Angelique remained silent but her face seemed to indicate that she thought this inquiry excessively personal.
Lady Maccon excused her maid and went to find her little leather journal, the better to collect her thoughts and make a few notations. If she suspected Madame Lefoux of being a spy, she ought to jot this down, along with her reasoning. Part of the purpose of the notebook was to leave adequate record should anything untoward happen to her. She had commenced the practice upon assuming her position as muhjah, though she used the journal for personal notes, not state secrets. Her father’s journals had proved helpful on more than one occasion. She would like to think her own might be of equal assistance to future generations. Although probably not in quite the same way as Alessandro Tarabotti’s. She didn’t go in for recording that type of information.
The stylographic pen was where she had left it, on the nightstand, but her notebook had vanished. She checked all about—under the bed, behind the furniture—but could find it nowhere. With a sinking feeling, she went looking for her dispatch case.
A knock came at her door, and before she could come up with some excuse to keep the visitor at bay, Ivy trotted into the room. She looked flushed and nervous, her hat of the day a floof of black lace draped over masses of dark side curls, the earmuffs underneath only visible because Ivy was tugging at them.
Alexia paused in her hunt. “Ivy, what is wrong? You look like a perturbed terrier with an ear mite problem.”
Miss Hisselpenny cast herself dramatically facedown on Alexia’s small bed, clearly in some emotional distress. She mumbled into the pillow. Her voice was suspiciously high.
“Ivy, what is wrong with your voice? Have you been up in engineering, on the Squeak Deck?” Since the dirigible maintained buoyancy through the application of helium, it was a legitimate assumption for any vocal abnormalities.
“No,” squeaked Ivy. “Well, maybe for a short while.”
Lady Maccon stifled a laugh. Really, it was too absurd-sounding. “Who were you up there with?” she inquired archly, although she could very well hazard a guess.
“No one,” squeak, squeak. “Well, in actuality, I mean to say, I might have been with… uh… Mr. Tunstell.”
Lady Maccon snickered. “I wager he sounded pretty funny too.”
“A slight leak occurred while we were up there. But there was grave need for a small moment of privacy.”
“How romantic.”
“Really, Alexia, this is no time for levity! I am all aquiver, facing a ghastly emotional crisis, and you issue forth nothing more than scads of unwanted jocularity.”
Lady Maccon composed her features and tried to look like she was not amused at her friend’s expense, annoyed at her friend’s appearance, nor still glancing about her room in search of the missing dispatch case. “Let me hazard a guess. Tunstell has professed his undying love?”
“Yes,” Ivy wailed, “and I am engaged to another!” On the word engaged, she finally stopped squeaking.
“Ah, yes, the mysterious Captain Featherstonehaugh. And let us not forget that, even if you were not affianced, Tunstell is an entirely unsuitable match. Ivy, he makes his living as a thespian.”
Ivy groaned. “I know! In addition, he is your husband’s valet! Oh, it is all so messily plebeian.” Ivy rolled over on the bed, the back of her wrist pressed to her forehead. She kept her eyes tightly shut. Lady Maccon wondered if Miss Hisselpenny did not have a possible future career on the stage herself.
“Which also makes him a claviger. Well, well, well, you have got yourself into a pretty pickle.” Lady Maccon tried to sound sympathetic.
“Oh, but, Alexia, I am quite fearfully afraid that I might just possibly, maybe a little itty-bitty bit, love him back.”
“Shouldn’t you be certain of a thing like that?”
“I do not know. Should I be? How does one determine one’s own state of enamorment?”
Lady Maccon snickered. “I am hardly one to elucidate. It took me ages to realize I had feelings for Conall beyond abhorrence, and quite frankly, I am still not certain that feeling does not persist unto this very moment.”
Ivy was taken aback. “Surely you jest?”
Alexia cast her mind back to the last time she had engaged in a protracted encounter with her husband. There had been a good deal of moaning at the time, if memory served. “Well, he has his uses.”
“But, Alexia, what do I do?”
