Soulless

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Royal Interference

Lord Maccon sputtered and gasped for breath, trying to fight off the repulsive creature with only one hand. Miss Tarabotti beat at the automaton with her free arm. But nothing they did seemed capable of wresting the construct from around the earl's neck. Alexia was about to let go of Lord Maccon's hand and back away, knowing he could free himself in werewolf form, when Lord Akeldama stood shakily up from the platform on which he rested.

The vampire produced a still miraculously immaculate white lace handkerchief from a waistcoat pocket, stumbled over, and wiped the rest of the smudged word off the automaton's forehead.

The monstrosity let go of Lord Maccon and collapsed onto the floor.

The most remarkable thing then occurred. Its skin began melting away in slow rivulets, like warm honey. Slow black blood, mixed with some black particulate matter, leaked out and intermingled with the skin substance. Both slid off a mechanical skeletal structure. Soon, all that was left of the automaton was a metal frame wearing shabby clothing and lying in a gooey puddle of old blood, wax, and small black particles. Its internal organs appeared to be all gears and clockwork mechanisms.

Miss Tarabotti's attention was drawn away from the fascinating mess by Lord Maccon saying, “Oops, whoa there,” and reaching for Lord Akeldama with his free arm.

The vampire was toppling over as well, having utterly exhausted what few resources of energy he had left in administering the deadly handkerchief. Lord Maccon, attached to Alexia with one hand, managed only to slow his fall with the other but not catch him completely. The vampire crumpled to the floor in a sad little heap of plum-colored velvet.

Miss Tarabotti bent over him, still desperately careful not to touch him in any way. He was still, miraculously, alive.

“Why?” she stuttered, glancing over at the automaton, or what had been the automaton. “Why did that work?”

“You only wiped off the P.” asked Lord Maccon, looking thoughtfully at the puddle of homunculus simulacrum residue. Alexia nodded.

“So you turned VIXI—to be alive—into VIX, with difficulty. Thus, the automaton could still move, but only barely. In order to destroy it entirely, you needed to remove the word and the activation particulate completely, breaking the aetheromagnetic connection.”

“Well,” huffed Miss Tarabotti, “how was I supposed to know that? That was my first automaton.”

“And a very good job you made of it, too, my pearl, on such short acquaintance,” complimented Lord Akeldama tenderly from his prone position without opening his eyes. He had yet to succumb to the Grand Collapse, but he looked in imminent danger of doing so.

They heard a great clattering and a quantity of yelling from the hallway behind them.

“Arse over apex, what now?” wondered Lord Maccon, standing up and dragging Miss Tarabotti with him.

A conglomeration of impeccably well-dressed young men bustled into the room, carrying with them the trussed and bound form of Mr. Siemons. They let out a collective shriek upon seeing Lord Akeldama crumpled on the floor. Several rushed over and began billing and cooing about him in an excess of emotional concern.

“Lord Akeldama's drones,” Alexia explained to Lord Maccon.

“I would never have known,” he replied sarcastically.

“Where did they all come from?” wondered Miss Tarabotti.

One of the young men whom Alexia remembered from before—had it only been a few hours ago?— deduced the cure to his master's ailments quickly enough. He pushed the other dandies aside, pulled off his blue silk evening jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeve, and offered his arm to the destabilized vampire. Lord Akeldama's eyes blinked slowly open.

“Ah, my capable Biffy. Do not let me drink too long from you alone.”

Biffy leaned forward and kissed Lord Akeldama on the forehead, as though he were a small child. “Of course not, my lord.” Gently he put his wrist to the vampire's pale lips. Lord Akeldama bit down with a sigh of relief.

Biffy was both smart enough and strong enough to pull away halfway through the feeding. He summoned one of the other drones to take his place. Lord Akeldama, as thirsty as he was from his recent abuse, could easily damage a solo donor beyond repair. Luckily, none of his drones was foolish enough to try and stay the course. The second young man gave way to a third and then a fourth. At this point, Lord Akeldama's wounds began to close, and his skin went from frighteningly gray to its normal porcelain white.

