Heartless

CHAPTER FIVE The Lair of the Octopus

Number 88 was not a very impressive domicile. In fact, it was one of the least elegant in the neighborhood. While its immediate neighbors were nothing when compared to Lord Akeldama’s abode, they still put their very best brick forward. They acknowledged, in an entirely unspoken way, that they were denizens of the most fashionable residential area in London and that architecture and grounds should earn this accolade. Number eighty-eight was altogether shabby by comparison. Its paint was not exactly peeling, but it was faded, and its garden was overgrown with herbs gone to seed and lettuces that had bolted.

Scientists, thought Alexia as she made her way up the front steps and pulled the bell rope. She wore her worst dress, altered to compensate for her stomach and made of a worsted fabric somewhere between dishwater brown and green. She couldn’t remember why she’d originally purchased the poor sad thing—probably to upset her mother. She had even borrowed one of Felicity’s ugly shawls, despite the fact that the day was too warm for such a conceit. With the addition of a full white mob cap and a very humble expression, she looked every inch the housekeeper she wished to portray.

The butler who answered her knock seemed to feel the same, for he did not even question her status. His demeanor was one of pedantic pleasantness, exacerbated by a round jolliness customarily encountered among bakers or butchers not butlers. He sported a stout neck and a head of wildly bushy white hair that called to mind nothing so much as a cauliflower.

“Good afternoon,” said Alexia, bobbing a curtsy. “I heard your establishment was in need of new staff, and I have come to inquire about the position.”

The butler looked her up and down, pursing his lips. “We did lose our cook several weeks ago. We have been doing fine with a temporary, and we certainly don’t wish to take on someone in your condition. You can understand that.” It was said kindly, but most firmly, and meant to discourage.

Alexia stiffened her spine. “Oh, yes, sir. My lying-in shouldn’t be a day over a fortnight, and I do make the best calf’s-feet jelly you will ever taste.” Alexia took a gamble with that. The butler looked like the kind of man who liked jelly, his shape being of the jelly inclination already.

She was right. His squinty eyes lit with pleasure. “Oh, well, if that is the case. Have you references?”

“The very best, from Lady Maccon herself, sir.”

“Indeed? How comprehensive is your knowledge of herbs and spices? Our gentlemen residents, you understand, are mostly bachelors. Their table requirements are simple, but their extracurricular requests can be a tad esoteric.”

Alexia pretended shock.

The butler made haste to correct any miscommunication. “Oh, no, no, nothing like that. They simply may ask for quantities of dried herbs for their experiments. They are all men of intellect.”

“Ah. As to that, my knowledge is unequaled by any I have ever met before or since.” Alexia was rather enjoying bragging about things about which she knew absolutely nothing.

“I should find that very hard to believe. Our previous cook was a renowned expert in the medicinal arts. However, do come in, Mrs. . . . ?”

Alexia scrabbled for a name, then came up with the best she could at short notice. “Floote. Mrs. Floote.”

This butler didn’t seem to know her butler, for his expression did not alter at the improbability of such a pairing as Floote and Alexia. He merely ushered her inside and led her down and into the kitchen.

It was like no kitchen Alexia had ever seen. Not that she had spent much time in kitchens, but she felt she was at least familiar with the general expectations of such a utilitarian room. This one was pristinely clean and boasted not only the requisite number of pots and pans, but also steam devices, one or two massive measuring buckets, and what looked like glass jars filled with specimen samples lining the counters. It resembled the combination of a bottling factory, a brewery, and Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber.

Alexia made no attempt to disguise her astonishment—any normal housekeeper would be as surprised as she upon seeing such a strange cooking arena. “My goodness, what a peculiar arrangement of furnishings and utensils.”

They were alone in the kitchen, and it was just that time of the afternoon when most household staff had a brief moment to satisfy their own concerns before the tea was called for.

“Ah, yes, our previous cook had some interest in other endeavors apart from meal preparation. She was a kind of intellectual herself, if you would allow such a thing in a female. My employers sometimes encourage aberrant behavior.”

Alexia, having spent a goodly number of years immersed in books and having attended many Royal Society presentations, not to mention her intimacy with Madame Lefoux, could indeed allow such things in females, but in her current guise forbore to say so. Instead, she looked around in silence. Only to notice a prevalence of octopuses. They were positively everywhere, stamped onto jar lids and labels, etched into the handles of iron skillets, engraved onto the sides of copper pots, and even pressed into the top of a vat of soap set out to harden on a sideboard.

