“I believe your esteemed husband would prefer it so.”
Alexia demurred. It leaned heavily toward the ugly end of the parasol spectrum. Many of her favorite day dresses would clash most horribly with all that brass and gray, not to mention the decorative elements.
“Also, of course, it had to be tough enough to serve as a defensive weapon.”
“A sensible precaution, given my proclivities.” Lady Maccon had destroyed more than one parasol through the application of it against someone else’s skull.
“Would you like to learn its anthroscopy?” Madame Lefoux became gleeful as she made the offer.
“It has anthroscopy? Is that healthy?”
“Why, certainly. Do you believe I would design an object so ugly without sufficient cause?”
Alexia passed her the heavy accessory. “By all means.”
Madame Lefoux took hold of the handle, allowing Alexia to maintain a grip on the top spire. Upon closer examination, Alexia realized the tip had a tiny hydraulic hinge affixed to one side.
“When you press here”—Madame Lefoux indicated one of the lotus petals on the shaft just below the large handle—“that tip opens and emits a poisoned dart equipped with a numbing agent. And if you twist the handle so…”
Alexia gasped as, just above where she gripped the end, two wickedly sharp spikes flipped out, one of silver and one of wood.
“I did notice your cravat pins,” Lady Maccon said.
Madame Lefoux chuckled, touching them delicately with her free hand. “Oh, they are more than simply cravat pins.”
“Of that I have no doubt. Does the parasol do anything else?”
Madame Lefoux winked at her. “Ah, that is just the beginning. In this, you understand, Lady Maccon, I am an artist.”
Alexia licked her bottom lip. “I am certainly beginning to comprehend that fact. And here I thought only your hats were exceptional.”
The Frenchwoman blushed slightly, the color visible even in the orange light. “Pull this lotus petal here, and so.”
Every noise in the lab fell silent. All the whirring, clanking, and puffs of steam that had faded into the background as ambient sound became suddenly noticeable by way of their absence.
“What?” Alexia looked about. All was still.
And then, moments later, the mechanisms started up once more.
“What happened?” she asked, looking in awe down at the parasol.
“The nodule here”—the inventor pointed to the egg attachment near the shade section of the parasol—“emitted a magnetic disruption field. It will affect any metal of the iron, nickel, or cobalt family, including steel. If you need to seize up a steam engine for any reason, this will probably do the trick, but only for a brief amount of time.”
“Remarkable!”
Again the Frenchwoman blushed. “The disruption field is not of my own invention, but I did make it substantially smaller than Babbage’s original design.” She continued on. “The ruffles contain various hidden pockets and are fluffy enough to disguise small objects.” She reached inside the wide ruffle and pulled out a little vial.
“Poison?” asked Lady Maccon, tilting her head to one side.
“Certainly not. Something far more important: perfume. We cannot very well have you fighting crime unscented, now, can we?”
“Oh.” Alexia nodded gravely. After all, Madame Lefoux was French. “Certainly not.”
Madame Lefoux pushed the shade up, revealing that the parasol was of an old-fashioned pagoda shape. “You can also turn it thus”—she flipped the parasol around so that the shade was pointing the wrong direction—“and twist and press here.” She pointed to a small nodule just above the magnetic disruption emitter, in which a tiny dial was set. “I have designed it to be quite difficult to operate, to prevent any unfortunate accidents. The rib caps of the parasol will open and emit a fine mist. At one click, these three will emit a mixture of lapis lunearis and water. At two clicks, the other three ribs will emit lapis solaris diluted in sulfuric acid. Make certain that you, and anyone you care about, stay well out of the blast area and upwind. Although the lunearis will cause only mild skin irritation, the solaris is toxic and will kill humans as well as disabling vampires.” With a sudden grin, the scientist added, “Only werewolves are resistant. The lunearis is, of course, for them. A direct spray should render the species in question helpless and gravely ill for several days. Three clicks and both will emit at once.”
“Quite outstanding, madame.” Alexia was suitably impressed. “I did not know there were any poisons capable of disabling either species.”
