The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (120 page)

Professor Lyall let out a little sigh. “Do you know how old I am, my lady?”

Alexia shook her head.

“Old enough to know better. Things are never good when immortals fall in love. Mortals end up dead, one way or another, and
we are left alone again. Why do you think the pack is so important? Or the hive, for that mat
ter. It is not simply a vehicle for safety; it is a vehicle for sanity, to stave off the loneliness. Our mistrust of loners
and roves is not only custom, it is based on this fact.”

Alexia's brain buzzed with all these new revelations, but finally the whirling settled on one thing. “Oh, lordy, Floote. Floote
knew.”

“Some, yes. He
was
Sandy's valet at the time.”

“Is it you who are keeping him quiet?”

Professor Lyall shook his head. “Your butler has never taken his orders from me.”

Alexia looked at the little journal again, stroking the cover, and then offered it back to Lyall. “Perhaps you will let me
read it in its entirety sometime?”

The Beta's eyes crinkled up, wincing as though he might cry. Then he swallowed, nodded, and placed the book inside his waistcoat
pocket.

Alexia took a deep breath. “So, back to the crisis at hand. I suppose neither of you is currently planning to kill Queen Victoria,
even in jest?”

Two almost simultaneous head shakes met that question.

“Are you telling me I've been on the wrong track all this time?”

The werewolves looked at each other, neither of them willing to risk her wrath.

Alexia sighed and extracted the sheaf of paper Madame Lefoux had given her from her reticule. “So this is entirely useless?
No connection between the last attempt and this one. Pure coincidence that the poisoner you were going to use, Professor,
happened to die in service to the OBO. And that she possibly then became a ghost who delivered a warning to me.”

“Looks like it must be, my lady.”

“I don't like coincidences.”

“Now that, my lady, I can't help you with.”

Alexia sighed and stood, using her parasol as a crutch. “Back to the beginning, I suppose. Nothing for it. I shall have to
return these papers to Madame Lefoux.” The child inside her kicked mightily at the very idea. “Perhaps tomorrow night. Bed
first.”

“A very sensible idea, my lady.”

“None of that from you, Professor, thank you very much. I'm still miffed. I understand why you did it, but I
am
miffed.” Alexia began making her way painstakingly to the door, prepared to climb upstairs and across the balcony bridge
into her closet boudoir.

Neither werewolf tried to help her. She was clearly not in the mood to be coddled. Lyall did touch her arm as she passed.
The action turned him mortal for a moment. Alexia had never had an opportunity to see him mortal before. He looked much the
same as he did when immortal—perhaps there were more lines about his mouth and at the corners of his eyes—but he was still
a pale vulpine man with sandy hair—utterly unremarkable.

“
Are
you going to tell Conall?”

Alexia turned around slowly and leveled a decided glare in his direction. It told him, in no uncertain terms, exactly how
she felt about this state of affairs. “No, no, I'm not. Damn you.”

And then, with as much dignity as was possible given her condition, she waddled from the room, like some unbalanced galleon
under full sail.

Only to run into Felicity in the hallway. It was like trundling full tilt into a pillar of molasses, the conversation
likely to be sticky and the individual attractive only to creepy-crawlies. Alexia was never prepared to run into her sister,
but on such a night as this when the chit should be fast asleep, it really was
beyond.

Felicity, for her part, was bleary-eyed and wearing nothing but a highly ornamented nightgown, the excess material of which
she clutched, with artful trembling hands, to her breast. Her hair was a tousle of golden curls that cascaded over one shoulder,
a ridiculous pink bed cap perched precariously atop her head. The nightgown, too, was pink, a foulard with printed magenta
flowers, replete with ruching, frillings, a quantity of lace trim, and a particularly large ruff about the neck. Alexia thought
Felicity looked like a big pink Christmas tree.

“Sister,” said the tree, “there is a most impressive rumpus emanating from the wine cellar.”

“Oh, go back to bed, Felicity. It's only a werewolf. Really. You'd think people never had monsters in their cellars.”

Felicity blinked.

