“You are simply still bitter about the hedgehogs,” muttered Miss Tarabotti, but she also bowed her head in acknowledgment. She’d had this conversation before, with Lord Maccon’s superior at BUR, to be precise. A man her brain still referred to as that Nice Silver-Haired Gentleman. The very idea that a lady of breeding such as herself might want to work was simply too shocking. “My dearest girl,” he had said, “what if your mother found out?”
“Isn’t BUR supposed to be covert? I could be covert.”
Miss Tarabotti could not help trying again. Professor Lyall, at least, liked her a little bit. Perhaps he might put in a good word.
Lord Maccon actually laughed. “You are about as covert as a sledgehammer.” Then he cursed himself silently, as she seemed suddenly forlorn. She hid it quickly, but she had definitely been saddened.
His Beta grabbed him by the arm with his free hand. “Really, sir, manners.”
The earl cleared his throat and looked contrite. “No offense meant, Miss Tarabotti.” The Scottish lilt was back in his voice.
Alexia nodded, not looking up. She plucked at one of the pansies on her parasol. “It’s simply, gentlemen”—and when she raised her dark eyes they had a slight sheen in them—“I would so like something useful to do.”
Lord Maccon waited until he and the professor were out in the hallway, having bid polite, on Professor Lyall’s part at least, farewells to the young lady, to ask the question that really bothered him. “For goodness’ sake, Randolph, why doesn’t she just get married?” His voice was full of frustration.
Randolph Lyall looked at his Alpha in genuine confusion. The earl was usually a very perceptive man, for all his bluster and Scottish grumbling. “She is a bit old, sir.”
“Balderdash,” said Lord Maccon. “She cannot possibly have more than a quarter century or so.”
“And she is very”—the professor looked for a gentlemanly way of putting it—“assertive.”
“Pah.” The nobleman waved one large paw dismissively. “Simply got a jot more backbone than most females this century. There must be plenty of discerning gentlemen who’d cop to her value.”
Professor Lyall had a well-developed sense of self-preservation and the distinct feeling that if he said anything desultory about the young lady’s appearance, he might actually get his head bitten off. He, and the rest of polite society, might believe Miss Tarabotti’s skin a little too dark and her nose a little too prominent, but he did not think Lord Maccon felt the same. Lyall had been Beta to the fourth Earl of Woolsey since Conall Maccon first descended upon them all. With barely twenty years gone and the bloody memory still strong, no werewolf was yet ready to question why Conall had wanted the bother of the London territory, not even Professor Lyall. The earl was a confusing man, his taste in females equally mystifying. For all Professor Lyall knew, his Alpha might actually like Roman noses, tan skin, and an assertive disposition. So instead he said, “Perhaps it’s the Italian last name, sir, that keeps her unwed.”
“Mmm,” agreed Lord Maccon, “probably so.” He did not sound convinced.
The two werewolves exited the duke’s town house into the black London night, one bearing the body of a dead vampire, the other, a puzzled expression.
CHAPTER TWO
An Unexpected Invitation
Miss Tarabotti generally kept her soulless state quite hush-hush, even from her own family. She was not undead, mind you; she was a living, breathing human but was simply… lacking. Neither her family nor the members of the social circles she frequented ever noticed she was missing anything. Miss Tarabotti seemed to them only a spinster, whose unfortunate condition was clearly the result of a combination of domineering personality, dark complexion, and overly strong facial features. Alexia thought it too much of a bother to go around explaining soullessness to the ill-informed masses. It was almost, though not quite, as embarrassing as having it known that her father was both Italian and dead.
The ill-informed masses included her own family among their ranks, a family that specialized in being both inconvenient and asinine.
“Would you look at this!” Felicity Loontwill waved a copy of the Morning Post at the assembled breakfast table. Her father, the Right Honorable Squire Loontwill, did not divert his concentrated attention from the consumption of an eight-minute egg and toast. But her sister, Evylin, glanced up inquiringly, and her mama said, “What is it, my dear?” pausing in midsip of her medicinal barley water.
Felicity pointed to a passage in the society section of the paper. “It says here that there was a particularly gruesome incident at the ball last night! Did you know there was an incident? I do not remember any incident!”
Alexia frowned at her own egg in annoyance. She had been under the impression Lord Maccon was going to keep everything respectfully quiet and out of the society papers. She refused to acknowledge the fact that the sheer number of people who had seen her with the dead vampire meant that any such endeavor was practically impossible. After all, the earl’s purported specialty was accomplishing several impossible things before dawn.
Felicity elaborated, “Apparently someone died. No name has been released, but a genuine death, and I missed it entirely! A young lady discovered him in the library and fainted from the shock. Poor lamb, how horrific for her.”
Evylin, the youngest, clucked her tongue sympathetically and reached for the pot of gooseberry jelly. “Does it say who the young lady is?”
