Professor Lyall, who could already feel the strain of the moon even though it had not yet peeked above the horizon, held out his wrists obediently.
His valet clapped silver manacles about them with an air of embarrassment. Never during all his years of service had he had to bind Professor Lyall.
The Beta gave him a little half smile. “Not to worry, dear boy. It happens to the best of us.” Then he followed both young men docilely down the staircase and into the pack dungeon, where the others were already behind bars. He gave absolutely no hint of the discipline it took for him to remain calm. Simply out of obstinacy and pride, he fought the change as long as possible. Long after his two clavigers had reached through the bars and unlocked his manacles, and he had stripped himself of all his carefully tailored clothing, he continued to fight it. He did it for their sake, as they went to stand with the first shift of watchers against the far wall. Poor young things, compelled to witness powerful men become slaves to bestial urges, forced to understand what their desire for immortality would require them to become. Lyall was never entirely certain whom he pitied more at this time of the month, them or him. It was the age-old question: who suffers more, the gentleman in the badly tied cravat or those who must look upon him?
Which was Professor Lyall’s last thought before the pain and noise and madness of full moon took him away.
He awoke to the sound of Lord Maccon yelling. For Professor Lyall, this was so commonplace as to be almost restful. It had the pleasant singsong of regularity and custom about it.
“And who, might I ask, is Alpha of this bloody pack?” The roar carried even through the thick stone of the dungeon walls.
“You, sir,” said a timid voice.
“And who is currently giving you a direct order to be released from this damned prison?”
“That would be you, sir.”
“And yet, who is still locked away?”
“That would still be you, sir.”
“Yet somehow you do not see my difficulty.”
“Professor Lyall said—”
“Professor Lyall, my ruddy arse!”
“Very good, sir.”
Lyall yawned and stretched. Full moon always left a man slightly stiff, all that running about the cell and crashing into things and howling. No permanent damage, of course, but there was a certain muscle memory of deeds done and humiliating acts performed that even a full day of sleep could not erase. It was not unlike waking after a long night of being very, very drunk.
His clavigers noticed he was awake and immediately unlocked his cell and came inside. The footman carried a nice cup of hot tea with milk and a dish of raw fish with chopped mint on top. Professor Lyall was unusual in his preference for fish, but the staff had quickly learned to accommodate this eccentricity. The mint, of course, was to help deal with recalcitrant wolf breath. He snacked while his valet dressed him: nice soft tweed trousers, sip of tea, crisp white shirt, nibble of fish, chocolate brocade waistcoat, more tea, and so on.
By the time Lyall had finished his ablutions, Lord Maccon had almost, but not quite, convinced his own clavigers to let him out. The young men were looking harassed, and had, apparently, deemed it safe to pass some clothing through to Lord Maccon, if nothing else. What the Alpha had done with said clothing only faintly resembled dressing, but at least he wasn’t striding around hollering at them naked anymore.
Professor Lyall wandered over to his lordship’s cell, fixing the cuffs of his shirt and looking unruffled.
“Randolph,” barked the earl, “let me out this instant.”
Professor Lyall ignored him. He took the key and sent the clavigers off to see to the rest of the pack, who were all now starting to awaken.
“Do you remember, my lord, what the Woolsey Pack was like when you first came to challenge for it?”
Lord Maccon paused in his yelling and his pacing to look up in surprise. “Of course I do. It was not so long ago as all that.”
“Not a nice piece of work, the previous Earl of Woolsey, was he? Excellent fighter, of course, but he had gone a little funny about the head—one too many live snacks. ‘Crackers’ some called him.” Professor Lyall shook his head. He loathed talking about his previous Alpha. “An embarrassing thing for a carnivore to be compared to a biscuit, wouldn’t you say, my lord?”
“Your point, Randolph.” Lord Maccon could only be surprised out of his impatience for a brief length of time.
“You are becoming, shall we say, of the biscuit inclination, my lord.”
Lord Maccon took a deep breath and then sucked on his teeth. “Gone loopy, have I?”
“Perhaps just a little bit noodled.”