Madame Lefoux said mildly, “I once had access to a partial copy of the Templar’s Amended Rule.”
Lady Maccon’s mouth dropped. “You what?”
The Frenchwoman elucidated no further.
Alexia took the parasol, turning it about in her hands reverently. “I shall have to change over half my wardrobe to match it, of course. But I suspect it will be worth it.”
Madame Lefoux dimpled in pleasure. “It will also keep the sun at bay.”
Lady Maccon snorted in amusement. “As to the cost, has my husband dealt with the necessities?”
The Frenchwoman held up a small hand. “Oh, I am well aware that Woolsey can see to the expense. And I have had dealings with your pack before.”
Alexia smiled. “Professor Lyall?”
“Mainly. He is a curious man. One wonders, sometimes, as to his motivations.”
“He is not a man.”
“Just so.”
“And you?”
“I, too, am not a man. I simply enjoy dressing like one,” replied Madame Lefoux, purposefully choosing to misinterpret Alexia’s question.
“So you say,” replied Lady Maccon. Then she frowned, remembering something Ivy had said about the new hat shop: that actresses like Mabel Dair were known to frequent it. “You are dealing with the hives as well as the packs.”
“And why would you say that?”
“Miss Hisselpenny mentioned that Miss Dair visited your establishment. She is drone to the Westminster Hive.”
The Frenchwoman turned away, busying herself with tidying the laboratory. “I provide to those who can afford my services.”
“Does that include loners and roves? Have you catered to, for example, Lord Akeldama’s taste?”
“I have not yet had the pleasure,” replied the inventor.
Alexia noted that the Frenchwoman did not say that she had not heard of him.
Lady Maccon decided to meddle. “Ah, this is a grave lapse! It ought to be rectified immediately. Would you be free for tea later this evening, say around midnight? I shall consult with the gentleman in question and see if he is available.”
Madame Lefoux looked curious but wary. “I believe I could arrange to get away. How very kind of you, Lady Maccon.”
Alexia inclined her head in grand-dame fashion, feeling silly. “I shall send around a card with the address, if he is amenable.” She wanted to meet with Lord Akeldama alone first.
Just then, a new noise made itself heard through the hubbub of machinery, a querulous, high-pitched, “Alexia?”
Lady Maccon whirled about. “Oh dear, Ivy! She has not made her way down here, has she? I believe I closed the door to the ascension chamber behind me.”
Madame Lefoux looked unperturbed. “Oh, do not concern yourself. It is only her voice. I have an auditory capture and dispersal amplifier funneling sounds in from the shop.” She pointed to where a trumpet-shaped object was cabled to the ceiling. Lady Maccon had thought it some kind of gramophone. But Ivy’s voice emanated from it, as clearly as if she were in the laboratory with them. Astonishing.
“Perhaps we should return to the shop and attend her,” suggested the inventor.
Alexia, clutching her new parasol to her ample bosom like a newborn child, nodded.
They did so, to find that the gas lighting was up and running once more. And that, under the bright lights of the empty shop, M
iss Hisselpenny was still reposing on the floor, but now seated upright and looking pale and confused.
“What happened?” she demanded as Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux approached.
“There was a loud bang, and you fainted,” replied Alexia. “Really, Ivy, if you did not lace your corset so tight, you would not be so prone to the vapors. It is reputed to be terribly bad for your health.”
Miss Hisselpenny gasped at the mention of underclothing in a public hat shop. “Please, Alexia, do not spout such radical folderol. Next thing, you will want me to engage in dress reform!”
Lady Maccon rolled her eyes. The very idea: Ivy in bloomers!
“What have you got there?” Miss Hisselpenny asked, focusing on the parasol Lady Maccon clasped to her chest.
Alexia crouched down to show the parasol to her friend.
“Why, Alexia, that is quite beautiful. It does not reflect your customary taste at all,” approved Miss Hisselpenny with glee.
Trust Ivy to like the hideous thing for its looks.
Miss Hisselpenny glanced eagerly up at the Frenchwoman. “I should like one just like it, in perhaps a nice lemon yellow with black and white stripes. Would you have such an item to hand?”