Channing came up behind Alexia. “Lady Maccon, might I have a private word, before you seek your rest?”

Felicity's eyes widened and her breath caught.

Alexia turned around. “Yes, well, if you insist, Major Channing.”

A sharp elbow met her protruding belly. “Introduce us,” hissed Felicity. Her sister was looking at the Gamma with much the
same expression as that which entered Ivy Tunstell's eyes when faced with a particularly hideous hat, which is to say, covetous
and lacking in all elements of good judgment.

Alexia was taken well aback. “But you are in your night
attire!” Felicity only gave her a big-eyed head shake. “Oh, very well, Felicity. This is Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield
Channings. He is a werewolf and my husband's Gamma. Major Channing, do please meet my sister, Felicity Loontwill. She is human,
if you can believe such a thing after ten minutes' conversation.”

Felicity tittered in a manner she probably thought was musical. “Oh, Alexia, you so like to have your little jokes.” She offered
her hand to the handsome man before her. “I do apologize for my informal state, Major.”

Major Channing clasped it elegantly in both of his, bowing with evident interest, even daring to brush his lips across her
wrist. “You are a picture, Miss Loontwill. A picture.”

Felicity blushed and took back her hand more slowly than was proper. “I should never have thought
you
a werewolf, Major.”

“Ah, Miss Loontwill, it was eternal life as a gallant soldier that called to me.”

Felicity's eyelids fluttered. “Oh, a soldiering man through and through, are you, sir? How romantic.”

“To the bone, Miss Loontwill.”

Alexia felt she was about to be sick, and it had nothing to do with her pregnancy. “Really, Felicity, it is the middle of
the night. Don't you have one of your meetings tomorrow?”

“Oh, yes, Alexia, but I should never wish to be rude in fine company.”

Major Channing practically clicked his heels. “Miss Loontwill, I cannot deny you your beauty rest, however unnecessary I might
feel it. Such loveliness as yours is already so near to perfection it can require no further assistance in that regard.”

Alexia tilted her head, trying to determine if there was an insult buried in all that flowery talk.

Felicity tittered again. “Oh, really, Major Channing, we hardly know one another.”

“Your meeting, Felicity. Rest.” Alexia tapped her parasol pointedly.

“Oh, la, yes, I suppose I should.”

Lady Maccon was tired and out of temper. She decided she had a right, under such circumstances, to be difficult. “My sister
is an active member of the National Society for Women's Suffrage,” she explained sweetly to Major Channing.

The Gamma was taken aback by this information. No doubt in all his long years he had never encountered a woman of Felicity's
ilk—and her ilk was in very little doubt after even a few seconds of acquaintance—who would be involved in such a thing as
politics.

“Really, Miss Loontwill? You must tell me more about this little club of yours. I can hardly believe a woman of your elegance
need dabble in such trifles. Find yourself a nice gentleman to marry and he can do such fiddling things as voting for you.”

Rather suddenly, Alexia felt like she might want to join the movement herself. Imagine such a man as Major Channing thinking
he had any inkling of what a woman might want.
So condescending.

Felicity's eyelashes fluttered as though doing battle with a very fierce wind. “No one has asked me yet.”

Lady Maccon marshaled her displeasure. “Felicity, bed, now. I don't care one jot for your finer feelings, but I need my rest.
Channing, help me up the stairs and we shall have our little confidence.”

Felicity reluctantly undertook to do her sister's bidding.

Major Channing, even more reluctantly, took Alexia's arm. “So, my lady, I wanted to—”

“No, Major, wait until she is well away,” cautioned Lady Maccon.

They waited, making their way slowly up to the next floor.

Alexia finally deemed it safe, but still she spoke in a very low voice. “Yes?”

“I wanted to say, about that business with our Beta. Randolph is different from the rest of us wolves, you do realize? Your
father was the love of his life, and we immortals don't say such a thing lightly. Oh, there were others before Sandy—mostly
women, I'll have you know.” Channing seemed to be one of the few immortals Alexia had met who was concerned with such things.
“But Sandy was the last. I worry. It was a quarter of a century ago.”