“Explain yourselves, my darlings,” ordered Lord Akeldama as soon as he was able.

“Our little information-gathering excursion into high society's festivities yielded up far more fruit than we had hoped, and more quickly, my lord,” said Biffy. “When we returned home early to find you gone, we proceeded immediately to act upon the information most recently acquired—namely, that which bespoke suspicious activity and bright white lights late at night emanating from the recently opened scientific club, near the Duke of Snodgrove's town residence.”

“And a good thing we did too,” continued Biffy, wrapping a salmon-pink embroidered handkerchief about his own wrist and tying a knot with his teeth. “Not that I doubt your ability to handle the situation, sir,” he said respectfully to Lord Maccon, without the sarcasm the statement ought to have elicited considering the Alpha was still entirely naked. “I will say that the moving room contraption transport device gave us some stick. Figured it out in the end, though. We ought to get one of those installed at the town house, my lord.”

“I will think about it,” said Lord Akeldama.

“You did very well,” complimented Miss Tarabotti to the dandies. She believed in giving praise where it was due.

Biffy rolled down his sleeve and pulled his evening jacket back on over broad muscular shoulders. A lady was present, after all—even if her hair was most scandalously loose.

Lord Maccon said, “Someone must go to BUR and get a couple of agents over here to handle the formalities.” He looked about, taking stock: three dead scientists, one new vampire, a trussed-up Mr. Siemons, a blathering Mr. Mac-Dougall, the other mummylike body intended for Alexia's blood, and the remains of an automaton. The chamber was a veritable battlefield. He winced at the mounds of paperwork ahead of him. His own three kills alone would not be too much of a bother. He was chief sundowner, sanctioned killer for queen and country. But explaining the automaton would require eight forms that he could think of, and probably a few more that he could not.

He sighed. “Whoever we send will also need to tell BUR we need sweeps here posthaste to clean up the mess. Have them check to see if there is a local ghost tethered nearby. See if it can be recruited to check for hidden chambers. This is a logistical nightmare.”

Miss Tarabotti stroked his knuckles with her thumb sympathetically. Absentmindedly, Lord Maccon raised her hand to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist.

Biffy signaled to one of the other drones. With a grin of eagerness, the man clapped his topper to his head and minced out of the room. Alexia wished she had that kind of energy. She was starting to feel the strain of the evening. Her muscles were sore, and all the little points of abuse—the rope burns about her ankles, the cut on her throat, the slice on her arm—had started to ache.

Lord Maccon said to Biffy, “We will need the potentate if we are to shut this operation down completely. Does your master have any drones with high enough rank to get into the Shadow Council without question? Or will I need to do that myself?”

Biffy gave the Alpha an appreciative but courteous once-over. “Looking like that, sir? Well, I am certain many a door might be opened to you, but not the potentate's.”

Lord Maccon, who seemed to be periodically forgetting he was naked, sighed at this. Alexia figured, delightedly, that this meant he did, in fact, tend to traipse around his private apartments in the altogether. Marriage was becoming more and more of an attractive prospect. Though, she suspected, such a practice might get distracting in the long term.

Biffy continued, unabashed, to rib the Alpha's appearance. “To the best of our knowledge, the potentate's inclinations lie elsewhere. Unless he is with the queen, of course, in which case you might get right inside.” He paused significantly. “We all know the queen likes a bit of Scottish now and again.” He waggled his eyebrows in a highly suggestive manner.

“You do not say?” gasped Miss Tarabotti, genuinely shocked for the first time that evening. “Those rumors about Mr. Brown, they were true?”

Biffy settled in. “Every word, my dear. You know what I heard just the other day? I heard—”

“Well?” interrupted Lord Maccon.

Biffy shook himself and pointed to one of the young men fussing solicitously over Lord Akeldama: a slight, effete blond, with an aristocratic nose, wearing top-to-toe butter-yellow brocade. “See the canary over there? That is Viscount Trizdale, believe it or not. Heya Tizzy, come over here. Got a bit of sport for you.”

The yellow-clad dandy pranced over.