Alexia giggled at Madame Lefoux’s shocked expression.
“I should think not,” the inventor croaked out finally, having cleared her throat twice. “Should I”—she winced slightly—“order you one?”
“Please do.”
Alexia stood and said softly in French, “Perhaps without the additional garnishing.”
“Mmm,” replied Madame Lefoux.
A little bell chimed cheerfully as someone new wandered into the shop. Miss Hisselpenny struggled to rise from her undignified lounge upon the floor.
The newcomer approached them, parting the forest of dangling hats and, upon seeing Ivy’s plight, leaped to her aid.
“Why, Miss Hisselpenny, are you unwell? Let me offer my most humble services.”
“Tunstell,” interjected Alexia, glaring at the young man. “What are you doing here?”
The redheaded claviger ignored her, cooing over Miss Hisselpenny solicitously.
Ivy attained her feet and clutched at his arm, leaning against his side weakly and looking up at him out of big dark eyes.
Tunstell seemed to be taking a long, leisurely swim in those eyes, like some sort of gormless guppy.
Actors, the lot of them. Alexia poked at his bottom, nicely packaged in some excessively tight britches, with the tip of her new parasol. “Tunstell, explain your presence at once.”
Tunstell jumped slightly and looked at her in a maltreated manner.
“I have a message from Professor Lyall,” he said, as though she were somehow to blame for this.
Lady Maccon did not ask how Lyall had known she would be at Chapeau de Poupe. The ways of her husband’s Beta were often mysterious and better left unquestioned.
“Well?”
Tunstell was staring once more into Miss Hisselpenny’s eyes.
Alexia tapped the parasol on the wooden floor, enjoying the metallic clicking noise it made. “The message.”
“He requests for you to visit with him at BUR as a matter of some urgency,” said Tunstell without looking at her.
A matter of urgency was pack code for activation of Lady Maccon as muhjah. Lyall had some information for the Crown. Alexia nodded. “In that case, Ivy, you would not mind if I left you under Tunstell’s care while you complete your shopping? He will see you safely off. Won’t you, Tunstell?”
“It would be my very great pleasure.” Tunstell beamed.
“Oh, I believe that would suit adequately,” breathed Ivy, smiling back.
Lady Maccon wondered if she had ever been so foolish over Lord Maccon. Then she recalled that her affection generally took the form of threats and verbal barbs. She gave herself a pat on the back for avoiding sentimentality.
The inventor-cum-milliner walked her to the front door.
“I shall send a card around presently when I determine Lord Akeldama’s availability. He should be at home, but you never can tell with roves. This summons from Professor Lyall cannot possibly take long.” Alexia looked back at Tunstell and Ivy, engaged in an overly familiar tête-à-tête. “Please, do try to prevent Miss Hisselpenny from purchasing anything too hideous, and see that Tunstell puts her into a hackney but does not get into it himself.”
“I shall do my level best, Lady Maccon,” replied Madame Lefoux with an abbreviated bow—so short as to be almost rude. Then, in a quick-fire movement, she caught one of Alexia’s hands with her own. “It was a great pleasure to meet you at last, my lady.” Her grip was firm and sure. Of course, lifting and building all that machinery below street level would give anyone a certain degree of musculature, even the rail-thin woman before her. The inventor’s fingers caressed Alexia’s wrist just above the perfect fit of her gloves, so quickly that Alexia was not certain the action had occurred. There was that faint scent of vanilla mixed with gear oil once more. Then Madame Lefoux smiled, dropped Alexia’s hand, and turned back into the shop, disappearing among the swinging jungle of fashionable headgear.
Professor Lyall and Lord Maccon shared an office at BUR headquarters, on Fleet Street, but it was always considerably cleaner whenever the earl was not in residence. Lady Alexia Maccon breezed in, swinging her new parasol proudly and hoping Lyall would ask about it. But Professor Lyall was mightily distracted behind a pile of paperwork and a stack of metal scrolls with acid-etched notes upon them. He stood, bowed, and sat back down again as a matter of course rather than courtesy. Whatever had occurred was clearly occupying all of his considerable attention. His glassicals were perched upon his head, mussing his coiffure. Was it possible that his cravat could be minutely askew?
