“You will have to leave off the silk scarf,” said Alexia, her token protest. “I shall need to show neck tonight.” She did not explain that bite marks were monitored by the palace guards. Angelique was not one of those who knew Alexia Maccon sat as muhjah. She may be Alexia’s personal maid, but she was still French, and despite Floote’s feeling on the matter, the domestic staff didn’t have to know everything.
Angelique acquiesced without protest and put Lady Maccon’s hair up simply, complementing the severity of the dress. Only a few loops and tendrils peeked out from under a small lace cap. Then Alexia made good her escape, aflutter with curiosity over her husband’s early departure.
There was no one to ask. No one waited at the dinner table; clavigers and pack alike had vanished along with the earl. The house was empty but for the servants. Alexia turned her concentrated interest on them, but they scattered about their various tasks with the ease of three months’ practice.
The Woolsey butler, Rumpet, refused, with an air of affronted dignity, to answer her questions. Even Floote claimed to have been in the library all afternoon and overheard nothing.
“Floote, truly, you simply must be acquainted with what has transpired. I depend upon you to know what is going on! You always do.”
Floote gave her a look that made her feel about seven years of age. Despite graduating from butler to personal secretary, Floote had never quite lost his severe aura of butlerness.
He handed Alexia her leather dispatch case. “I reviewed the documents from last Sunday’s meeting.”
“Well, what is your opinion?” Floote had been with Alexia’s father before her, and, despite Alessandro Tarabotti’s rather outrageous reputation (or perhaps because of it), Floote had learned things. Alexia was finding herself, as muhjah, more and more reliant upon his opinion, if only to confirm her own.
Floote considered. “My concern is with the deregulation clause, madam. I suspect that it is too soon to release the scientists on their own recognizance.”
“Mmm, that was my assessment as well. I shall recommend against that particular clause. Thank you, Floote.”
The elderly man turned to go.
“Oh, and, Floote.”
He turned back, resigned.
“Something substantial has happened to overset my husband. I suspect research in the library may be called for when I return tonight. Best to clear your schedule.”
“Very good, madam,” said Floote with a little bow. He glided off to summon her a carriage.
Alexia finished her repast, gathered up her dispatch case, her latest parasol, and her long woolen coat, and wandered out the front door.
Only to discover exactly where everyone had gone—outside onto the sweeping front lawn that led up to the cobbled courtyard of the castle. They had managed to multiply themselves, don attire of a military persuasion, and, for some reason known only to their tiny little werewolf brains, proceed to engage in setting up a considerable number of large canvas tents. This involved the latest in government-issue self-expanding steam poles, boiled in large copper pots like so much metal pasta. Each one started out the size of a spyglass before the heat caused it to suddenly expand with a popping noise. As was the general military protocol, it took far more soldiers than it ought to stand around watching the poles boil, and when one expanded, a cheer erupted forth. The pole was grasped between a set of leather potholders and taken off to a tent.
Lady Maccon lost her temper. “What are you all doing out here?”
No one looked at her or acknowledged her presence.
Alexia threw her head back and yelled, “Tunstell!” She had not quite the lung capacity to match that of her massive husband, but neither was she built on the delicate-flower end of the feminine spectrum. Alexia’s father’s ancestors had once conquered an empire, and it was when Lady Maccon yelled that people realized how that was accomplished.
Tunstell came bouncing over, a handsome, if gangly, ginger fellow with a perpetual grin and a certain carelessness of manner that most found endearing and everybody else found exasperating.
“Tunstell,” Alexia said calmly and reasonably, she thought, “why are there tents on my front lawn?”
Tunstell, Lord Maccon’s valet and chief among the clavigers, looked about in his chipper way, as if to say that he had not noticed anything amiss and was now delighted to find that they had company. Tunstell was always chirpy. It was his greatest character flaw. He was also one of the few residents of Woolsey Castle who managed to remain entirely unfazed by, or possibly unaware of, either Lord or Lady Maccon’s wrath. This was his second-greatest character flaw.