At that moment, Lady Maccon spotted her missing dispatch case. Someone had shoved it in the corner between the wardrobe and the door to the washroom. Alexia was quite certain that was not where she had left it.
“Aha, how did you get there?” she said to the missing accoutrement, and went to retrieve it.
Ivy, eyes still shut, pondered this question. “I have no idea how I allowed myself into such an untenable position. You must help me, Alexia. This is a cataplasm of epic proportions!”
“Too true,” agreed Lady Maccon, considering the state of her beloved dispatch case. Someone had tried to break open the catch. Whomever it was must have been disturbed in the act, or they would have stolen the case as well as her notebook. Her little leather journal would fit inside a vest or under a skirt, but the dispatch case would not. The villain must have left it behind as a result. Lady Maccon considered possible suspects. The ship’s domestic staff had access to her rooms, of course, and Angelique. But, really, given the state of the locks on board, it could have been anyone.
“He kissed me,” Miss Hisselpenny keened.
“Ah, well, that is something like.” Alexia decided nothing more could be determined from the dispatch case, at least not with Ivy still in the room. She went to sit next to her friend’s prostrate form. “Did you enjoy kissing him?”
Ivy said nothing.
“Did you enjoy kissing Captain Featherstonehaugh?”
“Alexia, the very idea. We are only engaged, not married!”
“So you have not kissed the good captain?”
Ivy shook her head in an excess of embarrassment.
“Well, then, what about Tunstell?”
Miss Hisselpenny flushed even redder. Now she looked like a spaniel with a sunburn. “Well, maybe, just a little.”
“And?”
Miss Hisselpenny opened her eyes, still blushing furiously, and looked at her married friend. “Is one supposed to enjoy kissing?” she practically whispered.
“I believe it is generally thought to be a pleasant pastime. You read novels, do you not?” replied Lady Maccon, trying desperately to keep a straight face.
“Do you enjoy doing… that with Lord Maccon?”
Lady Maccon did not hesitate, credit where it was due and all. “Unreservedly.”
“Oh, well, I thought it was a little”—Ivy paused—“damp.”
Lady Maccon cocked her head to one side. “Well, you must understand, my husband has considerable experience in these matters. He is hundreds of years older than I.”
“And that does not trouble you?”
“My dear, he will live hundreds of years longer than I as well. One must come to terms with these things if one fraternizes with the supernatural set. I admit it is hard, knowing we will not grow old together. But if you choose Tunstell, you may eventually have to face the same concerns. Then again, your time together could be cut short, as he may not survive metamorphosis.”
“Is that likely to occur soon?”
Lady Maccon knew very little about this aspect of pack dynamics. So she only shrugged.
Ivy sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation that seemed to encompass all the problems of the empire. “It is all too much to think about. My head is positively awhirl. I simply do not know what to do. Don’t you see? Don’t you comprehend my cacophony?”
“You mean catastrophe?”
Ivy ignored her. “Do I throw over Captain Featherstonehaugh, and his five hundred a year, for Mr. Tunstell and his unstable”—she shuddered—“working-class station? Or do I continue with my engagement?”
“You could always marry your captain and pursue a dalliance with Tunstell on the side.”
Miss Hisselpenny gasped, sitting fully upright in her outrage at such a proposal. “Alexia, how could you even think such a thing, let alone suggest it aloud!”
“Well, yes, of course, those damp kisses would have to improve.”
Ivy threw a pillow at her friend. “Really!”
Lady Maccon, it must be admitted, gave little further thought to her dear friend’s dilemma. She transferred all the most delicate documents and important smaller instruments and devices out of her dispatch case and into the pockets of her parasol. Since she was already known as an eccentric parasol-carrier, no one remarked upon its continued presence at her side, even well after dark.
Dinner was a strained affair, stiff with tension and suspicion. Worse, the food was horrible. True, Alexia had very high standards, but the fare continued to be ghastly. Everything—meat, vegetables, even pudding—appeared to have been steamed into flaccid colorless submission, with no sauce, or even salt, to bolster the flavor. It was like eating a wet handkerchief.
