The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (4 page)

However, with Lord Maccon's harsh remonstrations still ringing in her ears, Alexia did not feel she could go for a walk completely
unchaperoned, even though it was midmorning and the antisupernatural sun shone quite brilliantly. So she took her trusty brass
parasol, for the sake of the sun, and Miss Ivy Hisselpenny, for the sake of Lord Maccon's easily offended sensibilities.

Miss Ivy Hisselpenny was a dear friend of Miss Alexia Tarabotti's. They had known each other long enough to trespass on all
the well-fortified territory of familiarity.

So when Alexia sent round to see if Ivy wanted a walk, Ivy was very well aware of the fact that a walk was only the surface
gloss to the proceedings.

Ivy Hisselpenny was the unfortunate victim of circumstances that dictated she be only-just-pretty, only-just-wealthy, and
possessed of a terrible propensity for wearing extremely silly hats. This last being the facet of Ivy's character that Alexia
found most difficult to bear. In general, however, she found Ivy a restful, congenial, and, most importantly, a willing partner
in any excursion.

In Alexia, Ivy had found a lady of understanding and intelligence, sometimes overly blunt for her own delicate sensibilities,
but loyal and kind under even the most trying of circumstances.

Ivy had learned to find Alexia's bluntness entertaining, and Alexia had learned one did not always have to look at one's friend's
hats. Thus, each having discovered a means to overlook the most tiresome aspects of the other's personality early on in their
relationship, the two girls developed a fixed friendship to the mutual benefit of both. Their Hyde Park conversation reflected
their typical mode of communication.

“Ivy, my dear,” said Miss Tarabotti as her friend bustled up, “how marvelous of you to find time to walk at such short notice!
What a hideous bonnet. I do hope you did not pay too much for it.”

“Alexia! How perfectly horrid of you to criticize my hat. Why should I not be able to walk this morning? You know I never
have anything better to do on Thursdays. Thursdays are so tiresome, don't you find?” replied Miss Hisselpenny.

Miss Tarabotti said, “Really, I wish you would take me with you when you go shopping, Ivy. Much horror might be avoided. Why
should Thursday be any different than any other weekday?”

And so on.

The day was quite a fine one, and the two ladies walked arm in arm, their full skirts swishing and the smaller, more manageable
bustle, just come into fashion last season, making it comparatively easy to move around. Rumor had it that in France, certain
ladies had dispensed with the bustle altogether, but that scandalous mod had yet to reach London. Ivy's and Alexia's parasols
were raised against the sun, though, as Alexia was fond of saying, such an effort was wasted on her complexion. Why, oh why,
did vampire-style paleness have to rule so thoroughly the fashionable world? They strolled along, presenting a fetching picture:
Ivy in cream muslin with rose flowers, and Alexia in her favorite blue walking gown with velvet edging. Both outfits were
trimmed with those many rows of lace, deep pleated flounces, and tucks to which only the most stylish aspired. If Miss Hisselpenny
sported a slight overabundance of the above, it must be understood it was the result of too much effort rather than too little.

Partly due to the pleasant weather and partly due to the latest craze for elaborate walking dresses, Hyde Park was decidedly
crowded. Many a gentleman tipped his hat in their general direction, annoying Alexia with constant interruptions and flattering
Ivy with such marked attentions.

“Really,” grumbled Miss Tarabotti, “what has possessed everyone this morning? One would think we were actually tempting marriage
prospects.”

“Alexia! You may see yourself as off the market,” remonstrated her friend, smiling shyly at a respectable-looking gentleman
on a handsome bay gelding, “but I refuse to accept such an injurious fate.”

Miss Tarabotti sniffed.

“Speaking of which, how was the duchess's ball last night?” Ivy was always one for gossip. Her family being too nearly middle
class to be invited to any but the largest of balls, she had to rely on Alexia for such detail as went unreported by the
Morning Post
. Sadly for Ivy, her dear friend was not the most reliable or loquacious source. “Was it perfectly dreadful? Who was there?
What were they wearing?”

Alexia rolled her eyes. “Ivy, please, one question at a time.”

“Well, was it a pleasant event?”

