, if you would allow such a thing in a female. My employers sometimes encourage aberrant behavior.”

Alexia, having spent a goodly number of years immersed in books and having attended many Royal Society presentations, not
to mention her intimacy with Madame Lefoux, could indeed allow such things in females, but in her current guise forbore to
say so. Instead, she looked around in silence. Only to notice a prevalence of octopuses. They were positively everywhere,
stamped onto jar lids and labels, etched into the handles of iron skillets, engraved onto the sides of copper pots, and even
pressed into the top of a vat of soap set out to harden on a sideboard.

“My, someone certainly has an affection for cephalopods.” Alexia waddled over, all casualness, to examine a row of very small
bottles of dark brown glass and mysterious content. They were corked up, each cork boasting a small glass octopus pressed
into it in a range of colors. Otherwise, there was no mention made of the content.

She reached to pick one up only to find that the butler, in the silent manner customary to the breed, had sidled up next to
her. “I should not, Mrs. Floote, if I were you. Our previous cook had an interest in rather more hazardous forms of distillery
and preservation as well.”

“What happened to the good lady, sir?” Alexia asked with a forced lightness in tone.

“She stopped. If I were you, I should take particular care with that yellow octopus there.”

Alexia moved hurriedly away from the whole row of little bottles, suddenly feeling that they were precariously placed on their
shelf.

The butler looked her up and down. “There are many stairs in this house, you understand, Mrs. Floote? You will not be able
to remain in only the kitchen. How am I to be convinced you are capable of your duties?”

Alexia seized upon this as a perfect opportunity to further her investigations. “Well, I am interested in seeing the accommodations,
should you choose to engage my services. If you would be so kind as to show me to the staff quarters, I can demonstrate my
mobility.”

The butler nodded and gestured her toward a back staircase that wound up through the house to the attic apartments. The room
he eventually shepherded her into was a tiny, cramped cell that still contained some remnants of its previous occupant, just
as Alexia had hoped. More small brown bottles and a few curious-looking vials lay about. A handkerchief was spread across
the windowsill, upon which bunches of herbs lay drying.

“Of course, we will clear out these quarters prior to new occupation.” The butler curled his lip as he looked around.

Small cloth-bound notebooks were scattered here and there; several were quite dusty with neglect. There were also bits of
scrap paper and even what looked to be some kind of ledger.

“Your previous cook was literate, sir?”

“I warned you she was peculiar.”

Alexia took another look around and then, thinking rapidly, maneuvered toward the small bed. “Oh, dear, perhaps those stairs
were a tad much given my present condition. I seem to be feeling rather overstimulated.” She collapsed onto the bed, leaning
back dramatically and almost overbalancing. It was a paltry performance.

Nevertheless, the butler seemed convinced. “Oh, I say, Mrs. Floote. This simply isn't on. Really, we can't consider anyone
who—”

Alexia cut him off by groaning and clutching at her stomach significantly.

The man blanched.

“Perhaps if I could have a little moment to recover, sir?”

The butler looked like he would prefer to be anywhere else but there. “I shall fetch you a glass of water, shall I? Perhaps
some, er, jelly?”

“Oh, yes, capital idea. Do take your time.”

At which he hurried out.

Immediately, Alexia lurched upright, an exercise that made up in efficiency what it lacked in dignity, and began searching
the room. She found very little memorabilia with regards to the occupant's personality, but there were even more notebooks
and mysterious bottles tucked away in the bedside drawer and the wardrobe. She tucked anything that looked to be secret or
significant into the stealth pockets of her parasol. Then, knowing she must limit herself, she took what seemed to be the
most recent notebook and one that looked to be the oldest and most dusty, along with a neatly printed ledger and bundled them
up in Felicity's shawl. The parasol was clanking slightly and drooping from its excess load, and she thought the knitwear
bundle must look very suspicious, but when the butler returned, he was so overjoyed to find her recovered he didn't notice
either.

Alexia decided to make good her escape. Saying she felt weak and had best hurry home before nightfall, she moved toward the
door. The butler led her downstairs, declining to offer her the position, despite her calf's-foot jelly, but suggesting she
call round in several months when she had recovered from her inconvenience, jelly apparently being quite the alluring prospect.

He was just letting her out when a voice stopped them both in their tracks. “Well, gracious me. Miss Tarabotti?”

Alexia clutched her loot closer to her breast, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Then she looked upward.

The gentleman walking slowly down the staircase toward her was an iconic example of the scientific species. His gray muttonchops
were untended, his eyes bespectacled, and his attire too far into tweed for midsummer and midtown. Unfortunately, Alexia was
all too familiar with that face.

“Why, Dr. Neebs! I thought you were dead.”

“Ah, not quite. Although Lord Maccon did do his level best.” The man continued down the steps, moving with a pronounced limp probably sustained during that
last battle in the Hypocras Club's exsanguination chamber. As he closed in upon her, Alexia noted his eyes were very hard
behind those spectacles.

“In which case, shouldn't you be serving a sentence for intellectual misconduct?”

“I assure you, it has been served. Now, I think perhaps you should come with me, Miss Tarabotti.”

“Oh, but I was just leaving.”

“Yes, I am certain you were.”

The butler, at a bit of a loss, was looking back and forth between them.

Alexia backed toward the open door, lifting up her parasol in a defensive position and pressing her thumb against the appropriate
lotus petal in the handle, arming the tip with one of the numbing darts. She wished she had not left Ethel behind; guns, by
and large, were far more threatening than parasols.

Nevertheless, Dr. Neebs looked at it with wary respect. “Madame Lefoux's work, isn't that?”

“You know Madame Lefoux?”

Dr. Neebs looked at her as though she were an idiot.
Of course,
thought Alexia,
this is a chapter of the Order of the Brass Octopus. Madame Lefoux is also a member. I did not realize the Order was reabsorbing
the Hypocras Club. I must tell Conall.

The scientist tilted his head to one side. “What are you about, Miss Tarabotti?”

Alexia faltered. Dr. Neebs was not to be trusted, of that she was certain. Apparently, he felt much the same about her, for
he issued a sharp instruction to the butler.

“Grab her!”

Luckily, the butler was confused by the proceedings and did not understand how his role had suddenly become one of ruffian.
He was also holding a glass of water in one hand and a jar of calf's-foot jelly in the other.

“What? Sir?”

At which juncture Alexia shot the scientist with a numbing dart. Madame Lefoux had armed the darts with a high-quality, fast-acting
poison that had some affiliation with laudanum. Dr. Neebs pitched forward with an
expression of shock on his face and collapsed at the base of the staircase.

The butler recovered from his inertia and lunged at Alexia. Lady Maccon, clumsy at the best of times, lurched to the side,
waving her parasol wildly in a wide arc and managing to strike the butler a glancing blow to the side of the head.

It was not a very accurate hit but it was violent, and the man, clearly unused to anything of the kind, reeled away looking
at her with an expression of such disgruntlement that Alexia was moved to grin.

“Why, Mrs. Floote, such indecorous behavior!”

Alexia armed her parasol and shot him with a second numbing dart. His knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor of the foyer.
“Yes, I know. I do apologize. It is a personal failing of mine.”