“My, someone certainly has an affection for cephalopods.” Alexia waddled over, all casualness, to examine a row of very small bottles of dark brown glass and mysterious content. They were corked up, each cork boasting a small glass octopus pressed into it in a range of colors. Otherwise, there was no mention made of the content.

She reached to pick one up only to find that the butler, in the silent manner customary to the breed, had sidled up next to her. “I should not, Mrs. Floote, if I were you. Our previous cook had an interest in rather more hazardous forms of distillery and preservation as well.”

“What happened to the good lady, sir?” Alexia asked with a forced lightness in tone.

“She stopped. If I were you, I should take particular care with that yellow octopus there.”

Alexia moved hurriedly away from the whole row of little bottles, suddenly feeling that they were precariously placed on their shelf.

The butler looked her up and down. “There are many stairs in this house, you understand, Mrs. Floote? You will not be able to remain in only the kitchen. How am I to be convinced you are capable of your duties?”

Alexia seized upon this as a perfect opportunity to further her investigations. “Well, I am interested in seeing the accommodations, should you choose to engage my services. If you would be so kind as to show me to the staff quarters, I can demonstrate my mobility.”

The butler nodded and gestured her toward a back staircase that wound up through the house to the attic apartments. The room he eventually shepherded her into was a tiny, cramped cell that still contained some remnants of its previous occupant, just as Alexia had hoped. More small brown bottles and a few curious-looking vials lay about. A handkerchief was spread across the windowsill, upon which bunches of herbs lay drying.

“Of course, we will clear out these quarters prior to new occupation.” The butler curled his lip as he looked around.

Small cloth-bound notebooks were scattered here and there; several were quite dusty with neglect. There were also bits of scrap paper and even what looked to be some kind of ledger.

“Your previous cook was literate, sir?”

“I warned you she was peculiar.”

Alexia took another look around and then, thinking rapidly, maneuvered toward the small bed. “Oh, dear, perhaps those stairs were a tad much given my present condition. I seem to be feeling rather overstimulated.” She collapsed onto the bed, leaning back dramatically and almost overbalancing. It was a paltry performance.

Nevertheless, the butler seemed convinced. “Oh, I say, Mrs. Floote. This simply isn’t on. Really, we can’t consider anyone who—”

Alexia cut him off by groaning and clutching at her stomach significantly.

The man blanched.

“Perhaps if I could have a little moment to recover, sir?”

The butler looked like he would prefer to be anywhere else but there. “I shall fetch you a glass of water, shall I? Perhaps some, er, jelly?”

“Oh, yes, capital idea. Do take your time.”

At which he hurried out.

Immediately, Alexia lurched upright, an exercise that made up in efficiency what it lacked in dignity, and began searching the room. She found very little memorabilia with regards to the occupant’s personality, but there were even more notebooks and mysterious bottles tucked away in the bedside drawer and the wardrobe. She tucked anything that looked to be secret or significant into the stealth pockets of her parasol. Then, knowing she must limit herself, she took what seemed to be the most recent notebook and one that looked to be the oldest and most dusty, along with a neatly printed ledger and bundled them up in Felicity’s shawl. The parasol was clanking slightly and drooping from its excess load, and she thought the knitwear bundle must look very suspicious, but when the butler returned, he was so overjoyed to find her recovered he didn’t notice either.

Alexia decided to make good her escape. Saying she felt weak and had best hurry home before nightfall, she moved toward the door. The butler led her downstairs, declining to offer her the position, despite her calf’s-foot jelly, but suggesting she call round in several months when she had recovered from her inconvenience, jelly apparently being quite the alluring prospect.

He was just letting her out when a voice stopped them both in their tracks. “Well, gracious me. Miss Tarabotti?”

Alexia clutched her loot closer to her breast, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Then she looked upward.

The gentleman walking slowly down the staircase toward her was an iconic example of the scientific species. His gray muttonchops were untended, his eyes bespectacled, and his attire too far into tweed for midsummer and midtown. Unfortunately, Alexia was all too familiar with that face.

“Why, Dr. Neebs! I thought you were dead.”

“Ah, not quite. Although Lord Maccon did do his level best.” The man continued down the steps, moving with a pronounced limp probably sustained during that last battle in the Hypocras Club’s exsanguination chamber. As he closed in upon her, Alexia noted his eyes were very hard behind those spectacles.

“In which case, shouldn’t you be serving a sentence for intellectual misconduct?”

“I assure you, it has been served. Now, I think perhaps you should come with me, Miss Tarabotti.”

“Oh, but I was just leaving.”

“Yes, I am certain you were.”

The butler, at a bit of a loss, was looking back and forth between them.