Lord Maccon looked shamefacedly down at the floor of his cell.
“It is time for you to face up to your responsibilities, my lord. Three weeks is enough time to wallow in your own colossal mistake.”
“Pardon me?”
Professor Lyall had had more than enough of his Alpha’s nonsensical behavior, and he was a master of perfect timing. Unless he was wrong, and Professor Lyall was rarely wrong about an Alpha, Lord Maccon was ready to admit the truth. And even if Lyall was, by some stretch of the imagination, incorrect in his assessment, the earl could not be allowed to continue to be ridiculous out of mere stubbornness.
“You aren’t fooling any of us.”
Lord Maccon resisted admission of guilt even as he crumbled like the metaphorical cracker. “But I turned her out.”
“Yes, you did, and wasn’t that an idiotic thing to do?”
“Possibly.”
“Because?” Professor Lyall crossed his arms and dangled the key to his Alpha’s cell temptingly from one fingertip.
“Because there is no way she would have canoodled with another man, not my Alexia.”
“And?”
“And the child must be mine.” The earl paused. “Good gracious me, can you imagine that, becoming a father at my age?” This was followed by another much longer pause. “She is never going to forgive me for this, is she?”
Professor Lyall had no mercy. “I wouldn’t. But then I have never precisely been in her situation before.”
“I should hope not, or there’s a prodigious deal regarding your personage about which I was previously unaware.”
“Now is not the time for jocularity, my lord.”
Lord Maccon sobered. “Insufferable woman. Couldn’t she have at least stayed around and argued with me more on the subject? Did she have to cut and run like that?”
“You do recall what you said to her? What you called her?”
Lord Maccon’s wide, pleasant face became painfully white and drawn as he went mentally back to a certain castle in Scotland. “I’d just as soon not remember, thank you.”
“Are you going to behave yourself now?” Professor Lyall continued to wave the key. “Stay off the formaldehyde?”
“I suppose I must. I’ve drunk it all, anyway.”
Professor Lyall let his Alpha out of the cell and then spent a few minutes fussing about the earl’s shirt and cravat, tidying up the mauling Lord Maccon had inflicted while attempting to clothe himself.
The earl withstood the grooming manfully, knowing it for what it was: Lyall’s unspoken sympathy. Then he batted his Beta away. Lord Maccon was, when all was said and done, a wolf of action.
“So, what do I have to do to win her back? How do I convince her to come home?”
“You are forgetting that, given your treatment of her, she may not want to come home.”
“Then I shall make her forgive me!” Lord Maccon’s voice, while commanding, was also anguished.
“I do not believe that is quite how forgiveness works, my lord.”
“Well?”
“You remember that groveling business we once discussed during your initial courtship of the young lady?”
“Not that again.”
“Oh, no, not precisely. I was thinking, given her flight from London and the generally slanderous gossip that has re
sulted and permeated the society papers ever since, that public groveling is called for under such circumstances.”
“What? No, I absolutely refuse.”
“Oh, I don’t believe you have a choice, my lord. A letter to the Morning Post would be best, a retraction of sorts. In it you should explain that this was all a horrible misunderstanding. Hail the child as a modern miracle. Claim you had the help of some scientist or other in its conception. How about using that MacDougall fellow? He owes us a favor, doesn’t he, from that incident with the automaton? And he is an American; he won’t protest the resulting attention.”
“You have given this much thought, haven’t you, Randolph?”
“Someone had to. You, apparently, were not putting thought very high up on your list of priorities for the past few weeks.”
“Enough. I still outrank you.”
Professor Lyall reflected he may have, just possibly, pushed his Alpha a little much with that last statement, but he held his ground.
“Now, where is my greatcoat? And where is Rumpet?” Lord Maccon threw his head back. “Rumpet!” he roared, bounding up the steps.
“Sir?” The butler met him at the top of the staircase. “You yelled?”
“Send a man into town to book passage on the next possible channel crossing. It’s probably first thing in the morning. And from there a French train to the Italian border.” He turned to look at Lyall, who made his own more sedate way up the stairs from the dungeon. “That is where she has gone, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but how did you—?”
