Romancing the Werewolf

by Gail Carriger

  Hemming was entirely the opposite of his Alpha, a large, bumbling, salt-of-the-earth breed of chap. Big, blond, and rangy but with almost delicate features. The others referred to him, when Hemming wasn’t listening, as sensitive. He had wistful, watery blue eyes – which were currently wide and panicked – and subtle but thick sideburns. He was the kind of man to be depicted in art as mucking out stalls and pitching hay. He likely had been, since he’d once modeled for various well-known painters who specialized in rural depictions of manor houses and handsome farmers and ducks and the like. I wonder if he still does. Saddled with a baby, he looked utterly overwhelmed. Although Lyall knew exactly how it had landed in his arms. Hemming was widely thought of by the entire pack as the gentlest among them.

  “Oh, heaven forfend! What do I do? Why won’t he stop crying?” Hemming tried bouncing the tiny thing. The screaming persisted.

  Biffy marched up to him.

  Hemming’s desperate gaze landed on his Alpha and, to Lyall’s delight, instantly turned to one of profound relief. “Oh, thank the fates. Here.”

  The squalling bundle was thrust into Biffy’s arms.

  It wasn’t that Lyall didn’t like children. It’s simply that they were, by and large, quite messy. Lyall abhorred a mess. This one proved to live up to his assessment.

  Biffy took the little creature and cradled it up against his shoulder, and began patting its back. This action caused the child to stop screaming.

  It seems my new Alpha has untold depths. Or perhaps it’s only that as the youngest werewolf amongst us, he has more recent experience with the procreative habits of mortals.

  Then the infant emitted an entirely ungentlemanly burp and spilled what appeared to be most of its dinner down the back of Biffy’s beautiful burgundy gabardine evening jacket.

  The Alpha’s face! Lyall swallowed his smile with difficulty.

  Biffy jerked the offensive creature away from said jacket. The baby instantly began screaming again, perhaps not quite so loudly. Biffy thrust it back into Hemming’s arms.

  “Oh, my goodness, Alpha, I am so sorry! I know how you feel about your jackets. James! Quickly!” Adelphus, properly horrified, waved frantically at one of the clavigers.

  “My lord!” A good-looking young blunt rushed Biffy. “Let me take that for you.”

  This is, no doubt, James. Lyall assessed the lad. All the clavigers would be new to him. There were only a few home at the moment, wringing their hands and trying to be useful. Unless the traditions of pack had drastically altered, which Lyall doubted, most of the clavigers were off duty at this time of night. Thank goodness for small mercies. As half of them are usually actors, their presence would only have added to the general drama of a baby among the werewolves.

  Lyall watched as James attempted to help Biffy remove his coat. Impressive that he still manages to wear them so tight. This unfortunately revealed the fact that some of the regurgitated fluids also decorated Biffy’s silver cravat, brocade burgundy and silver waistcoat, and white shirt as well.

  See what I mean? Babies, messy.

  Clearly desperate to be useful, James then began stripping Biffy of every piece of clothing.

  Lyall was not at all averse to this turn of events.

  Meanwhile, the chaos around them continued. Exacerbated, perhaps, by the Alpha being covered in spit-up. Now all the werewolves were worried for the safety of their new charge. Alphas had tempers.

  Lyall stayed quiet and calm, waiting to see if Beta interference would be necessary. He was trying to get a read on the currents of his new-yet-old pack. Some things most certainly would have changed over the last twenty years.

  And some things definitely had not.

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean it!” That would be Rafe, of course. Rafe looked like a bruiser but was in fact a big-hearted softy, prone to accommodating strays. Their previous house had come with a family of alley cats adjacent, who’d discovered early on that Rafe was one for accidentally leaving the hunt’s rabbit liver out for them rather than eating it himself.

  Rafe was currently trying to pet the baby’s head. No doubt wondering if the child liked liver. And if he should go hunt him something fresh.

  Lyall sensed his Alpha’s frustration rise.

  Biffy batted off his claviger. “Do stop attempting to get me naked, James. I know you’ve been trying for months, but now is not the time.”

  Lyall certainly hoped that was a joke.