Alexia backed toward the open door, lifting up her parasol in a defensive position and pressing her thumb against the appropriate lotus petal in the handle, arming the tip with one of the numbing darts. She wished she had not left Ethel behind; guns, by and large, were far more threatening than parasols.

Nevertheless, Dr. Neebs looked at it with wary respect. “Madame Lefoux’s work, isn’t that?”

“You know Madame Lefoux?”

Dr. Neebs looked at her as though she were an idiot. Of course, thought Alexia, this is a chapter of the Order of the Brass Octopus. Madame Lefoux is also a member. I did not realize the Order was reabsorbing the Hypocras Club. I must tell Conall.

The scientist tilted his head to one side. “What are you about, Miss Tarabotti?”

Alexia faltered. Dr. Neebs was not to be trusted, of that she was certain. Apparently, he felt much the same about her, for he issued a sharp instruction to the butler.

“Grab her!”

Luckily, the butler was confused by the proceedings and did not understand how his role had suddenly become one of ruffian. He was also holding a glass of water in one hand and a jar of calf’s-foot jelly in the other.

“What? Sir?”

At which juncture Alexia shot the scientist with a numbing dart. Madame Lefoux had armed the darts with a high-quality, fast-acting poison that had some affiliation with laudanum. Dr. Neebs pitched forward with an expression of shock on his face and collapsed at the base of the staircase.

The butler recovered from his inertia and lunged at Alexia. Lady Maccon, clumsy at the best of times, lurched to the side, waving her parasol wildly in a wide arc and managing to strike the butler a glancing blow to the side of the head.

It was not a very accurate hit but it was violent, and the man, clearly unused to anything of the kind, reeled away looking at her with an expression of such disgruntlement that Alexia was moved to grin.

“Why, Mrs. Floote, such indecorous behavior!”

Alexia armed her parasol and shot him with a second numbing dart. His knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor of the foyer. “Yes, I know. I do apologize. It is a personal failing of mine.”

With that, she let herself out into the street and lumbered off, clutching her plunder and feeling very furtive and rather proud of her afternoon’s achievement.

Unfortunately for Lady Maccon, there was absolutely no one to appreciate her endeavors when she returned home. Any werewolves in town were abed, Felicity was still out (not that Alexia could confide in her), and Floote was off tending to some domestic duty or another. Disgruntled, Alexia set herself up in the back parlor to examine her misappropriated loot.

The back parlor was already her favorite room. It had been made over with quiet card parties in mind: cream and pale gold walls, ornate dark cherry furniture, and royal blue curtains and coverings. The several small tables were marble topped, and the large chandelier boasted the very latest in gas lighting. It was just that kind of soulful elegance that soulless Alexia could never hope to achieve on her own.

She set the bottles aside to give to BUR for analysis and picked up the ledger and journals with interest. Two hours later, stomach growling and tea cold and forgotten at her elbow, she put them back down again. They had been as absorbing as only the highly private musings of a complete stranger can be. They were illuminating as well, in their way, although not with regards to the current threat to the queen’s life. Of that there was no mention at all, nor was there any concrete evidence to implicate the OBO.

The ledger proved to be a record of transactions, mainly sales the cook had made to various individuals, everything encoded with symbols, initials, abbreviations, and numbers. After reading the journals as well, Alexia surmised that the cook must have been an honorary OBO member. Her interests were focused on those concoctions that one could not purchase easily from apothecary or pharmacist. Such liquids, for example, as Madame Lefoux incorporated into Alexia’s parasol and perhaps other potions even more deadly.

The most recent journal, unfinished and unhelpful, articulated only the increasingly disorientated views of an aging woman who seemed to be succumbing to a brew of her own fabrication, either involuntarily or out of a derangement of the spirit. There was no way to determine whether she was, indeed, the ghost who had come to warn Lady Maccon, but it was as good a lead as any.

However, it was the older journal that drew her attention. One particular entry was dated some twenty years ago. It mused with interest over a new order—for ingredients to be sent by post in separate allotments, for sake of security, to a werewolf pack in Scotland. The connection between time and location caused Alexia to ruminate over her husband’s anguished retelling of a certain betrayal. The same betrayal that would cause him to abandon the Kingair Pack and then take over Woolsey. He had been so very cut up about it. “I caught them mixing the poison,” he had said. “Poison, mind you! Poison has no place on pack grounds or in pack business. It isna an honest way to kill anyone, let alone a monarch.” She realized there was no way to prove a connection, but coincidence in date was good enough for her. This must be an accounting of the order for the poison that long ago was meant to kill Queen Victoria.