“He didn’t warn you?” The claviger’s freckled face was flushed with exertion from helping to raise one of the tents.
“No, he most certainly did not.” Alexia tapped the silver tip of her parasol on the front stoop.
Tunstell grinned. “Well, my lady, the rest of the pack has returned.” He flipped both hands at the canvas-ridden chaos before her, waggling his fingers dramatically. Tunstell was an actor of some note—everything he did was dramatic.
“Tunstell,” said Alexia carefully, as though to a dim child, “this would indicate that my husband possessed a very, very big pack. There are no werewolf Alphas in England who can boast a pack of such proportions.”
“Oh, well, the rest of the pack brought the rest of the regiment with them,” explained Tunstell in a conspiratorial way, as though he and Alexia were partners engaged in the most delightful lark.
“I believe it is customary for the pack and fellow officers of a given regiment to separate upon returning home. So that, well, one doesn’t wake up to find hundreds of soldiers camping on one’s lawn.”
“Well, Woolsey has always done things a little differently. Having the biggest pack in England, we’re the only ones who split the pack for military service, so we keep the Coldsteam Guards together for a few weeks when we get home. Builds solidarity.” Tunstell gestured expansively once more, his fine white hands weaving about in the air, and nodded enthusiastically.
“And does this solidarity have to occur on Woolsey’s front lawn?” Tap tap tap went the parasol. The Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR) was experimenting with new weaponry of late. At the disbanding of the Hypocras Club several months previous, a small compressed steam unit had been discovered. It apparently heated continually until it burst. Lord Maccon had shown it to his wife. It made a ticking noise just prior to explosion, rather like that of Alexia’s parasol at this precise moment. Tunstell was unaware of this correlation or he might have proceeded with greater caution. On the other hand, being Tunstell, he might not.
“Yes, isn’t it jolly?” crowed Tunstell.
“But why?” Tap tap tap.
“It is where we have always camped,” said a new voice, apparently belonging to someone equally unfamiliar with the ticking, exploding steam device.
Lady Maccon whirled to glare at the man who dared to interrupt her midrant. The gentleman in question was both tall and broad, although not quite to her husband’s scale. Lord Maccon was Scottish-big; this gentleman was only English-big—there was a distinct difference. Also, unlike the earl, who periodically bumped into things as though his form were larger than his perception of it, this man seemed entirely comfortable with his size. He wore full officer formals and knew he looked good in them. His boots were spit-shined, his blond hair coiffed high, and he boasted an accent that very carefully was no accent at all. Alexia knew the type: education, money, and blue blood.
She gritted her teeth. “Oh, it is, is it? Well, not anymore.” She turned back to Tunstell. “We are hosting a dinner party the evening after next. Have them remove those tents immediately.”
“Unacceptable,” said the large blond gentleman, moving closer. Alexia began to believe that he was no gentleman, despite his accent and immaculate appearance. She also noticed that he had the most cutting blue eyes, icy and intense.
Tunstell, a look of worry behind his cheery grin, seemed
unable to decide whom to obey.
Alexia ignored the newcomer. “If they must camp here, move them around to the back.”
Tunstell turned to do her bidding but was stopped by the stranger, who put a large white-gloved hand on his shoulder.
“But this is preposterous.” The man’s perfect teeth snapped at Lady Maccon. “The regiment has always taken up residence in the forecourt. It is far more convenient than the grounds.”
“Now,” said Alexia to Tunstell, still ignoring the intruder. Imagine talking to her in such a tone of voice, and they hadn’t yet been introduced.
Tunstell, less cheerful than she had ever seen him, was looking back and forth between her and the stranger. Any moment now, he might place his hand upon his head and enact a swoon of confusion.
“Stay precisely where you are, Tunstell,” instructed the stranger.
“Who the devil are you?” Alexia asked, the man’s cavalier interference irritating her into using actual profanity.
“Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings.”
