The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (74 page)

“There is something different about you?” The man adjusted his spectacles and contemplated Madame Lefoux for a moment through
them. Apparently not pinpointing the enormous mustache draped atop the inventor's upper lip as the culprit, he added, “Is
that a new hat?”

“Gustave, you never do change, do you? I hope you do not mind such an unexpected visit.” Madame Lefoux addressed their host
in the queen's English, in deference to Alexia and Floote's presence.

The gentleman in question switched smoothly into Alexia's native language as though it were a tongue as familiar to him as
his own. In the same instant, he seemed to notice Alexia and Floote for the first time. “Not at all, not at all, I assure
you. I adore the company. Always welcome.” There was a tone to his voice and a twinkle to his blue-button eyes that suggested
real truth to the social niceties. “And you have brought me guests! How marvelous. Delighted, delighted.”

Madame Lefoux made introductions. “Monsieur Floote and Madame Tarabotti, this is my dear cousin, Monsieur Trouvé.”

The clockmaker gave Floote a measured look and a small bow. Floote returned both in kind, after which Alexia found herself
the object of bespectacled scrutiny.

“Not
that
Tarabotti?”

Alexia would not go so far as to describe Monsieur Trouvé as shocked, but he was certainly something more than complacent.
It was difficult to see the exact nature of his expression as, in addition to the ubiquitous mustache, the clockmaker also
wore a golden-brown beard of such epic proportions as might dwarf a mulberry bush. It was as though his mustache had become
overly enthusiastic and, seized with the spirit of adventure, set out to conquer the southern reaches of his face in a take-no-prisoners
kind of way.

“His daughter,” confirmed Madame Lefoux.

“In truth?” The Frenchman looked to Floote, of all people, for confirmation.

Floote nodded curtly—once.

“Is it so very bad a thing, to be my father's daughter?” Alexia wondered.

Monsieur Trouvé raised both bushy eyebrows and smiled. It was a small, shy smile that barely made it through the shrubbery
of his beard. “I take it you never met your father? No, of course, you wouldn't have, would you? Not possible. Not if you
are
his daughter.” He looked at Madame Lefoux this time. “Is she really?”

Madame Lefoux dimpled at him. “Without question.”

The clockmaker brought his monocle up, peering through both it and his spectacles at Alexia. “Remarkable. A female preternatural.
I never thought I would live to see the day. It is a true honor having you to visit, Madame Tarabotti. Genevieve, you always
did bring me the most charming surprises. And trouble with them, of course, but we won't talk about that now, will we?”

“Better than that, cousin—she is with child. And the father is a werewolf. How do you like
that
?”

Alexia gave Madame Lefoux a sharp stare. They had not discussed revealing the personal details of her embarrassing condition
to a French clockmaker!

“I must sit down.” Monsieur Trouvé groped without looking for a nearby chair and collapsed into it. He took a deep breath
and then examined Alexia with even more interest. She wondered if he might try to wear the glassicals as well as the spectacles
and the monocle.

“You are certain?”

Alexia bristled. She was so very tired of having her word questioned. “I assure you. I am quite certain.”

“Amazing,” said the clockmaker, seeming to recover some of his equanimity. “No offense meant, no offense. You are, you must
realize, a marvel of the modern age.” The monocle went back up. “Though, not so very much
like
your dear father.”

Alexia glanced tentatively at Floote and then asked Monsieur Trouvé, “Is there anyone who
did not
know my father?”

“Oh, most people didn't. He preferred things that way. But he dabbled in my circle, or I should say, my father's circle. I
met him only the once, and I was six at the time. I remember it well, however.” The clockmaker smiled again. “He did have
quite the habit of making an impression, your father, I must say.”

Alexia was unsure as to whether this comment had an underlying unsavory meaning or not. Then she realized it must. Given what
little she knew of her father, a better question might be, to which form of unsavory meaning was the Frenchman alluding? Still,
she was positively dying of curiosity. “Circle?”

“The Order.”

“My father was an
inventor
?” That surprised Alexia. She had never heard
that
about Alessandro Tarabotti. All his journal entries indicated he was more a destroyer than a creator. Besides, by all accounts,
preternaturals couldn't really invent anything. They lacked the necessary imagination and soul.