“Our lord does not look well, Biffy. I am telling you. Quite ill, in fact,” he said. Biffy patted a yellow shoulder reassuringly. “Not to worry your pretty head. He will be just fine. Now, Lord Maccon here has a bit of a task for you. Should only take a jiffy. Wants you to nip round to old Bucky and rustle up the potentate. Needs some political clout, if you know what I mean, and it is not like the dewan's going to be much use this night. Full moon and all, haw haw. Go on now, shove off.”

With one more worried look in Lord Akeldama's direction, the young viscount wandered out.

Alexia stared at Biffy. “Does the Duke of Trizdale know his only son is a drone?”

Biffy pursed his lips in a cagey manner. “Not as such.”

“Huh,” said Miss Tarabotti thoughtfully—so much gossip in one night!

A different dandy appeared, proffering one of the long gray frock coats sported by the younger scientists around the club.

Lord Maccon took it with a grumbled “thank you” and pulled it on. He was such a large man that it was quite scandalously short on him without trousers, but it covered the most important bits. Alexia was a little disappointed.

So, apparently, was Biffy. “Now, Eustace, what did you go and do a thing like that for?” he said to his fellow drone.

“It was getting incommodious,” said the unapologetic Eustace.

Lord Maccon interrupted them all by issuing forth a series of orders, which, with only minor dissembling, the assembled gentlemen took in hand. They did, collectively, keep trying to arrange matters so that Lord Maccon had to bend over. There was a twinkle in the earl's eye suggesting the Alpha knew what they were about and was humoring their attempts.

One small gaggle left to canvas the premises for other scientists, upon whom they pounced and locked away in the very cells formerly dedicated to vampires. Lord Akeldama's boys might look like fruits of the first water, but they all boxed at Whites, and at least a half dozen wore clothing specially cut to disguise musculature. As per Lord Maccon's instructions, they left his imprisoned pack alone. No need to test Miss Tarabotti's abilities any further than was necessary. The trapped vampires they released, asking them to please stay behind and help with the BUR reports. A few did, but most needed desperately to get home to their respective territories or down to the blood alley for a feeding. A few took off about the club tracking down and exterminating, in a most horrific manner, those last remaining scientists who had until then believed themselves lucky in evading Lord Akeldama's dandies.

“Bah,” said Lord Maccon upon hearing this, “more paperwork, and on a night without Lyall too. How aggravating.”

“I will help,” said Miss Tarabotti brightly.

“Oh, you will, will you? I knew you were going to take every opportunity to interfere with my work, insufferable woman.”

Miss Tarabotti knew how to handle his grumbling well enough now. She glanced about: everyone seemed to be suitably busy, so she slid in close to him and nibbled delicately at one side of his neck.

Lord Maccon jumped a little and clapped his hand to the front of the gray frock coat. The hemline rose slightly.

“Stop that!”

“I am very effective,” Alexia insisted, breathing into his ear. “You should put me to good use. Otherwise, I will have to come up with other ways to entertain myself.” He groaned. “Fine, right. You can help with the paperwork.”

She sat back. “Was that so hard?”

He raised both eyebrows and shifted his protective hand so she could partly see the result of her teasing.

Miss Tarabotti cleared her throat. “Was that so difficult?” She rephrased her question.

“I suspect you are much better at paperwork than I am anyway,” he admitted grudgingly.

Miss Tarabotti had a brief horrific flashback to the state of his office last she had visited. “I am certainly more organized.”

“You and Lyall are going to run me ragged, aren't you?” grumbled the earl, sounding most put-upon.

After that, cleanup proceeded with remarkable rapidity. Miss Tarabotti was beginning to understand how Lord Akeldama always seemed to know so much. His young men were amazingly efficacious. They managed to be everywhere at once. She wondered how many occasions in her past had contained some young fop, apparently too silly or too drunk, watching everything.

By the time the five BUR agents—two vampires, two humans, and a ghost—arrived, everything was basically in order. The premises had been searched thoroughly, vampire statements taken, prisoners and werewolves secured, and someone had even managed to find Lord Maccon a pair of ill-fitting knickerbockers. Above and beyond the call of duty, Biffy, utilizing a few stray metal coils from one of Dr. Neebs's machines, had twisted Miss Tarabotti's hair into a beautiful rendition of the latest updo out of Paris.