Alexia gawked. No wonder he was so very full of himself. One would have to be, laboring all one’s life under a name like that.
“Well, Major Channing, I shall ask you not to interfere with the running of the household. It is my domain.”
“Ah, you are the new housekeeper? I was not informed that Lady Maccon had made any such drastic changes.”
Alexia was not surprised by this assumption. She was very well aware of the fact that she was not of the appearance others patently expected of a Lady Maccon, being too Italian, too old, and too, frankly, ample. She was going to correct his error before further embarrassment ensued, but he did not provide her with the opportunity. Clearly Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings enjoyed the cadence of his own voice.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about our camping arrangements. I assure you, neither his lordship nor her ladyship will take you to task.” The ladyship in question flushed at his presumption. “You simply let us get on with our business and return to your duties.”
“I can assure you,” said Alexia, “everything that occurs in or around Woolsey Castle concerns me.”
Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings smiled his perfect smile and twinkled his blue eyes in a way Alexia was certain he believed to be alluring. “Now, really, neither of us has time for this, do we? Just you scamper off and get about your daily chores, and we shall see about a bit of a reward later for your obedience.”
Was that a leer? Alexia actually thought it might be. “Are you philandering with me, sir?” She was imprudently startled into asking.
“Would you like me to be?” he replied, grin widening.
Well, that certainly settled that. This was no gentleman.
“Uh-oh,” said Tunstell very softly, backing away slightly.
“What a nauseating thought,” said Lady Maccon.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Major Channing, moving in closer, “a fiery Italian thing like you, with a nice figure and not too old, might have a few lively nights left. I always did fancy a bit of the foreign.”
Alexia, who was only half Italian, and that only by birth, having been raised English to the bone, could not decide which part of that sentence offended her most. She sputtered.
The repulsive Channing person looked like he might actually try to touch her.
Alexia hauled off and hit him, hard, with her parasol, right on the top of his head.
Everyone in the courtyard stopped what they were about and turned to look at the statuesque lady currently engaged in whacking their third in command, Woolsey Pack Gamma, commander of the Coldsteam Guards abroad, with a parasol.
The major’s eyes shifted to an even icier blue and black about the rim of each iris, and two of his perfect white teeth turned pointed.
Werewolf, was he? Well, Alexia Maccon’s parasol was tipped with silver for a reason. She walloped him again, this time making certain the tip touched his skin. At the same time, she rediscovered her powers of speech.
“How dare you! You impudent”—whack—“arrogant”—whack—“overbearing”—whack—“unobservant dog!” Whack, whack. Normally Alexia wasn’t given to such language or unadulterated violence, but circumstances seemed to warrant it. He was a werewolf and, without her touching him and canceling out his supernatural abilities, practically impossible to damage. Thus, she felt justified in clobbering him a couple of times for discipline’s sake.
Major Channing, shocked by a physical attack from an apparently defenseless housekeeper, shielded his head and then grabbed the parasol, using it to yank her toward him. Alexia lost her grip, and Major Channing stumbled back in possession of the accessory. He looked like he wanted to hit her back with it, which could have done Alexia some real damage, as she had no supernatural healing abilities at all. But instead, he tossed the parasol aside and made as if to slap her.
Which was when Tunstell leaped onto his back. The redhead wrapped long arms and legs about the major, trapping Channing’s limbs at his sides.
The assembled newcomers gasped in horror. For a claviger to attack a member of the pack was unheard of and was grounds for instant expulsion. However, those of the pack and their companion clavigers who knew who Alexia was all dropped whatever they were doing and rushed forward to assist.
Major Channing shook Tunstell off and backhanded him hard across the face. The strike sent Tunstell to the ground easily. The claviger gave a loud groan and collapsed.
Alexia gave the blond blackguard a glare of wrath and bent to check on the fallen redhead. His eyes were closed, but he appeared to be breathing. She stood and said calmly, “I would stop this now, if I were you, Mr. Channing.” She dropped the “major” out of contempt.