“Oh, no, no.” Monsieur Trouvé brushed two fingers through his beard thoughtfully. “More of an irregular customer. He always
had the oddest requests. I remember, once, my uncle talking about how he actually asked for a—” The clockmaker looked up at
the doorway, apparently noticing something that made him stop. “Ah, yes, never mind.”

Alexia glanced over to see what had caused this gregarious fellow to silence himself. But there was nothing there, only Floote,
impassive as always, hands laced behind his back.

Alexia looked to Madame Lefoux in mute appeal.

The Frenchwoman was no help. Instead, she excused herself from the discussion. “Cousin, perhaps I could go find Cansuse for
some tea?”

“Tea?” Monsieur Trouvé looked taken aback. “Well, if you must. Seems to me you have been in England too long, my dearest Genevieve.
I should think such an occasion as this would require wine. Or perhaps brandy.” He turned to Alexia. “Should I get out the
brandy? You look as though you might need a bit of a pick-me-up, my dear.”

“Oh, no, thank you. Tea would be perfectly suitable.” In truth, Alexia thought tea a brilliant idea. It had taken well over
an hour to conduct their train subterfuge, and while she knew it was worth it, her stomach objected on principle. Ever since
the onset of the infant-inconvenience,
food was becoming an ever more pressing concern in some form or another. She had always pondered food overmuch for the safety
of her waistline, but these days a good deal more of her attention was occupied with where it was, how soon she could get
it, and, on the more embarrassing occasions, whether it would remain eaten or not. Yet another thing to blame on Conall.
Who would have thought that anything could affect my eating habits?

Madame Lefoux vanished from the room. There was an awkward pause while the clockmaker continued to stare at Alexia.

“So,” Alexia began tentatively, “through which side of the family are you related to Genevieve?”

“Oh, we aren't actually family. She and I went to school together—École des Arts et Métiers. You've heard of it? Of course
you have. Naturally, at the time,
she
was a
he
—always did prefer to play the man, our Genevieve.” There was a pause while bushy eyebrows descended in thought. “Aha, that
is what is different! She is wearing that ridiculous fake mustache again. It has been a long time. You must be traveling incognito.
What fun!”

Alexia looked mildly panicked, unsure as to whether she should tell this affable man about danger of a vampiric persuasion
heading in their direction.

“Not to worry, I wouldn't dare to pry. Regardless, I taught Genevieve everything she knows about clockwork mechanisms. And
mustache maintenance, come to think on it. And a few other things of note.” The clockmaker stroked his own impressive mustache
with forefinger and thumb.

Alexia didn't quite follow his meaning. She was saved from having to continue the conversation by the return of Madame Lefoux.

“Where is your wife?” the Frenchwoman demanded of their host.

“Ah, yes, about that. Hortense slightly, well, died last year.”

“Oh.” Madame Lefoux did not look particularly upset by this news, only surprised. “I am sorry.”

The clockmaker gave a small shrug. “Hortense never was one for making a fuss. She caught a tiny cold down the Riviera way,
and the next thing I knew, she had just given up and expired.”

Alexia wasn't sure what to think of such a blasé attitude.

“She was a bit of a turnip, my wife.”

Alexia decided to be mildly amused by his lack of sentiment. “How do you mean, turnip?”

The clockmaker smiled again. Clearly, he had been hoping for that question. “Bland, good as a side dish, but really only palatable
when there is nothing better available.”

“Gustave, really!” Madame Lefoux pretended shock.

“But enough about me. Tell me more about yourself, Madame Tarabotti.” Monsieur Trouvé scooted toward her.

“What more should you like to know?” Alexia wanted to ask him more questions about her father but felt that the opportunity
had passed.

“Do you function the same as a male soulless? Your ability to negate the supernatural, is it similar?”

“Having never met any other living preternaturals, I always assumed so.”

“So, you would say, physical touch or very near proximity with a rapid reaction time on the part of the victim?”

Alexia didn't like the word “victim,” but his description of her abilities was accurate enough, so she nodded. “Do you make
a study of us, then, Monsieur Trouvé?” Perhaps he could help with her pregnancy predicament.