“Astonishing,” she said into the empty room, rereading the incriminating passage. Absentmindedly, she picked up her teacup and sipped. The liquid being cold, she placed it back down with a grimace. She quickly ascertained that the remainder under the cozy was equally tepid and pulled the bell rope.

Floote materialized. “Madam?”

“Fresh tea, please, Floote. There’s a dear.”

“Certainly, madam.”

He vanished, reappearing in a miraculously short time with a freshly brewed pot and, much to Lady Maccon’s delight, a small wedge of tempting-looking cake.

“Oh, thank you, Floote. Is that lemon sponge? Marvelous. Tell me, are any of the men awake yet?”

“I believe Mr. Rabiffano and the professor are just rising.”

“Mr. Rabiffano, who is . . . ? Oh, Biffy! Not my husband, then?”

“Difficult to tell, madam, him being in the other house.”

“Ah, yes, of course, how silly of me.” Lady Maccon went back to her perusal of the little journal.

“Will there be anything else, madam?”

“The question is, Floote, why order the toxins from London? Why not patronize the baser elements who supply such pernicious needs closer to home?”

“Madam?”

“I mean, Floote, hypothetically, why special-order poison from one destination only to eventually transport it back to do the dastardly deed? Although, I suppose the queen might have been visiting Scotland at the time. But still, why all the way from town?”

“Everyone orders from London, madam,” replied Floote most decidedly, even though he had no idea as to the specifics of her question. “It is the fashion.”

“Yes, but if one were afraid of being caught?”

Floote seemed to feel he might participate in the discussion even without full possession of the necessary facts. “Perhaps one wanted to be caught, madam.”

Lady Maccon frowned. “Oh, no, I hardly think—” She was cut off by the arrival of Professor Lyall, who looked his normal unremarkably dapper self, despite having just arisen.

He stuck his head around the corner of the door in some surprise, evidently unsure of what to make of his mistress’s encampment.

“Lady Maccon, good evening. How are you?”

“Professor Lyall. Oh, Floote, do carry on.”

Floote wafted away, giving Lyall a very significant look, as though to say, She is in one of her moods—tread with caution.

Heeding the unspoken advice, the werewolf let himself in hesitantly. “You are in the back parlor, Lady Maccon?”

“Just as you see. “

“Not the front?”

“I like the wallpaper. I have had a most illuminating day, Professor Lyall.”

“Oh, dear. Have you, indeed?” The gentleman settled down into a chair near his Alpha female. At a nod from Lady Maccon, he helped himself to tea. Floote, being Floote, had thought to provide more than one cup. “I have not yet read the evening papers. Is that going to signify, my lady?”

Lady Maccon frowned. “I doubt it. I don’t think the constabulary were alerted to my activities.”

Professor Lyall forbore to mention that this indicated there might have been a need for such action. “Well?”

In as flattering a manner as possible, Lady Maccon detailed her afternoon’s shenanigans. As she did so, Professor Lyall’s face creased with worry.

“On your own? In your state?”

“I’m perfectly capable.”

“Yes, indeed. You even managed to use your condition to your advantage. But I thought you were meant to take Biffy with you on these jaunts. Himself ordered it.”

“Well, yes, but this couldn’t wait for evening. And such interesting evidence I have uncovered. Now where did I put my pen?” She began patting about her lap—what there was left of it—in annoyance.

Professor Lyall produced a stylographic pen from his waistcoat and passed it to her. Alexia nodded her thanks.

“You really believe that this new threat has some connection to the old Kingair attempt?” he asked while she made a note in the margin of one of the journals.

“It seems likely.”

“Your evidence appears to be circumstantial at best.”

“Never discount serendipity. Would you be so kind as to have some of these potions analyzed? Also, I should like to see BUR’s report regarding the Kingair failed assassination and my husband’s subsequent challenge for Woolsey Alpha, plus any corresponding postings in the popular press.”

Professor Lyall looked rather pained. “If you insist, my lady.”

“I do.”

“Give me a few hours to organize everything? The laboratory will take some time with those samples—several days, at least—but I shall bring the other items you requested back with me.”

“Oh, no need. I shall jaunt to BUR after I call on Madame Lefoux and file the appropriate requisition forms myself.”

“Ah, had you intended—?”

“Not until I traced this OBO connection. Of course, Genevieve would have had nothing to do with OBO operations twenty years ago, being only a small child, but still it is worth making inquiries. She knows things. Not to mention the fact that Ivy ran into a ghost in that area the other night. Can’t possibly be the same ghost—no tether stretches so far—but there must be a connection to our mysterious messenger.”

“If you must, my lady. But this time do please take Biffy with you.”

“Of course. I shall be glad of the company. Shall we go in to supper?”