“Because that is where I would have gone.” He turned back to the butler. “Should take me a little over a day to cross France. I shall run the border tomorrow night in wolf skin and hang the consequences. Oh, and—”
This time it was Professor Lyall’s turn to interrupt. “Belay that order, Rumpet.”
Lord Maccon turned around to growl at his Beta. “Now what? I shall go by the Post on my way out of town, get them to print a public apology. She is very likely in danger, Randolph, not to mention pregnant. I cannot possibly win her back by dawdling around London.”
Professor Lyall took a deep breath. He should have known having Lord Maccon in full possession of his faculties might result in rash action. “It is more than just the regular papers. The vampires have been mudslinging and slandering your wife’s character in the popular press, accusing her of all manner of indiscretions, and unless I miss my guess, it all has to do with Alexia’s pregnancy. The vampires are not happy about it, my lord, not happy at all.”
“Nasty little bloodsuckers. I shall set them to rights. Why haven’t Lord Akeldama and his boys been able to counteract the gossip? And why hasn’t Lord Akeldama explained away my wife’s pregnancy, for that matter? I bet he knows. He is quite the little know-it-all. May even be Edict Keeper, unless I miss my guess.”
“That is the other problem: he has disappeared along with all of his drones. Apparently, they are off searching for something the potentate stole. I have been trying to find out what and why and where, but it has been a tad hectic recently. Both BUR and the pack keep interfering. Not to mention the fact that the vampires really aren’t saying anything of interest. Why, if it weren’t for Mrs. Tunstell and the hat shop, I might not even know the little I do.”
“Hat shop? Mrs. Tunstell?” Lord Maccon blinked at this diatribe from his normally quietly competent Beta. “You mean Ivy Hisselpenny? That Mrs. Tunstell? What hat shop?”
But his Beta was on a verbal flyaway and unwilling to pause. “What with you constantly sloshed and Channing gone, I am at my wit’s end. I really am. You, my lord, cannot simply dash off to Italy. You have responsibilities here.”
Lord Maccon frowned. “Ah, yes, Channing. I forgot about him.”
“Oh, yes? I didn’t think that was possible. Some people have all the luck.”
Lord Maccon caved. Truth be told he was rather worried to see his unflappable Randolph so, well, flapped. “Oh, very well, I shall give you three nights help sorting out this mess you have gotten us into, and then I’m off.”
Professor Lyall emitted the sigh of the long-suffering but knew it was the closest he was likely to get to victory with Lord Maccon and counted his blessings. Then he gently but firmly put his Alpha to work.
“Rumpet,” he addressed the frozen and confused butler, “call the carriage. We are going into the city for the night.”
Lord Maccon turned to Professor Lyall as the two made their way through the hallway, collecting their greatcoats on the way.
“Any other news I should be made aware of, Randolph?”
Professor Lyall frowned. “Only that Miss Wibbley has become engaged.”
“Should that information mean something to me?”
“I believe you were once fond of Miss Wibbley, my lord.”
“I was?” A frown. “How astonishing of me. Ah, yes, skinny little thing? You misconstrued—I was simply using her to needle Alexia at the time. Engaged, did you say? Who’s the unfortunate fellow?”
“Captain Featherstonehaugh.”
“Ah, now that name does sound familiar. Didn’t we serve with a Captain Featherstonehaugh on our last tour in India?”
“Ah, no, sir, I believe that was this one’s grandfather.”
“Really? How time flies. Poor man. Not much to hold on to with that chit. That’s what I like about my lass—she’s got a bit of meat on her bones.”
Professor Lyall could do nothing but say, “Yes, my lord.” Although he did shake his head over the obtuseness of his Alpha. Who, having decided all would once more be blissful in his marriage, already referred to Alexia as his again. Unless Lyall was wrong, and circumstances had already proved how improbable that outcome, Lady Maccon was unlikely to see the situation in the same light.