The man shook his head, his eyes crinkling up at the edges in amusement. Alexia was finding she did not mind the copious facial
hair, because so much of the clockmaker's expressions were centered in his eyes. “Oh, no, no. Far outside of my sphere of
particular interest.”

Madame Lefoux gave her old school chum an assessing look. “No, Gustave, you never have been one for the aetheric sciences—not
enough gadgetry.”

“I'm an aetheric science?” Alexia was mystified. In her experience as a bluestocking, such studies focused on the niceties
of aetheronautics and supra-oxygenic travel, not preternaturals.

A diminutive maid with a shy demeanor brought in the tea, or what Alexia supposed passed for tea in France. The maid was accompanied
by a low tray of foodstuffs on wheels, which seemed to be somehow trailing her about the apartments. It made a familiar tinny
skittering noise as it moved. When the maid bent to lift the tray up and place it on a table, Alexia emitted an involuntary
squeak of alarm. Quite unaware of her own athletic abilities until that moment, she jumped over and behind the couch.

Acting the part of footman in tonight's French farce,
she thought with a bubble of panicked hilarity,
we have a homicidal mechanical ladybug.

“Good lord, Madame Tarabotti, are you quite well?”

“Ladybug!” Alexia managed to squawk.

“Ah, yes, a prototype for a recent order.”

“You mean, it is not trying to kill me?”

“Madame Tarabotti, I assure you, in my own home, I should never be so uncouth as to kill someone with a ladybug.”

Alexia came cautiously back out from behind the couch and watched warily as the large mechanical beetle, all unconcerned for
her palpitating heart, trundled after the maid and back out into the hall.

“Your artisanship, I take it?”

“Indeed.” The Frenchman looked proudly after the retreating bug.

“I have encountered it before.”

Madame Lefoux turned accusing eyes onto Monsieur Trouvé. “Cousin, I thought you preferred not to design weapons!”

“I do! And I must say I resent the implication.”

“Well, the vampires have turned them into such,” Alexia said. “I experienced a whole herd of homicidal ladybugs, sent to poke
me in a carriage. Those very antennae that yours was using to carry the tea tray had been replaced with syringes.”

“And one exploded when I went to examine it,” added Madame Lefoux.

“How perfectly dreadful.” The clockmaker frowned. “Ingenious, of course, but not my modifications, I assure you. I must apologize
to you, dear lady. These things always seem to happen when dealing with vampires. Although it is hard to refuse such consistent
customers with such prompt accounting.”

“Can you reveal the name of your client, cousin?”

The clockmaker frowned. “American gentleman. A Mr. Beauregard. Ever heard of him?”

“Sounds like a pseudonym,” said Alexia.

Madame Lefoux nodded. “It is rather common to use handlers in this part of the world, I'm afraid. The trail will have gone
quite cold by now.”

Alexia sighed regretfully. “Ah, well, deadly ladybugs will happen, Monsieur Trouvé. I understand. You can repair my finer
feelings with some tea, perhaps?”

“Of course, Madame Tarabotti. Of course.”

To be certain there was tea, of indifferent quality, but Alexia's attention was drawn to the food on offer. There were stacks
of raw vegetables—raw!—and some sort of pressed gelatinous meat with tiny nutty-looking digestive biscuits. There was nothing
sweet at all. Alexia was deeply suspicious of the whole arrangement. However, upon selection of a small mound of nibbles,
she found the fare to be more than passing delicious, with the exception of the tea, which proved itself to be as indifferent
in taste as it had appeared initially.

The clockmaker nibbled delicately at some of the foodstuffs but took no libations, commenting that he believed tea would make
a superior beverage served cold over ice. Were ice, of course, to become a less expensive commodity. At which statement, Alexia
utterly despaired of both him and his moral integrity.

He continued his conversation with Madame Lefoux, as though they had never been interrupted. “On the contrary, my dear Genevieve,
I am interested enough in the aetheric phenomena to keep up with the current literature out of Italy. Contrary to the British
and the American theories on volatile moral natures, blood derangements, and feverish humors, the Italian investigative societies
now hold that souls are connected to the correct dermatological processing of ambient aether.”