Lady Maccon frowned. “I have other pressing concerns at the moment, Major, but I will give the matter my due attention as
soon as possible.”

Channing panicked. “Oh, now, I'm not asking you to matchmake, my lady. I'm simply pleading for leniency. I could not confide
such fears to Lord Maccon, and you are also our Alpha.”

Alexia pinched at the bridge of her nose. “Could we talk about this tomorrow evening, perhaps? I really am quite done in.”

“No, my lady. Have you forgotten? Tomorrow is full moon.”

“Oh, blast it, it is. What a mess. Later, then. I promise not to take any rash action with regards to the good professor without
due consideration as to the consequences.”

Channing clearly knew when to retreat from a battle. “Thank you very much, my lady. As to your sister, she is quite a peach,
is she not? You have been hiding her from me.”

Lady Maccon would not be goaded. “Really, Channing, she is practically”—she paused to do some calculations—“one-twentieth
your age. Or worse. Don't you want some maturity in your life?”

“Good God, no!”

“Well, how about some human decency?”

“Now you're just being insulting.”

Alexia huffed in amusement.

Channing raised blond eyebrows at her, handsome devil that he was. “Ah, but this is what I enjoy so much about immortality.
The decades may pass for me, but the ladies, well, they will keep coming along all young and beautiful, now, won't they?”

“Channing, someone should lock you away.”

“Now, Lady Maccon, that transpires tomorrow night, remember?”

Alexia did not bother to warn him off her sister. Such a man as Channing would only see that as a challenge. Best to pretend
not to care. Felicity was on her own with this one. Lady Maccon was exhausted.

So exhausted, in fact, that she didn't awaken when her husband later crawled in next to her in their bed. Her big, strong
husband who had spent the night holding on to a boy afraid of change. Who had coached that boy through a pain Conall could
no longer remember. Who had forced Biffy to realize he must give up his love or he would lose all of his remaining choices.
Her big, strong husband who curled up close against her back and cried, not because of
what Biffy suffered but because he, Conall Maccon, had caused that suffering.

Alexia awoke early the next evening to an unfamiliar sense of peace. She was not, by and large, a restful person. This did
not trouble her overmuch. But it did mean that peace was, ironically, a slightly uncomfortable sensation. It drove her fully
awake, sharp and sudden, once she had recognized and identified it. Her husband had slept pressed against her the whole day
through, and she had been so very tired even the inconvenience of pregnancy had awakened her only a few times. She luxuriated
in the pleasure of Conall's broad, comforting presence. His scent was of open fields, even here in town. She reflected whimsically
that he was the incarnation of a grassy hill. His face was rough with a full day's growth. It was a good thing they were now
encamped in Lord Akeldama's house. If any household were to employ the services of an excellent barber, it was this one.

Alexia pushed aside the bedding, the better to examine her personal territory with greater thoroughness. She smoothed her
hands along her husband's massive shoulders and chest, resting fingertips at the notch in the base of his throat. She petted
him as though he were in wolf form. She rarely got to indulge in such a luxury; usually her preternatural touch turned him
back to human before she even got in one good scratch. Sometimes, though, and no one had ever been able to tell her why, she
could put on her gloves and pet his thick brindled coat, even tug on his velvety ears with no shifting.
Yet another mystery of my state,
she thought. It had happened once in Scotland, and then a few other times during the winter months.
These days, however, her preternatural abilities seemed to be amplified. He went human simply by being close to her.
I wonder if it has something to do with the pregnancy. I should do some experiments and see if I can isolate the conditions.
Before her marriage, she'd never spent much time in the company of supernaturals, apart from Lord Akeldama, and she had never
had the opportunity to really study her own abilities.

But in the interim, she would continue petting whatever form he presented her with. She trailed her hands back over his chest,
threading fingers through the hair there, tugging slightly, and then down along his sides.

A rumbling snuffle of amusement met this action.

“That tickles.” But Conall did not make any move to prevent her continued explorations. Instead, he picked up his own hand
and began smoothing it over her protruding belly.