Professor Lyall nodded gratefully and they arose to make their way to the dining room.

“What ho, wife?”

Conall Maccon thumped down the stairs looking far more pulled together than Alexia had ever seen him in all their acquaintance. His cravat, a becoming ethereal azure that perfectly complemented his tawny eyes, was tied Nabog style over unusually high collar points. His shirt was tucked to perfection, his waistcoat seamless, and the sleeves of his jacket just so. As a direct result, he was also looking rather uncomfortable.

“My goodness, husband. How handsome you are this evening! Did the drones get hold of you?”

The earl give his wife a very telling stare before sweeping down upon her and planting a kiss on her lips right in front of the embarrassed gazes of Lyall, Floote, and a small number of household staff.

Alexia’s limited mobility prevented her from any evasive maneuvers. Like some wanton hussy, she could do nothing but endure his amorous attentions with blushes and sputterings of delighted horror.

He pulled back finally. “Excellent, best way to start one’s evening. Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?”

Professor Lyall rolled his eyes at his Alpha’s antics, and Floote bustled quickly off about his business.

They entered the dining room. During the course of Alexia’s conversation with Professor Lyall, most of the rest of the current town residents—two werewolves and a few assorted clavigers—had arisen and assembled around the table. They all stood politely as Lady Maccon seated herself before returning to prior conversation or consumption, depending upon personality. Biffy, seated slightly apart from the others, was pretending deep absorption in the latest issue of Le Beaux Assemblée, otherwise known as Beau’s Court and Fashionable Magazine Addressed Particularly to the Gentleman of Leisure. Lord Maccon frowned at him, but the dandy didn’t seem to notice.

Alexia helped herself to a bowl of stewed fruit, plum pudding, and custard. After some conversation with her husband on domestic matters, she turned his attention to her own recent investigations.

“You didn’t!”

“I most assuredly did. And now I have need of the carriage. I should like to visit Madame Lefoux before calling at BUR for the documentation Professor Lyall promised me.”

Lord Maccon gave his Beta a repressive look.

Professor Lyall shrugged, as though to say, You married her.

“Alexia,” Lord Maccon said in a drawn-out growl, “you know I am not comfortable with that particular incident resurfacing. I shouldn’t like you to be stirring up trouble over an event well and truly settled.”

Lady Maccon, perfectly understanding that the nature of his growl was not one of anger but of distress, put down her fork and placed her hand over his. “But you must acknowledge that if there is a connection, we should pursue all avenues of investigation. I promise to keep my attention focused on the relevant details and not be distracted by personal curiosity.”

Lord Maccon sighed.

Lady Maccon lowered her voice, although she was perfectly well aware that she was surrounded by beings with supernatural hearing who could discern every word she said. “I know this is a subject that pains you, my love, but if we are to get to the root of this matter, you must see that there may indeed be a correlation.”

He nodded. “But have a care, please, my heart? I fear you are messing with matters best left undisturbed.”

A stillness in the crinkling of Professor Lyall’s evening paper seemed to indicate the Beta was entirely in agreement with his Alpha on this point.

Alexia nodded and let go of her husband. She glanced up and across the table. “Biffy, would you be amenable to accompanying me this evening as I make my rounds? I should appreciate the companionship of one more mobile than myself.”

“Of course, my lady, delighted. What hat should I wear?”

“Oh, your town topper should suit us well enough. We shan’t be going into society.”

His face fell slightly at that. “Very good, my lady. Should I retrieve it now?”

“Oh, no, please finish your meal. No sense in wasting food in the pursuit of information. The one is far more vital than the other, despite what Lord Akeldama may think.”

Biffy smiled slightly and continued on with the consumption of his raw steak and fried egg.

Madame Genevieve Lefoux was a woman of style and understanding. If that style leaned toward gentlemen’s dress and mannerisms and if that understanding leaned toward scientific theory and practice, Lady Maccon was certainly not the kind of person so in want of sensibility that she would critique a friend for such eccentricities. Some considerable intimacy had left Alexia with the distinct feeling that Madame Lefoux liked her and that she liked Madame Lefoux, but not a great deal more. Trust, for example, seemed still in question. Between them existed a friendship quite different from the one she shared with Ivy Tunstell. There was no discussion of the latest fashions or societal events. If asked, Alexia might say that she could not recall precisely what it was she and the French inventor did discuss, but whatever it was, it always left Alexia feeling intellectually stretched and vaguely exhausted—rather like visiting a museum.