Lord Akeldama, now sitting on one of the platforms, watching, with the eyes of a proud parent, his boys work, said approvingly to Biffy, “Lovely job, my dear.” Then to Alexia, “Do you see, my little marshmallow, you simply must get yourself a nice French maid.”

Mr. Siemons was carted off to prison by two of the BUR agents. Miss Tarabotti had to speak most severely to Lord Maccon about not paying him a call when she was no longer around.

“Justice must take its course,” she insisted. “If you are going to work for BUR and support the system, you must do so all the time, not simply when you find it convenient.”

Eyes riveted on the line of congealed blood across the lower part of her neck, he wheedled, “Just a short visit, enough for a mild dismemberment?”

She gave him a dour look. “No.”

The rest of the BUR agents and a competent-looking sweeps crew bustled about, scribbling notations and passing things to the earl to sign. At first they had been entirely shocked to find him in human form, but the sheer mountain of cleanup to be done at the Hypocras Club made them quickly more grateful than surprised to have him available and competent.

Miss Tarabotti tried to be helpful, but her eyes were becoming scratchy, and she was leaning more and more heavily against Lord Maccon's broad side. Eventually, the earl shifted his operation to the entry room of the club and sat them both down on the red couch there. Someone made tea. Lord Akeldama enthroned himself in the brown leather studded armchair. Despite the indignity, Miss Tarabotti soon found herself curled up on the couch, head pillowed on Lord Maccon's hard thigh, snoring softly.

The earl, issuing orders and signing forms, stroked her hair with one hand, in defiance of Biffy's protestations that this would mess up her new hairdo.

Miss Tarabotti, dreaming of brass octopuses, slept through the remains of the night. She did not awaken upon the arrival or the departure of the potentate and his argument with Lord Maccon, whose growls of annoyance at the politician's obtuseness only seemed to lull her further into dreamland. Nor was she awake to see Lord Maccon square off against Dr. Caedes over the disposition of the Hypocras Club's gadgetry and research notes. She slept through Lord Akeldama and his young men leaving, the sunrise, the release of the werewolves—now back in human form—and Lord Maccon's explanation of events to his pack.

She even slept through the earl gently transferring her into Professor Lyall's arms and the Beta carrying her rapidly past the arriving press, her head, and thus identity, covered by one of Lord Akeldama's ever-present lace handkerchiefs.

She did not, however, sleep through her mother's shrieks upon her arrival back at the Loontwill town house. Mrs. Loontwill was waiting up for them in the front parlor. And she was not pleased.

“Where have you been all night, young lady?” said her mother in the sepulchral tones of the deeply put-upon.

Felicity and Evylin appeared in the doorway of the parlor, wearing nightdresses and draped in heavy pelisses and shocked expressions. Upon noticing Professor Lyall, they squeaked in alarm and dashed back up to their rooms to dress as quickly as possible, horrified that decorum dictate they miss any part of the undoubted drama occurring downstairs.

Miss Tarabotti blinked at her mother sleepily. “Uh...” She could not think. I was off meeting with a vampire, got abducted by scientists, attacked by a werewolf, and then spent the remainder of the night holding hands with a naked peer of the realm. She said, “Uh...” again.

“She was with the Earl of Woolsey,” said Professor Lyall firmly, in a tone of voice that brooked no objection, as though that settled the matter.

Mrs. Loontwill ignored his tone entirely and made a move as if to strike her daughter. “Alexia! You wanton hussy!”

Professor Lyall twisted fast so that his charge, still held in his arms, was well out of the woman's reach and glared furiously.

Mrs. Loontwill turned her wrath on him, like a rabid poodle. “I will have you know, young man, no daughter of mine spends an entire night away from home with a gentleman without being securely married to that gentleman first! I do not care if he is an earl. You werewolf types may have different rules for this kind of affair, but this is the nineteenth century, and we do not hold with such shenanigans. Why, I ought to have my husband call your Alpha out right now!”