Felicity, who had the palate of a country goat and tucked in without pause to anything laid before her, noticed that Alexia was only picking at her food. “Nice to see you are finally taking measures, sister.”
Lady Maccon, lost in thought, replied with an unguarded, “Measures?”
“Well, I am terribly concerned for your health. One simply should not weigh so much at your age.”
Lady Maccon poked at a sagging carrot and wondered if anyone would miss her dear sister were she to be oh-so-gently tipped over the rail of the upper deck.
Madame Lefoux glanced up. She gave Alexia an appraising look. “I think Lady Maccon appears in fine health.”
“I think you are being fooled by her unfashionable robustness,” said Felicity.
Madame Lefoux continued as though Felicity hadn’t spoken. “You, on the other hand, Miss Loontwill, are looking a touch insipid.”
Felicity gasped.
Alexia wished, yet again, that Madame Lefoux were not so clearly a spy. She would be a good egg otherwise. Was it she who had tried to get into the dispatch case?
Tunstell came wandering in, full of excuses for his tardiness, and took his seat between Felicity and Ivy.
“How nice of you to join us,” commented Felicity.
Tunstell looked embarrassed. “Have I missed the first course?”
Alexia examined the steamed offering before her. “You can have mine if you like. I find my appetite sorely taxed these days.”
She passed the graying mass over to Tunstell, who looked at it doubtfully but began eating.
Madame Lefoux continued talking to Felicity. “I have an interesting little invention in my rooms, Miss Loontwill, excellent for enlivening the facial muscles and imparting a rosy hue to the cheeks. You are welcome to try it sometime.” There was a slight dimpling at that, suggesting this invention was either sticky or painful.
“I would not think, with your propensities, that you would be concerned with feminine appearances,” shot back Felicity, glaring at the woman’s vest and dinner jacket.
“Oh, I assure you, they concern me greatly.” The Frenchwoman looked at Alexia.
Lady Maccon decided Madame Lefoux reminded her a little bit of Professor Lyall, only prettier and less vulpine. She looked to her sister. “Felicity, I seem to have misplaced my leather travel journal. You have not seen it anywhere, have you?”
The second course was presented. It looked only slightly more appetizing than the first: some unidentifiable grayish meat in a white sauce, boiled potatoes, and soggy dinner rolls. Alexia waved it all away in disgust.
“Oh dear, sister, you have not taken up writing, have you?” Felicity pretended shock. “Quite frankly, all of that reading is outside of enough. I had thought that being married would cure you of such an unwise inclination. I never read if I can help it. It is terribly bad for the eyes. And it causes one’s forehead to wrinkle most horribly, just there.” She pointed between her eyebrows and then said pityingly to Lady Maccon, “Oh, I see you do not have to worry about that anymore, Alexia.”
Lady Maccon sighed. “Oh, pack it in, Felicity, do.”
Madame Lefoux hid a smile.
Miss Hisselpenny said suddenly in a loud and highly distressed voice, “Mr. Tunstell? Oh! Mr. Tunstell, are you quite all right?”
Tunstell was leaning forward over his plate, his face gone pale and drawn.
“Is it the food?” wondered Lady Maccon. “Because if it is, I entirely understand your feelings on the subject. I shall have a conversation with the cook.”
Tunstell looked up at her. His freckles were standing out and his eyes watering. “I feel most unwell,” he said distinctly before lurching to his feet and stumbling out the door.
Alexia looked after him for a moment with her mouth agape, then glared suspiciously down at the food set before them. She stood. “If you will excuse me, I think I had best check on Tunstell. No, Ivy, you stay here.” She grabbed her parasol and followed the claviger.
She found him on the nearest observation deck, collapsed on his side against a far rail, clutching at his stomach.
Alexia marched up to him. “Did this come over you quite suddenly?”
Tunstell nodded, clearly unable to speak.