  “But sir, the stains will set!”

  “And so I can buy new garments. At the moment, the state of my dress seems the least of our problems. Take the coat away and tend to it, do.”

  Lyall was only a little sad to see the lad leave – Biffy was still in his shirt, after all.

  * * *

  Biffy, with an exasperated sigh, took the child back.

  The infant quieted, perhaps simply because Biffy was not harrowed by his presence. Children could sense distress, he always thought. Biffy hoisted the little chap to his shoulder, patting him again. Hoping there would be no additional dietary return engagements, but not really minding now that he was only wearing a shirt.

  It is a marker of my acceptance of my own werewolf state that I am not self-conscious about wearing so little in front of so many in my own drawing room.

  The baby stopped screaming and the pack settled into awed relief – the quiet after the storm.

  “Alpha, how’d you do that?”

  Biffy sighed. “I’ve eleven siblings. Or I did, you know, before. Only three of them were older than me. I’ve more than enough experience with babies. Now, Adelphus, this boy here is very young. We will need a wet nurse. You and Quinn go inquire at the church – the local pastor might know of some able-bodied local lady.”

  He continued issuing orders, feeling rather proudly in charge. It was nice, for a change, to know more about something than the rest of his pack. Most of them were at least sixty years older than he, many of them three or four times that; it was a rare privilege to be commanding by reason of capability, not simply Alpha nature. This must be how Lyall feels.

  “Hemming, where did the child originate?” Biffy directed his stare at the original holder of the goods.

  “He was left on our doorstep, Alpha. Simply, you know, there. Wriggling.”

  Biffy called Adelphus and Quinn back before they could leave. “Also see if the pastor has any idea who the infant’s mother might be. Go by the workhouse as well. I take it there is one nearby?”

  “Yes, Alpha,” said Adelphus smartly.

  “I know where it is, Alpha,” said Rafe.

  “Good, then Rafe, you go to the workhouse while Quinn and Adelphus go to the church. If they’re asleep at the rectory, rouse them. They know we’re in the neighborhood and should be expecting the occasional nighttime call. I went by and had tea after we first arrived.” Biffy made a face. “That said, I advise against drinking the tea, if he offers. It’s perishingly weak.”

  “Yes, Alpha!” The three turned to leave. The clavigers scattered ahead of them in search of hats and coats.

  Only then did they catch sight of Lyall, standing in his diffident way, slightly to the back of the room.

  Lyall’s eyes crinkled in a suppressed smile as the (there was no better way of putting it) ecstatic squeals of the first three caused the rest of the pack to swivel around and stare at him.

  Quinn, Adelphus, and Rafe descended upon him.

  “Professor! You’re home!” That was Quinn.

  “Randolph, how delightful. It’s been too long. Far too long!” Adelphus looked genuinely pleased, a rarity from he who liked to pretend ennui at the state of the universe.

  Rafe pounced upon their returned pack mate and gave him a hug. Rafe was like that.

  Hemming instantly followed.

  For the moment, Biffy was left in sole possession of the child. His own heart warmed at his pack’s evident delight. Their Beta was back. My Beta is back. They are so
free and happy with him.

  Lyall looked quietly pleased by the attention. “Well, gentlemen, while I am happy to be home and delighted to see you all again, did your Alpha not just issue direct orders?” A gentle rebuke.

  The drawing room was instantly less crowded as Adelphus, Quinn, and Rafe slapped top hats to their heads, twirled great coats about their massive shoulders, and dashed out into the cold December night.

  Biffy nodded to his Beta, pleased to be acknowledged so directly. Then he resumed issuing orders, aware now that, with Lyall’s silent observation, the rest of the pack would obey instantly. He was unsure if he was happy with this swift change in attitude. It would be a sad kind of Alpha that required his Beta to chivvy his pack into the simplest tasks.

  Biffy sent staff off about the house to retrieve warm milk (not ideal but better than nothing for now) and Zev to find a hatbox of appropriate size and shape to make up a temporary bassinet. They had a surfeit of hatboxes, given Biffy’s occupation.

  The baby began to settle, thank heavens.