Felicity rubbed her nose delicately and read on. “Unfortunately, no.”
Alexia raised both eyebrows and sipped her tea in un-characteristic silence. She winced at the flavor, looked with narrowed eyes at her cup, and then reached for the creamer.
Evylin spread jelly with great attention to applying a precisely even layer over the top of the toast. “How very tiresome! I should love to know all the relevant details. It is like something out of a gothic novel. Anything else interesting?”
“Well, the article continues on with a more extensive review of the ball. Goodness, the writer even criticizes the Duchess of Snodgrove for not providing refreshments.”
“Well, really,” said Evylin in heartfelt agreement, “even Almack’s has those bland little sandwiches. It is not as if the duke could not see to the expense.”
“Too true, my dear,” agreed Mrs. Loontwill.
Felicity glanced at the byline of the article. “Written by ‘anonymous.’ No commentary on anyone’s attire. Well, I call that a pretty poor showing. He does not even mention Evylin or me.”
The Loontwill girls were quite popular in the papers, partly for their generally well-turned-out appearance and partly because of the remarkable number of beaux they had managed to garner between them. The entire family, with the exception of Alexia, enjoyed this popularity immensely and did not seem to mind if what was written was not always complimentary. So long as something was written.
Evylin looked annoyed. A small crease appeared between her perfectly arched brows. “I wore my new pea-green gown with the pink water lily trim simply so they’d write about it.”
Alexia winced. She would prefer not to be reminded of that gown—so many ruffles.
The unfortunate by-product of Mrs. Loontwill’s second marriage, both Felicity and Evylin were markedly different from their older half sister. No one upon meeting the three together would have thought Alexia related to the other two at all. Aside from an obvious lack of Italian blood and completely soul-ridden states, Felicity and Evylin were both quite beautiful: pale insipid blondes with wide blue eyes and small rosebud mouths. Sadly, like their dear mama, they were not much more substantive than “quite beautiful.” Breakfast conversation was, therefore, not destined to be of the intellectual caliber that Alexia aspired to. Still, Alexia was pleased to hear the subject turn toward something more mundane than murder.
“Well, that’s all it says about the ball.” Felicity paused, switching her attention to the society announcements. “This is very interesting. That nice tearoom near B
ond Street has decided to remain open until two am to accommodate and cultivate supernatural clientele. Next thing you know, they will be serving up raw meat and flutes of blood on a regular basis. Do you think we should still frequent the venue, Mama?”
Mrs. Loontwill looked up once more from her barley and lemon water. “I do not see how it can do too much harm, my dear.”
Squire Loontwill added, swallowing a bite of toast, “Some of the better investors run with the nighttime crowd, my pearl. You could do worse when hunting down suitors for the girls.”
“Really, Daddy,” admonished Evylin, “you make Mama sound like a werewolf on the rampage.”
Mrs. Loontwill gave her husband a suspicious glance. “You haven’t been frequenting Claret’s or Sangria these last few evenings, have you?” She sounded as though she suspected London of being suddenly overrun with were-wolves, ghosts, and vampires, and her husband fraternizing with them all.
The squire hurriedly backed away from the conversation. “Of course not, my pearl, only Boodles. You know I prefer my own club to those of the supernatural set.”
“Speaking of gentlemen’s clubs,” interrupted Felicity, still immersed in the paper, “a new one opened last week in Mayfair. It caters to intellectuals, philosophers, scientists, and their ilk—of all things. It calls itself the Hypocras Club. How absurd. Why would such a class of individual need a club? Isn’t that what they have public museums for?” She frowned over the address. “Terribly fashionable location, though.” She showed the printed page to her mother. “Isn’t that next door to the Duke of Snodgrove’s town house?”
Mrs. Loontwill nodded. “Quite right, my dear. Well, a parcel of scientists coming and going at all hours of the day and night will certainly lower the tenor of that neighborhood. I should think the duchess would be in a veritable fit over this occurrence. I had intended to send round a thank-you card for last night’s festivities. Now I think I might pay her a call in person this afternoon. As a concerned friend, I really ought to check on her emotional state.”
“How ghastly for her,” said Alexia, driven beyond endurance into comment. “People actually thinking, with their brains, and right next door. Oh, the travesty of it all.”
Evylin said, “I will come with you, Mama.”
Mrs. Loontwill smiled at her youngest daughter and completely ignored her eldest.
Felicity read on. “The latest spring styles from Paris call for wide belts in contrasting colors. How regrettable. Of course, they will look lovely on you, Evylin, but on my figure…”
Unfortunately, despite invading scientists, the opportunity to gloat over a friend’s misfortune, and imminent belts, Alexia’s mama was still thinking about the dead man at the Snodgroves’ ball. “You disappeared for quite a while at one point last night, Alexia. You would not be keeping anything important from us, would you, my dear?”