There came a faint smell of vanilla, and Madame Lefoux’s voice behind them said, “Poison.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Problematic Octopuses
and Airship Mountaineering
Randolph Lyall was old, for a werewolf. Something on the order of three hundred or so. He had long since stopped counting. And through all that time, he had played this little game of chess with local vampires: they moved their pawns and he moved his. He’d been changed shortly before King Henry absorbed supernaturals legally into the British government, so he’d never known the Dark Ages, not personally. But he, like every other supernatural on the British Isles, worked hard to keep them from returning. Funny how such a simple objective could so easily become adulterated by politics and new technology. Of course, he could simply march up to the Westminster Hive and ask them what they were about. But they would no more tell him than he would tell them Lord Maccon had BUR agents watching the hive twenty-four hours a day.
Lyall reached his destination in far less time than it would have taken by carriage. He changed into human form in a dark alley, throwing the cloak he’d carried in his mouth about his naked body. Not precisely dress appropriate for paying a social visit, but he was confident his host would understand. This was business. Then again, one never could tell with vampires. They had, after all, dominated the fashion world for decades as a kind of indirect campaign against werewolves and the uncivilized state shifting shape required.
He reached forward and pulled the bell rope on the door in front of him.
A handsome young footman opened it.
“Professor Lyall,” said Professor Lyall, “to see Lord Akeldama.”
The young man gave the werewolf a very long look. “Well, well. You will not mind, sir, if I ask you to wait on the stoop while I inform the master of your presence?”
Vampires were odd about invitations. Professor Lyall shook his head.
The footman disappeared, and a moment later, Lord Akeldama opened the door in his stead.
They had met before, of course, but Lyall had never yet had occasion to visit the vampire at home. The decoration was—he discerned as he peered into the glittering interior—very loud.
“Professor Lyall.” Lord Akeldama gave him an appraising look through a beautiful gold monocle. He was dressed for the theater, and one pinky pointed out as he lowered the viewing device. “And alone. To what do I owe this honor?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
Lord Akeldama looked the werewolf up and down once more; his blond eyebrows, darkened by artificial means, rose in surprise. “Why, Professor Lyall, how charming. I think you had
best come inside.”
Without looking up at Madame Lefoux, Alexia asked, “Is there anything built into my parasol to counteract poison?”
The inventor shook her head. “The parasol was designed as an offensive device. Had I known we would need an apothecary’s kit, I would have added that feature.”
Lady Maccon crouched down over Tunstell’s supine form. “Run to the steward and see if he has an emetic on board, syrup of ipecac or white vitriol.”
“At once,” said the inventor, and dashed off.
Lady Maccon envied Madame Lefoux the masculine attire. Her own skirts were getting caught about her legs as she tried to tend to the afflicted claviger. His face was paper white, freckles stark against it, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead dampening his red hair.
“Oh no, he is suffering so. Will he recover soon?” Miss Hisselpenny had defied Alexia’s order and tracked them down to the observation deck. She, too, crouched over Tunstell, her skirts spilling about her like a great over-iced meringue. She patted uselessly at one of Tunstell’s hands, which were clenched over his stomach.
Alexia ignored her. “Tunstell, you must try to purge yourself.” She made her voice as authoritative as possible, disguising her worry and fear with gruffness.
“Alexia!” Miss Hisselpenny was appalled. “Imagine suggesting such a thing. How undignified! Poor Mr. Tunstell.”
“He must eject the contents of his stomach before the toxin enters his system any further.”
“Do not be a ninnyhammer, Alexia,” replied Ivy with a forced laugh. “It is just a bit of food poisoning.”
Tunstell groaned but did not move.
“Ivy, and I mean this with the kindest and best of intentions, bugger off.”
Miss Hisselpenny gasped and stood up, scandalized. But at least she was out of the way.
Alexia helped Tunstell to turn over so he was on his knees. She pointed a finger over the side of the dirigible autocratically. She made her voice as low and as tough as possible. “Tunstell, this is your Alpha speaking. Do as I tell you. You must regurgitate now.” Never in all her time had Alexia supposed she would someday be ordering someone to throw up their supper.
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