  Biffy felt it safe to sit down as the little boy fell asleep, profoundly exhausted by his emotional display, no doubt.

  Well, he should be – imagine making such a fuss amongst strangers.

  Hemming came to sit next to him. “He’s much cuter when he’s not screaming.”

  “They usually are.”

  Phelan came around the back of the settee to look down as well. He loomed rather too much but couldn’t help it, poor fellow. Bit of a loomer, was Phelan. “What shall we call him? I mean, presumably he belongs to somebody and I’m sure they gave him some kind of name, but we should have a moniker in the interim.”

  “Why? Won’t baby do?” Ulric seemed to deem it safe to come away from the corner he’d been keeping warm and the hat stand he’d been keeping company. He held himself, however, about as stiffly as the hat stand, as though the sleeping infant might suddenly lurch in his direction.

  “How about Ulric the Second?” suggested Hemming, with a grin.

  Zev had returned with a good-sized hat box and now had an arm around Lyall and was whispering something into the Beta’s ear. Biffy wasn’t sure how he felt about that kind of intimacy.

  It seemed to be nothing significant to Lyall, as the Beta merely ruffled his friend’s hair and said, “I’m sure it’s fine. Stop worrying.”

  Zev ducked his head. “I’m glad you’re home, Professor.”

  “I’m glad to be home.” Lyall came over, stood a little apart from them all, and crinkled his eyes at them affectionately. “How about Robin? It being, you know, that time of year?”

  “Robin?” said Biffy, stupidly.

  “Like the bird.”

  “I like it!” Hemming grinned. “What do you think, Robin?”

  The baby cooed.

  “There, see, he likes it, too.”

  “There goes my legacy,” said Ulric, smiling for a change.

  “Now, what do we do with Robin next?” Zev seemed worried. He liked plans. Biffy gave a little wince – poor Zev. It was hard to keep to any kind of plan with a baby around.

  “Sing at it? One of the clavigers could sing? James has a rather fine tenor,” suggested Phelan. Biffy wondered, not for the first time, if Phelan missed his own talent in that arena. Well before Biffy was born, Phelan had been one of England’s most renowned basso profundos. Fortunately, giving it all up for immortality did not seem to have left him bitter, only arrogant.

  Lyall glided closer to join them all clustered about the sleeping infant. “I think he’s fine where he is.”

  His hazel eyes – still slightly crinkled in pleasure – were not on the child.

  Biffy was not entirely sure a Beta should look with eyes like that at his Alpha. But he couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed the affectionate regard.

  He lifted the little one up and nested him more securely in the crook of his arm.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Blessings of Fatherhood

  Lyall could never have anticipated how blisteringly attractive he found a man coming over competent with a baby. Especially considering that he, Professor Lyall, while undoubtedly pack-minded, had never impressed anyone by being family-minded.

  It was rather inconvenient, this surge of unwanted attraction, since he had concluded that Biffy had no interest in pursuing their previous dalliance. After all, the man hadn’t even touched him since he returned. He barely even looked at him.

  Lyall was not stupid. He was perfectly capable of understanding unspoken messages. He was resolved to think no further on his Alpha in that way. It shouldn’t be all that difficult – what they’d had together was a mere comforting of bodies for a short time, many years ago (putting aside, of course, how hot it burned and how well they suited). But it turned out a man in only a thin white shirt with a baby to his chest might be a previously undiscovered lust object.

  Odd, given I’m not particularly fond of babies, and old enough to have learned every one of my carnal preferences by now.

  Lyall shook his head at himself and resolved to push the image out of his mind.

  He retreated upstairs and began busily unpacking. He hadn’t much with him, only his trusty carpet bag with a few necessities. The bag was constructed of good Brussels carpeting and unquestionable workmanship. The vendor had claimed, when he bought it, it would last a lifetime. Human lifetime, one assumed, not werewolf. Ninety years and still going strong, and Professor Lyall had learned how to pack everything he needed in that bag and on his person. Of course, he had trunks with him from India and Egypt. If nothing else, he’d stocked up on gifts of fine fabrics, fabulous spices, and the occasional weapon or gadget for the truly discerning. He’d leave instructions with one of the clavigers for someone to visit the old pack house, come daylight, and retrieve them.