Professor Lyall raised one refined brow. “He is welcome to the attempt. I would not recommend that particular course of action. To the best of my recollection, Lord Maccon has never actually lost a fight.” He looked down at Alexia. “Except to Miss Tarabotti, of course.”

Alexia grinned up at him. “You can put me down now, Professor. I am quite awake and able to stand. Mama will do that to a person. She is like a glass of cold water.”

Professor Lyall did as she requested.

Miss Tarabotti found that she had not actually spoken the truth. Her whole body ached most awfully, and her feet did not seem to wish to work as instructed. She stumbled heavily to one side. Professor Lyall made to grab her and missed.

With the majestic efficiency of all good butlers, Floote appeared at her side and took her arm, preventing her from falling.

“Thank you, Floote,” said Alexia, leaning gratefully against him. Felicity and Evylin, both properly attired in cotton day dresses, reappeared and went immediately to sit on the chesterfield before they could be told to leave.

Alexia looked about and noticed one family member still absent. “Where is the squire?”

“Never you mind that, missy. What is going on? I demand an immediate explanation,” insisted her mother, waggling a finger.

Just then, there came the most imperious knocking on the front door. Floote transferred Alexia back to Professor Lyall and went to answer it. Lyall ushered Miss Tarabotti over to the wingback chair. With a nostalgic smile. Alexia sat down in it.

“We are not at home!” yelled Mrs. Loontwill after Floote. “To anyone!”

“You are at home to me, madam,” said a very autocratic voice.

The Queen of England swept into the room: a petite woman, in late middle life but wearing it very well.

Floote trailed in after and said, in tones of shock Alexia had never thought to hear from her unflappable butler, “Her Most Royal Highness, Queen Victoria, to see Miss Tarabotti.” Mrs. Loontwill fainted.

Alexia thought it the best, most sensible thing her mama had done in a very long while. Floote uncorked a bottle of smelling salts and went to revive her, but Alexia shook her head firmly. Then she made to rise and curtsy, but the queen raised her hand.

“No formality, Miss Tarabotti. I understand you have had an interesting night,” she said.

Miss Tarabotti nodded mutely and made a polite gesture for the queen to sit. She was mortified by what now seemed the shabby clutter of her family's front parlor. Her Most Royal Highness did not seem to notice, sitting down on a mahogany side chair next to Alexia, moving it so her back was to the collapsed form of Mrs. Loontwill.

Miss Tarabotti turned to her sisters. Both had their mouths open and were flapping about like ineffectual fish.

“Felicity, Evylin, out, now,” she ordered quite curtly.

Professor Lyall helped hustle the two girls from the room and would have followed, but the queen said curtly, “Stay, Professor. We may need your expertise.”

Floote glided out with an expression that said he would keep all prying ears at bay, although probably not his own.

The queen looked at Alexia a long moment. “You are not at all what I expected,” she said at last. Miss Tarabotti refrained from saying, “Neither are you.” Instead she said, “You knew to expect something?”

“Dear girl, you are one of the only preternaturals on British soil. We approved your father's immigration papers all those many years ago. We were informed the moment of your birth. We have watched your progress since then with interest. We even considered interfering when all this folderol with Lord Maccon began to complicate matters. It has gone on quite long enough. You will be marrying him, I understand?”

Alexia nodded mutely.

“Good, we approve.” She nodded as though she had somehow had a hand in this outcome. Professor Lyall said, “Not everyone does.”

The queen actually snorted at that. “We are the one whose opinion counts, are we not? The potentate and the dewan are trusted advisors, but they are only that: advisors. No legal records for our empire or any previous one forbid marriage between supernatural and preternatural outright. Yes, the potentate informs us hive tradition bans such a union, and werewolf legend warns against fraternization, but we require this business settled. We will not have our best BUR agent distracted, and we need this young lady married.”

“Why?” Alexia asked, confused that her single state should concern the Queen of England.

“Ah, that. You are aware of the Shadow Council?” The queen settled herself in the hard chair, as much as queens do, which is to say her shoulders relaxed slightly.