Madame Lefoux had a new, pretty, young shopgirl behind the counter when they arrived at Chapeau de Poupe. Madame Lefoux’s shopgirls were always young and pretty. This one seemed overset by the unexpected arrival of the grand Lady Maccon and was mightily relieved when her mistress, elegant and refined in gray tails and top hat, appeared to take over the management of such an august personage.

“My dear Lady Maccon!”

“Madame Lefoux, how do you do?”

The Frenchwoman grasped both of Alexia’s hands and kissed first one and then the other of Alexia’s cheeks. No air was left between lips and flesh, as was the custom among women of fashion, nor was this an extravagant gesture for fashion’s sake. No, for Madame Lefoux, such a greeting was as natural as a handshake among American businessmen. Her actions were tender and her smile dimpled with genuine affection.

“What an unexpected pleasure! But are you certain you should be in public in your condition?”

“My dear Genevieve, you have been so long away I began to suspect you might never return to us. Then what should London do when in need of a new hat?”

Madame Lefoux acknowledged both the compliment and rebuke of Alexia’s statement with a tilt of her dark head.

Lady Maccon noted, with some concern, that her friend was looking practically gaunt. Mostly composed of sharp angles, Madame Lefoux could never be described as full figured, but during her most recent travels, she had lost flesh she could not afford to lose. The inventor always had been more concerned with the pursuits of the mind than the body, but never before had her lovely green eyes sported such dark circles.

“Are you well?” asked Alexia. “Is it Quesnel? He is supposed to be home for the month, is he not? Is he being perfectly beastly?”

Madame Lefoux’s son was a cheerful towheaded creature with an unfortunate nose for mischief. There was no malice to his actions, but his mere presence resulted in a kind of microcosmic chaos that kept his mother on edge whenever he was in residence.

Madame Lefoux flinched slightly and shook her head. “He did not make it home this time.”

“Oh, dear! But then if not Quesnel, what could possibly be the matter? Truly, you do not look at all well.”

“Oh, pray, do not concern yourself, Alexia. Some trouble sleeping, nothing more. How are you? I understand you have taken a residence in town. You certainly look amplified. Have you been maintaining a tranquil environment? I read recently that it is terribly important for the baby to be surrounded by peace. Knowing your disposition, this has me worried.”

Alexia blinked at her.

Perceiving that her solicitude was unwelcome, the Frenchwoman moved hastily on. “Did you come to pick up Woolsey’s new glassical order, or is this merely a social call?”

Lady Maccon accepted the conversational redirection. She respected her friend’s need for privacy and her expertly cultivated aura of mystery. She also did not want to appear nosy. “Oh, is there an order? I suppose I could collect it. But, in actuality, there is a matter I should very much like to discuss with you.” Alexia noticed the curiosity in the eyes of the new shopgirl. “In seclusion, perhaps?” And then, as she was not certain as to the extent of the shopgirl’s knowledge, she confined her voice to a whisper. “Below?”

Madame Lefoux lowered her eyelashes and nodded gravely. “Of course, of course.”

Alexia looked to her escort. “Biffy, will you find yourself entertainment enough here for a quarter of an hour, or should you prefer to run along to the Lottapiggle Tea Shop on Cavendish Square?”

“Oh, I can abide a while among such loveliness as this.” The young werewolf waved a graceful gloved hand at the forest of dangling hats displayed all about him. He brushed his fingers along an exaggerated ostrich feather, much as a young girl would trail her fingertips through a fountain. “Beautiful brim rolling.”

“I shan’t be very long,” replied his mistress before following her friend toward the back of the shop, where a door in the wall led to an ascension room that took them down to a passageway, underneath Regent Street, and into the inventor’s much-vaunted contrivance chamber.

Madame Lefoux’s laboratory might have been a great wonder of the world, if only because it was a wonder the Frenchwoman could ever find anything inside it. The massive, cavelike laboratory was not only messy, but it was also noisy. Alexia often thought that the only reason it could not be heard in the street above was that Regent was one of the busiest thoroughfares in London. Then she wondered if that was why Madame Lefoux had chosen this particular spot.

As ever, Lady Maccon took in her surroundings with a kind of reverence that was part appreciation, part horror. There were engines and mysterious constructs galore, some of them running, many of them disassembled into component parts. There were diagrams and sketches of larger projects strewn about, mostly aeronautical devices such as ornithopters, as aetheric travel was one of Madame Lefoux’s specialties. It smelled of oil.

“Oh, my, is that a new commission?” Alexia picked her way slowly through the clutter, holding her skirts well out of the way of any possible grease stains.