They swung themselves up easily into the grand crested coach and four that served as Woolsey’s main mode of transport when the wolves weren’t running.
“Now, what is this about Mrs. Tunstell and a hat shop?” Lord Maccon wanted to know, adding before Professor Lyall could answer, “Sorry about drinking your specimen collection, by the way, Randolph. I wasn’t quite myself.”
Lyall grunted softly. “I shall hide it better next time.”
“See that you do.”
CHAPTER TEN
In Which Alexia Meddles with Silent Italians
Lady Alexia Maccon did not, of course, realize that they were Templars until she awoke, and even then there was a lengthy adjustment period. It took her several long moments to discover that she was, in fact, not exactly a prisoner but relaxing in the guest quarters of a lavish residence located in, if the view from the window was to be believed, some equally lavish Italian city. The room had a delightful southern aspect, and a cheerful spray of sunlight danced over plush furnishing and frescoed walls.
Alexia tumbled out of bed, only to find she had been stripped and redressed in a nightgown of such frilliness as might have given her husband conniption fits under other circumstances. She wasn’t comfortable with either the notion of a stranger seeing her in the buff nor the copious frills, but she supposed a silly nightgown was better than nothing at all. She soon discovered she had also been provided with a dressing gown of velvet-lined brocade and a pair of fluffy bed slippers. Her dispatch case and parasol, apparently unmolested, sat on a large pink pouf to one side of her bed. Figuring that any person of refined sensibility would have burned her unfortunate claret-colored gown by now and finding no more respectable attire anywhere in the room, Alexia donned the robe, grabbed her parasol, and stuck her head cautiously out into the hallway.
The hall proved itself to be more of a large vestibule, covered in thick carpets and lined with a number of religious effigies. The humble cross appeared to be a particularly popular motif. Alexia spotted a massive gold statue of a pious-looking saint sporting jade flowers in his hair and ruby sandals. She began to wonder if she was inside some kind of church or museum. Did churches have guest bedrooms? She had no id
ea. Having no soul to save, Alexia had always considered religious matters outside her particular sphere of influence and therefore interest.
All unbidden, her stomach registered its utter emptiness and the infant-inconvenience sloshed about sympathetically. Alexia sniffed the air. A delicious smell emanated from somewhere close by. Alexia had decent eyesight and adequate hearing—although she had been remarkably capable of tuning out her husband’s voice—but it was her sense of smell that set her apart from ordinary mankind. She attributed this to her oversized nose. Whatever the case, it stood her in good stead this particular day, for it led her unerringly down a side hallway, through a wide reception chamber, and out into a massive courtyard where a multitude of men were gathered about long tables to eat. Imagine that, eating outside and not for a picnic!
Alexia paused on the threshold, unsure. An assembly of masculinity, and her in only a dressing gown. Such a danger as this she had never before had to face. She braced herself against the horror of it all. Here’s hoping my mother never gets wind of this.
The seated masses made for a bizarrely silent assembly. Hand gestures were the main method of communication. Seated at the head of one of the tables, a single somberly dressed monk read unintelligible Latin out of a Bible in a monotonous tone. To a man, the silent eaters were darkly tan and dressed respectably but not expensively in the kind of tweed-heavy country garb young men about the hunt might favor—knickerbockers, vests, and boots. They were also armed to the teeth. At breakfast. It was disconcerting to say the least.
Alexia swallowed nervously and stepped out into the courtyard.
Strangely enough, none of the men seemed to notice her. In fact, none of them registered her existence at all. There were one or two very subtle sideways glances, but, by and large, Alexia Maccon was entirely and utterly ignored by everyone there, and there were at least a hundred assembled. She hesitated.
“Uh, hallo?”
Silence.
True, prior familial experiences had prepared Alexia for a life of omission, but this was ridiculous.
“Over here!” A hand waved her over to one of the tables. In among the gentlemen sat Madame Lefoux and Floote, who, Alexia saw with a profound feeling of relief, also wore robes. She had never seen Floote in anything less than professional attire, and he seemed, poor man, even more embarrassed than she by the informality of the dress.
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