“Not a bit of it. Would you believe there were no comestibles on offer? Nothing but punch! I had to go to the library and
order tea.” Alexia spun her parasol in agitation.

Ivy was shocked. “You did not!”

Miss Tarabotti raised her black eyebrows. “I most certainly did. You wouldn't believe the fracas that resulted. As if that
was not bad enough, then Lord Maccon insisted on showing up.”

Miss Hisselpenny paused in her tracks to look closely into her friend's face. Alexia's expression showed nothing but annoyance,
but there was something about the precise way she always spoke about the Earl of Woolsey that roused Ivy's suspicions.

Still she played the sympathy card. “Oh dear, was he utterly horrid?” Privately, Ivy felt Lord Maccon entirely respectable
for a werewolf, but he was a little too, well,
much
for her particular taste. He was so very large and so very gruff that he rather terrified her, but he always behaved correctly
in public, and there was a lot to be said for a man who sported such well-tailored jackets—even if he did change into a ferocious
beast once a month.

Alexia actually snorted. “Pah. No more than normal. I think it must have something to do with being Alpha. He is simply too
accustomed to having his orders followed all the time. It puts me completely out of humor.” She paused. “A vampire attacked
me last night.”

Ivy pretended a faint.

Alexia kept her friend forcibly upright by stiffening her linked arm. “Stop being so squiffy,” she said. “There is no one
important around to catch you.”

Ivy recovered herself and said vehemently, “Good heavens, Alexia. How
do
you get yourself into these situations?”

Alexia shrugged and commenced walking more briskly so that Ivy had to trot a few steps to keep up.

“What did you do?” She was not to be dissuaded.

“Hit him with my parasol, of course.”

“You did not!”

“Right upside the head. I would do the same to anyone who attacked me, supernatural or not. He simply came right at me, no
introduction, no nothing!” Miss Tarabotti was feeling a tad defensive on the subject.

“But, Alexia, really, it simply is not the done thing to hit a vampire, with a parasol or otherwise!”

Miss Tarabotti sighed but secretly agreed with her friend. There weren't very many vampires skulking around London society,
never had been, but the few hives that were in residence included politicians, landholders, and some very important noblemen
among their membership. To indiscriminately whack about with one's parasol among such luminaries was social suicide.

Miss Hisselpenny continued. “It's simply too outrageous. What's next? Charging indiscriminately about the House of Lords,
throwing jam at the local supernatural set during nighttime session?”

Alexia giggled at the leaps made by Ivy's imagination.

“Oh no, now I am giving you ideas.” Ivy pressed her forehead dramatically with one gloved hand. “What exactly happened?”

Alexia told her.

“You killed him?” This time Miss Hisselpenny looked like she might really faint.

“It was by accident!” insisted Miss Tarabotti, taking her friend's arm in a firmer grip.

“That was you in the
Morning Post
? The lady who found the dead man at the Duchess of Snodgrove's ball last night?” Ivy was all agog.

Alexia nodded.

“Well, Lord Maccon certainly covered things up adequately. There was no mention of your name or family.” Ivy was relieved
for her friend's sake.

“Or the fact that the dead man was a vampire, thank goodness. Can you imagine what my dear mother would say?” Alexia glanced
heavenward.

“Or the detrimental effect on your marriage prospects, to be found unchaperoned in a library with a dead vampire!”

Alexia's expression told Ivy exactly what she felt about
that
comment.

Miss Hisselpenny moved on. “You do realize you owe Lord Maccon a tremendous debt of gratitude?”

Miss Tarabotti looked exactly as if she had swallowed a live eel. “I should think not, Ivy. It is his job to keep these things
secret: Chief Minister in Charge of Supernatural-Natural Liaison for the Greater London Area, or whatever his BUR title is.
I am certainly under no obligation to a man who was only doing his civic duty. Besides, knowing what I do of the Woolsey Pack's
social dynamics, I would guess that Professor Lyall, not Lord Maccon, dealt with the newspapermen.”