Alexia gave her a carefully bland look. “I did have a bit of a run-in with Lord Maccon.” Always throw them off the scent, she thought.
That captured everyone’s attention, even her step-father’s. Squire Loontwill rarely troubled himself to speak at length. With the Loontwill ladies, there was not much of a chance to get a word in, so he tended to let the breakfast conversation flow over him like water over tea leaves, paying only half a mind to the proceedings. But he was a man of reasonable sense and propriety, and Alexia’s statement caused him to become suddenly alert. The Earl of Woolsey might be a werewolf, but he was in possession of considerable wealth and influence.
Mrs. Loontwill paled and noticeably mollified her tone. “You did not say anything disrespectful to the earl, now, did you, my dear?”
Alexia thought back over her encounter. “Not as such.”
Mrs. Loontwill pushed away her glass of barley water and shakily poured herself a cup of tea. “Oh dear,” she said softly.
Mrs. Loontwill had never quite managed to figure out her eldest daughter. She had thought that putting Alexia on the shelf would keep the exasperating girl out of trouble. Instead, she had inadvertently managed to give Alexia an ever-increasing degree of freedom. Thinking back on it, she really ought to have married Alexia off instead. Now they were all stuck with her outrageous behavior, which seemed to be progressively worsening as she got older.
Alexia added peevishly, “I did wake up this morning thinking of all the rude things I could have said but did not. I call that most aggravating.”
Squire Loontwill emitted a long drawn-out sigh.
Alexia firmly put her hand on the table. “In fact, I think I shall go for a walk in the park this morning. My nerves are not quite what they should be after the encounter.” She was not, as one might suppose, obliquely referring to the vampire attack. Miss Tarabotti was not one of life’s milk-water misses—in fact, quite the opposite. Many a gentleman had likened his first meeting with her to downing a very strong cognac when one was expecting to imbibe fruit juice—that is to say, startling and apt to leave one with a distinct burning sensation. No, Alexia’s nerves were frazzled because she was still boiling mad at the Earl of Woolsey. She had been mad when he left her in the library. She had spent a restless night fuming impotently and awoken with eyes gritty and noble feelings still on edge.
Evylin said, “But wait. What happened? Alexia, you must tell all! Why did you encounter Lord Maccon at the ball when we did not? He was not on the guest list. I would have known. I peeked over the footman’s shoulder.”
“Evy, you didn’t,” gasped Felicity, genuinely shocked.
Alexia ignored them and left the breakfast room to hunt down her favorite shawl. Mrs. Loontwill might have tried to stop her, but she knew such an attempt would be useless. Getting information out of Alexia when she did not want to share was akin to trying to squeeze blood from a ghost. Instead, Mrs. Loontwill reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed it consolingly. “Do not worry, Herbert. I think Lord Maccon rather likes Alexia’s rudeness. He’s never publicly cut her for it, at least. We can be grateful for small mercies.”
Squire Loontwill nodded. “I suppose a werewolf of his advanced age might find it refreshing?” he suggested hopefully.
His wife applauded such an optimistic attitude with an affectionate pat on the shoulder. She knew how very trying her second husband found her eldest daughter. Really, what had she been thinking, marrying an Italian? Well, she had been young and Alessandro Tarabotti so very handsome. But there was something else about Alexia, something… revoltingly independent, that Mrs. Loontwill could not blame entirely on her first husband. And, of course, she refused to take the blame herself. Whatever it was, Alexia had been born that way, full of logic and reason and sharp words. Not for the first time, Mrs. Loontwill lamented the fact that her eldest had not been a male child; it would have made life very much easier for them all.
Under ordinary circumstances, walks in Hyde Park were the kind of thing a single young lady of good breeding was not supposed to do without her mama and possibly an elderly female relation or two in attendance. Miss Tarabotti felt such rules did not entirely apply to her, as she was a spinster. Had been a spinster for as long as she could remember. In her more acerbic moments, she felt she had been born a spinster. Mrs. Loontwill had not even bothered with the expenditure of a come-out or a proper season for her eldest daughter. “Really, darling,” Alexia’s mother had said at the time in tones of the deepest condescension, “with that nose and that skin, there is simply no point in us going to the expense. I have got your sisters to think of.” So Alexia, whose nose really wasn’t that big and whose skin really wasn’t that tan, had gone on the shelf at fifteen. Not that she had ever actually coveted the burden of a husband, but it would have been nice to know she could get one if she ever changed her mind. Alexia did enjoy dancing, so she would have liked to attend at least one ball as an available young lady rather than always ending up skulking in libraries. These days she attended balls as nothing more than her sisters’ chaperone, and the libraries abounded. But spinsterhood did mean she coul
d go for a walk in Hyde Park without her mama, and only the worst sticklers would object. Luckily, such sticklers, like the contributors to the Morning Post, did not know Miss Alexia Tarabotti’s name.
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.
Soulless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the First Page 3