“I should say not,” said the man, unbuttoning his uniform and stripping off his white gloves. “Now you both need discipline.”
In the next second, he began to change. In polite company, this would have been shocking, but most everyone there had witnessed the event before. Over the decades since pack integration, the military had become as comfortable with werewolf change as they were with profanity. But to change in front of a lady, even if one did think she was a housekeeper? Murmurs of alarm rippled through the crowd.
Alexia was also surprised. It was only just nightfall, and it was nowhere near full moon. Which meant this man was older and more experienced than his brash behavior indicated. He was also darn good at the change, polished in its execution despite what her husband had once described as the worst pain a man could stand and still live. Alexia had seen youngsters of the pack writhe and whimper, but Major Channing shifted smoothly from human to wolf. Skin, bone, and fur rearranged itself, resulting in one of the most beautiful wolves Alexia had ever seen: large and almost pure white, with icy blue eyes. He shook off the remains of his clothing and circled slowly about her.
Alexia braced herself. One touch from her and he would be human again, but that was no guarantee of safety. Even mortal, he would still be bigger and stronger than she, and Alexia was without her parasol.
Just as the huge white wolf charged forward, a new wolf leaped in front of Alexia and Tunstell, teeth bared. The newcomer was considerably smaller than Major Channing, with sandy fur frosted black about the head and neck, pale yellow eyes, and an almost foxlike face.
There was an awful thud of fur-covered flesh, and the two scrabbled against one another, claws and teeth ripping. The white wolf was bigger, but it presently became clear that the smaller wolf possessed greater speed and cunning. He used the other’s size against him. In a matter of moments, the smaller wolf had twisted about and taken a clean firm death grip on Major Channing’s throat.
Quick as it had started, the fight ended. The white wolf flopped instantly down, rolling to present his belly in submission to his diminutive opponent.
Alexia heard a groan and dragged her eyes away from the fight to see that Tunstell was now sitting upright and blinking blearily
. He was bleeding copiously from the nose but otherwise appeared merely dazed. Alexia passed him a handkerchief and bent to look for her parasol. She used it as an excuse not to watch as the two werewolves changed back into human form.
She did peek. What hot-blooded woman wouldn’t? Major Channing was all muscle, longer and leaner than her husband but, honesty compelled her to admit, not at all unsightly. What surprised her was the small sandy-haired man of indeterminate age standing calmly next to him. She would never have accused Professor Lyall of gratuitous musculature. But there he was, assuredly fit. What profession had Lyall had before he became a werewolf? Alexia wondered, not for the first time. A couple of clavigers appeared with long cloaks and covered over the object of Lady Maccon’s speculation.
“What the hell is going on?” Major Channing spat as soon as his jaw had sufficiently returned to human form. He turned to glare at the urbane man standing quietly next to him.
“I did not challenge you. You know I would never challenge you. We settled that years ago. This was a perfectly acceptable matter of pack discipline. Misbehaving clavigers must be tamed.”
“Unless, of course, one of them is no claviger,” said Professor Randolph Lyall, long-suffering Beta of the Woolsey Pack.
The blond man looked nervous. His face lost most of its arrogance. Alexia thought he was considerably more attractive that way.
Professor Lyall sighed. “Major Channing, Woolsey Pack Gamma, allow me to introduce you to Lady Alexia Maccon, curse-breaker, and your new Alpha female.”
Alexia disliked the term curse-breaker; it sounded terribly sportsmanlike, as though she were about to engage in a protracted bout of unremitting cricket. Since some werewolves still considered their immortality a curse, she supposed it was an odd kind of accolade, praise that she could stave off the bestiality of full moon. To be called curse-breaker was certainly more complimentary than soul-sucker. Trust the vampires to come up with a term that implied an even more crass kind of sport than cricket—if such a thing could be conceived.
Alexia found her parasol and stood. “I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Major Channing, but I would not wish to perjure myself so early in the evening.”
Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second Page 2