Ivy privately felt her friend did not give the earl enough credit. Simply because Alexia was immune to his charm did not mean
the rest of the world felt such indifference. He was Scottish, to be sure, but he had been Alpha for what, twenty years or
so? Not long by supernatural standards, but good enough for the less discriminating of daylight society. There were rumors
as to how he had defeated the last Woolsey Alpha. They said it had been far too rough for modern standards, though still legal
under pack protocol. However, the preceding earl was generally known to have been a depraved individual wanting in all aspects
of civility and decorum. For Lord Maccon to have appeared out of nowhere and eliminated him, however draconian his methods,
had left London society part shocked, part thrilled. The truth of the matter was that most Alphas and hive queens in the modern
age held power by the same civilized means as everyone else: money, social standing, and politics. Lord Maccon might be new
to this, but twenty years in, he was now better at it than most. Ivy was young enough to be impressed and wise enough not
to dwell on his northern origin.

“I really do think you are terribly hard on the earl, Alexia,” said Ivy as the two ladies turned down a side path, away from
the main promenade.

“It cannot be helped,” Miss Tarabotti replied. “I have never liked the man.”

“So you say,” agreed Miss Hisselpenny.

They circumvented a coppice of birch trees and slowed to a stop at the edge of a wide grassy area. Recently, this particular
meadow, open to the sky and off the beaten track, had come into use by a dirigible company. They flew Giffard-style steam-powered
airships with de Lome propellers. It was the latest and greatest in leisurely travel. The upper crust, in particular, had
taken to the skies with enthusiasm. Floating had almost eclipsed hunting as the preferred pastime of the aristocracy. The
ships were a sight to behold, and Alexia was particularly fond of them. She hoped one day to ride in one. The views were reportedly
breathtaking, and they were rumored to serve an excellent high tea on board.

The two ladies stood watching as one of the dirigibles came in for a landing. From a distance, the airship looked like nothing
so much as a prodigiously long skinny balloon, with a basket suspended from it. Closer up, however, it became clear that the
balloon was partly reinforced into semirigidity, and the basket was more like an overlarge barge. The barge part was painted
with the Giffard company logo in bright black and white and suspended by a thousand wires from the balloon above. It maneuvered
in toward the meadow and then, as the two ladies watched, cut and cranked down its propeller before sinking softly into a
landing.

“What remarkable times we live in,” commented Alexia, her eyes sparkling at the spectacular sight.

Ivy was not as impressed. “It is not natural, mankind taking to the skies.”

Alexia tsked at her in annoyance. “Ivy, why do you have to be such an old fuddy-duddy? This is the age of miraculous invention
and extraordinary science. The working of those contraptions is really quite fascinating. Why, the calculations for liftoff
alone are—”

She was interrupted by a mellow feminine voice.

Ivy let her breath out in a huff of relief—anything to keep Alexia off all that loopy intellectual mumbo jumbo.

The two ladies turned away from the dirigible and all its wonders, Alexia reluctantly and Ivy with great alacrity. They found
themselves facing an entirely different kind of spectacle.

The voice had come from atop a wholly fabulous phaeton that had drawn to a stop behind them without either woman noticing.
The carriage was a high flyer: a dangerous open-topped contraption, rarely driven by a woman. Yet there, behind a team of
perfectly matched blacks, sat a slightly chubby lady with blond hair and a friendly smile. Everything clashed about the arrangement;
from the lady, who wore an afternoon tea gown of becoming dusty rose trimmed in burgundy rather than a carriage dress, to
the high-spirited mounts, who seemed far better suited to draw some dandy of the Corinthian set. She had a pleasant expression
and bobbing ringlets but kept iron-steady hands on the reins. Unfamiliar with the woman, the two young ladies would have turned
back to their observations, presuming the interruption an embarrassing case of mistaken identity, except that the pretty young
lady spoke to them again.

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Tarabotti?”

Ivy and Alexia looked at each other. It was such a remarkable thing to happen—in the middle of the park, by the airfield,
and
without any introduction—that Alexia answered in spite of herself. “Yes. How do you do?”

“Beautiful day for it, wouldn't you say?” The lady gestured with her whip at the dirigible, which had now completed its landing
and was preparing to disgorge its passengers.