“Are you well, Professor Lyall?” Alexia asked, quite worried by the cravat.
“I am in perfect health, thank you for asking, Lady Maccon. It is your husband who concerns me, and I have no way to get through to him at present.”
“Yes,” said the earl’s wife, deadpan, “I daily face a similar dilemma, frequently when he and I are in conversation. What has he gone and done now?”
Professor Lyall smiled slightly. “Oh no, nothing like that. It is simply that the plague of humanization has struck again, moving northward as far as Farthinghoe.”
Alexia frowned at this new information. “Curious. It is on the move, is it?”
“And heading in the same direction as Lord Maccon. Though slightly ahead of him.”
“And he doesn’t know that, does he?”
Lyall shook his head.
“That family matter, it’s the dead Alpha, isn’t it?”
Lyall ignored this and said, “Don’t know quite how it’s moving so fast. The trains have been down since yesterday—strike. Trust the daylight folk to become inefficient at a time like this.”
“By coach, perhaps?”
“Could be. It seems to be moving quickly. I should like to make the earl aware of this information, but there is no way to contact him until he arrives at the Glasgow offices. Not to mention Channing’s blather about the boat ride over. This thing is mobile and Conall doesn’t know that.”
“You think he might overtake it?”
The Beta shook his head again. “Not at the rate it is moving. Lord Maccon is fast, but he said he was not going to push this run. If it keeps traveling north at the rate I predict, it will hit Scotland several days before he does. I have sent a note to our agents in the north, but I thought you should know as well, as muhjah.”
Alexia nodded.
“Will you inform the other members of the Shadow Council?”
Lady Maccon frowned at that. “I do not think that is entirely wise just yet. I think it might wait until our next meeting. You should file a report, of course, but I shall not go out of my way to tell the potentate and the dewan.”
The Beta nodded and did not inquire as to her reasons.
“Very well, Professor Lya
ll. If there is nothing else, I should be off. I have need of Lord Akeldama’s council.”
Professor Lyall gave her an unreadable look. “Well, I suppose someone must. Good evening, Lady Maccon.”
Alexia left without ever having shown Professor Lyall her new parasol.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lord Akeldama’s Latest
Lord Akeldama was indeed in residence and willing to receive Alexia. Despite the rudeness of her unannounced visit, he seemed genuinely pleased to see her. It was difficult to tell through the vampire’s self-consciously frivolous mannerisms, but Alexia thought she detected real warmth beneath the flatterings and flutterings.
The ancient vampire sashayed forward to greet her, both arms extended, dressed in his version of the “casual gentleman at home.” For most men of means and taste, this meant a smoking jacket, opera scarf, long trousers, and soft-soled derbies. For Lord Akeldama, this meant that the jacket was of pristine white silk with black embroidered birds of some lean oriental persuasion splashed about, the scarf a bright peacock-patterned teal, the trousers the latest in tight-fitting black jacquard, and the shoes cut in a flashy wingtip style with a black and white spectator coloration that was held by many to be rather vulgar.
“My darling Alexia. How fortuitous. I have just received delivery of the most divine new plaything. You must take a gander and give me your expert opinion!” Lord Akeldama addressed Lady Maccon by her given name and had done so since the night they met. And yet, Alexia realized for the first time as she took his hands in a firm grip, she had no idea what his was.
At the preternatural contact, Lord Akeldama turned from supernaturally beautiful, his skin ice white and his blond hair shining gold, to the merely pretty young man he had once been before his metamorphosis.
Lady Maccon kissed him softly on both cheeks, as though he were a child. “And how are you this evening, my lord?”
He leaned against her, momentarily calm in his fully human state, before resuming his animated chatter. “Perfectly splendid, my little tea biscuit, perfectly splendid. There is a mystery waffling about London town, and I am immersed in the thick of it. You know how I do so dearly love a mystery.” He kissed her back, a loud smack to the forehead, and then released her hands to curl his arm affectionately with hers.
Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second Page 9