Dominating the chamber was a partly assembled transport contraption. Or Alexia assumed it was a transport—as yet, it had no apparent wheels, rails, or legs. It was shaped like a massive bowler hat without a brim, so she supposed it might be an underwater conveyance. Inside were levers and pull cords, an operator’s seat, and two small slits at the front for visibility. It was almost buglike and well outside of the Frenchwoman’s ordinary principles of subtlety. Alexia’s parasol with all its secret pockets and component parts was far more to Genevieve’s taste. Traditionally, she did not go in for big and flashy.

“Something I’ve been working on of late.”

“Is it armored?” Lady Maccon had an embarrassingly unladylike interest in modern technology.

“In part.” Something in Madame Lefoux’s tone warned Alexia off.

“Oh, dear, is it under contract from the War Office? I’m probably not supposed to know. I do apologize for asking. We shall say no more about it.”

“Thank you.” Madame Lefoux smiled in tired gratitude. Her dimples barely showed.

Government defense commissions were lucrative but not something one could speak of openly, even to the queen’s muhjah. The inventor moved to take Alexia’s hand, her own work-hardened by decades of tool use. Alexia could feel the roughness even through her gloves, along with a companion thrill she had grown to accept was part of the price of intimacy with this woman. Genevieve was so very intriguing.

“Was there something specific you wanted, my dear Alexia?”

Alexia hesitated and then, without subtlety, jumped right to the point. “Genevieve, do you know anything about the Kingair assassination attempt on Queen Victoria of twenty years ago? I mean, anything from the Order of the Brass Octopus?”

Madame Lefoux started in genuine surprise. “My goodness, what has brought you back around to that?”

“Let us say I made a contact recently who has led me into explorations of the past.”

Madame Lefoux crossed her arms and leaned back against a coiled roll of brass plating. “Hmm. I personally know nothing. I would have been no more than thirteen at the time, but we could ask my aunt. I’m not certain how useful she might be but the attempt can’t hurt.”

“Your aunt? Oh you mean . . . ?”

Madame Lefoux nodded, her face sad. “She’s finally undergoing diminished spectral cohesion. Even with all my preservation techniques and chemical expertise, it was inevitable. However, she does have her lucid moments.”

Alexia realized this must be the true source of Genevieve’s distress. She was losing a treasured family member. The woman who had raised her. Genevieve may have a well-developed mystique, but she was not emotionally reserved and she loved deeply. Alexia moved to her friend and stroked her upper arm where the muscles tensed. “Oh, Genevieve, I am so very sorry.”

The inventor’s face crumpled slightly at the sympathy. “I cannot help but think that this is to be my fate, too. First Angelique and now Beatrice.”

“Oh, surely not! You cannot be so confident you have excess soul.” Alexia would have offered to ensure exorcism, but Genevieve had been so angry when she performed the service for Angelique.

“No, you are correct. I have been traveling, researching, studying, trying to find a way to extend my aunt’s afterlife. But there is nothing.” Her tone was anguished, that of a scientist who sees a problem but no solution.

“Oh, but you have done your level best! You have given her years, far longer than any ghost has a right to expect.”

“Years for what? Humiliation and madness?” Genevieve took a breath, then placed her hand over Alexia’s where it stroked her arm, stilling the movement. “I do apologize, my lovely Alexia. This is not your burden. You still wish to speak to her?”

“Would she talk to me, do you think?”

“We can but try.”

Lady Maccon nodded and attempted to shrug herself out of her normally regal posture, trying to be less overbearing and physically threatening. She didn’t want to scare the ghost. Not that a woman in her corpulent condition boasted so fearsome a visage.

Madame Lefoux yelled, her normally melodious voice sharp, “Aunt, where are you? Aunt!”

Several moments later, a ghostly form shimmered into existence out of the side of a conveyer belt spool, looking grumpy.

“Yes, Niece, you summoned me?” Formerly Beatrice Lefoux had been in life an angular spinster of severe attitude and limited affection. She might once have been pretty but obviously never allowed herself, nor others, to enjoy that fact. There was much of her in Madame Lefoux, tempered by a level of good humor and mischief that the aunt had never bothered to cultivate. The specter was beginning to go fuzzy, not so badly as Alexia’s ghostly messenger but enough for it to be clear she wasn’t long for this world.

As soon as she spotted Lady Maccon, the ghost drew herself inward, appearing to wrap the drifting threads of her noncorporeal self closer, as a werewolf wraps his cloak around after shifting.

“Why, you have the soulless visiting you, Niece. Honestly, I don’t know why you persist in such an association.” The ghost’s voice was bitter, but more out of habit than any real offense. Then she seemed to lose track of what she was saying. “Where? What? Where am I? Genevieve, why, you are so old. Where is my little girl?” She swirled in a circle. “You have built an octomaton? I said never again. What could possibly be so dire?” As she spoke, the ghost shifted between French and heavily accented English. Luckily, Alexia was tolerably competent in both.