  Zev offered him a rather undersized room. “I know it’s small, but it has the best view.” His old friend and pack mate wasn’t really concerned about the space – he knew Lyall’s tastes well. “Although, of course, any of us would switch, if you require it.” Unspoken was the acknowledgment of Lyall’s rank.

  But Lyall was happy with the room. He didn’t need much space, being small himself (for a werewolf), and he preferred a pleasing view. This one looked out on Blackheath, and he could almost smell the mist rising in the morning air. Not that he saw mornings often. Daylight was never healthy for a werewolf, even when one was old enough and strong enough to withstand it. Still, he liked knowing it would happen and he could see it if he dared.

  Unsaid was the fact that the room was adjacent to Biffy’s master suite. Lyall supposed the others either remembered previous intimacies, and this was tacit approval to resume them – sadly, no chance of a resurgence. Or it was simply the pack indicating that the Beta should be nearest the Alpha. Which wasn’t wrong.

  I wonder if Biffy still has nightmares.

  Feeling modestly settled, Lyall headed back downstairs. They still had an hour before dawn. Long winter nights. There he found that Adelphus and Quinn had returned.

  The church had proved unhelpful.

  “Apparently, the pastor has been having issues with a newly arrived Episcopal counter-service, whose members are noted for being rather unfriendly. His attention has been distracted from his flock as a result.” Quinn looked concerned by this as he reported it.

  Adelphus added, “He tenders his profound apologies.”

  Biffy looked up, eyes narrowed. “And something more?”

  Good. He’s in tune with their mannerisms.

  Adelphus looked pained. “And he suggests we attend one of his midnight services.”

  Biffy nodded. “It’s not a bad idea. We should integrate better into the community if we did. Your thoughts, Professor?”

  Such easy command. And still he doubts himself.

  Lyall said, “Perhaps not as a full pack. We are rather large in both individual size and numbers. We have been known to overwhelm laymen en masse.�
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  “Small groups, you think? Or even just pairs?” Biffy considered. “Yes, and spread out the visits over the next few months. Professor, can you draw up a schedule? Leave off Channing, of course. He’s too much. And Riehard is out of town until Thursday week.” He glared around at the pack. “But the others can go. You’ll wear your Sunday best or I’ll know the reason why.”

  No doubt every one of them now boasts pristine Sunday best. Lyall was not yet certain in the manner and style of his new Alpha’s rule, but he could be confident in Biffy’s militant insistence on appropriate attire. Lord Maccon hadn’t cared how his werewolves dressed, Lord Falmouth absolutely did. The London pack would be the best-dressed werewolves in all the Empire or their Alpha would birth kittens. (Which, given his gender and species, was a manifold impossibility.)

  “Also, it’s an opportunity to gather local gossip,” Lyall suggested delicately.

  Biffy looked back at the baby, which was now asleep in his lap, in a dead fish kind of way. “Of course. See if we can catch wind of Robin’s relations. Unfortunate that the pastor couldn’t help us with that.”

  Lyall added, “A rival church is also concerning.” Outside of the Anglican faith, very few religions embraced the supernatural. To have a pack and a, perhaps, anti-immortal church occupying Greenwich at the same time could cause civil unrest.

  “All the more reason to integrate ourselves into the community and ingratiate ourselves with the establishment.” Biffy glared about, but the pack mainly seemed resigned to the occasional night of worship for the sake of Greenwich peace and harmony.

  The Christmas season is soon upon us. Lyall pondered. “I shall send round a brace of pheasant to the pastor next time we hunt as well.”

  Rafe returned at that juncture, fortunately, having met with greater success at the workhouse. He was trailing a buxom young lady who was all smiles. He introduced her as a Mrs Whybrew and their prospective wet nurse. She had a baby tucked under one arm, which appeared to be her issue, if appearances were anything to go by. The baby boasted the same cornflower eyes, wide face, and honey hair. Mrs Whybrew was rather too rough in her language and rather too forward in her manner and address for Lyall’s taste, but he had to admit that would serve her well, dealing with werewolves.