Madame Lefoux, her expression stiff in an attempt to hide distress, snapped her fingers in front of her deceased aunt’s face. “Now, Aunt, please pay attention. Lady Maccon here has something very serious to ask of you. Go on, Alexia.”

“Formerly Lefoux, are you familiar with the attempt on Queen Victoria’s life that took place in the winter of 1853? A Scottish werewolf pack was implicated. It was a matter of poison.”

The ghost bobbled up and down in surprise, losing some small measure of control over bits of herself. An eyebrow detached from her forehead. “Oh, why, yes. Although not intimately, of course. Not from the actual assassination perspective but more from the sidelines. I lost one of my students because of it.”

“Oh?”

“Why, yes. Lost her to the mist of the moor. Lost her to duty. So promising, so strong, so . . . wait. What were you asking? What are we discussing? Why must I forget things all the time?”

“The Kingair assassination attempt,” Alexia prompted.

“Silly dogfight. Poor girl. Imagine having to take on that kind of responsibility. At sixteen! And over werewolves. Werewolves who planned a poisoning. So many things wrong with the very idea. So many things out of character. Out of the supernatural order. Was it ever put right, I wonder?”

Alexia pulled a measure of this rambling together. “Sidheag Maccon was your student?”

The ghost’s head tilted. “Sidheag. That name is familiar. Oh, why, yes. So hard to finish in one way, so easy to finish in another. A strong girl, good at finishing. But then again, strength in girls is not so much valued as it ought to be.”

Lady Maccon, as interested as she was in anything to do with her husband’s great-great-great-granddaughter, now one of the only female werewolves in England and Alpha of the Kingair Pack, felt she must still steer the ghost back onto more relevant matters. “Did you happen to hear, at the time, whether there was a connection between the assassination attempt and the Order of the Brass Octopus?”

“Connection? Connection? Of course not.”

Alexia was taken aback by the firm confidence in the ghost’s voice. “How can you be so certain?”

“How can I not? Imagine such a thing. No, no, not against the queen. Never against Queen Victoria. We would have known. I would have known. Someone would have told me.” Formerly Beatrice Lefoux swirled about in her distress, once more catching sight of Madame Lefoux’s latest project. She paused as though hypnotized by the imposing thing. “Oh, Genevieve, I can’t believe you would. I can’t. Not for anything. Why, child, why? I must tell. I must convince . . .” She ended up facing Alexia once more and, as though seeing her for the first time, said, “You! Soulless. You will stop everything in the end, won’t you? Even me.”

Madame Lefoux pressed her lips together, closed her eyes, and gave a sad sigh. “There she goes. We won’t get any more sense out of her this evening. I’m sorry, Alexia.”

“Oh, no, that’s quite all right. It wasn’t precisely what I was hoping for, but it has convinced me that I must contact Lady Kingair as soon as possible. I must convince my husband’s old pack to reveal the details of the original plot. Only they can fully unravel this mystery. I can’t believe that the OBO was not involved, but if your aunt says so with such conviction, only the source of the threat itself can reveal the truth of the matter.”

“And, of course, my aunt was never a member of the Order.”

“She wasn’t?” Alexia was genuinely surprised.

“Absolutely not. Women weren’t allowed to join back in her day. It’s difficult enough now.” The French inventor, one of the smartest people Alexia had ever met, reached behind her neck to finger the octopus tattoo that lay hidden there, just under the curls of her scandalously short hair. Alexia tried to imagine Genevieve without her secret underground world. Impossible.

Alexia said, “I shall have to send someone to Scotland. I don’t suppose . . . ?”

Madame Lefoux looked even more unhappy. “Oh, no. I am sorry, my dearest Alexia, but I cannot afford the time. Not right now. I have this”—she waved a hand at the monstrous thing she was building—“to finish. And my aunt to think of. I should be with her, now that the end is near.”

Lady Maccon turned to the inventor and, because she seemed to need it more than anything else, embraced her gently. It was awkward given Alexia’s belly but worth it for the slight lessening Alexia could feel in Genevieve’s stiffened shoulders. “Would you like me to send her on?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“No, thank you. I am not yet ready to let her go. You understand?”

Alexia sighed and released her friend. “Well, worry not on this particular matter. I will get to the bottom of it. Even if I have to send Ivy Tunstell to Scotland for me!”

Fated words that, as is often the case with frivolous speech, Alexia was going to come to regret.