Alexia nodded. “The potentate acts as your official vampire consultant and the dewan in the werewolf capacity. Rumors are that most of your political acumen comes from the potentate's advice and your military skill from the dewan's.”

“Alexia,” Professor Lyall growled a warning.

The queen looked more amused than insulted at this. She even dropped the royal “we” for the space of a few moments. “Well, I suppose my enemies must blame somebody. I will say that those two are invaluable, when they are not bickering with each other. But there is a third post that has been vacant since before my time. An advisor meant to break the stalemate between the other two.”

Miss Tarabotti frowned. “A ghost?”

“No, no. We have plenty of those flitting around Buckingham Palace; cannot keep them quiet half the time. We certainly do not need one in any official capacity. Not when they cannot maintain solidity that long. No, what we require is a muhjah.”

Alexia looked confused.

The queen explained. “Traditionally the third member of the Shadow Council is a preternatural, the muhjah. Your father declined the post.” She sniffed. “Italians. Now, there simply is not enough of your set left to vote on your nomination, so it will have to be an appointed position. But voting is mostly a formality, even for the positions of dewan and potentate. At least it has been during my reign.”

“No one else wants the job,” said Professor Lyall with feeling.

The queen gave him a reproving look.

He leaned forward and explained further. “It is a political post,” he said. “Lots of arguing and paperwork and books being consulted all the time. It is not at all like BUR, you understand?”

Miss Tarabotti's eyes positively sparkled. “Sounds delightful.” Yet she remained suspicious. “Why me? What could I possibly offer against two such experienced voices?”

The queen was not used to being questioned. She looked at Professor Lyall.

He said, “I told you she was difficult.”

“Aside from breaking a stalemate, our muhjah is the only truly mobile unit of the three councilors. Our potentate is confined to a narrow territory, like most vampires, and cannot function during the day. Our dewan is more mobile, but he cannot travel by dirigible and is incapacitated every full moon. We have relied upon BUR to make up for the Shadow Council's weakness in this regard, but we would prefer a muhjah whose attention is solely on the Crown's concerns and who can come to us directly.”

“So there will be some active duty?” Miss Tarabotti was even more intrigued.

“Uh-oh,” muttered Professor Lyall, “I do not think Lord Maccon fully comprehended this aspect of the position. “

“The muhjah is the voice of the modern age. We have faith in our potentate and our dewan, but they are old and set in their ways. They require balance from someone who keeps up with current lines of scientific inquiry, not to mention the interests and suspicions of the daylight world. We are concerned that this Hypocras Club is a symptom of greater unrest. We are worried that our BUR agents did not uncover it sooner. You have proven yourself an able investigator and a well-read young woman. As Lady Maccon, you would also possess the standing needed to infiltrate the highest levels of society.”

Alexia looked between Professor Lyall and the queen. Lyall looked worried. That decided her. “Very well, I accept.”

The queen nodded happily. “Your future husband indicated you would not be averse to the position. Most excellent! We convene twice a week, Thursday and Sunday nights, unless there is a crisis of some kind, in which case you are expected to be readily available. You will be answerable to the Crown alone. We will expect you to start the week after your wedding. So do hurry it up.”

Alexia smiled foolishly and looked at Professor Lyall from under her lashes. “Conall approves?”

The werewolf grinned. “He recommended you to the job months ago. The first time you interfered in one of his operations and he knew BUR would not be allowed to hire you. Of course, he did not know the muhjah engaged in active investigations on the queen's behalf.”

The queen said, “Of course, initially we objected to the recommendation. We cannot have a single young lady in such a powerful position. It simply is not done.” She looked almost mischievous and lowered her voice. “In all confidentiality, my dear, we do believe the Woolsey Alpha thinks being muhjah will keep you out of his way.”

Alexia slapped a hand to her mouth in an excess of embarrassment. To have the Queen of England thinking of her as an interfering busybody!

Professor Lyall crossed his arms and said, “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but I think he wants to set Miss Tarabotti at the dewan and watch the fur fly.”

Queen Victoria smiled. “They never have gotten along, those two.” Professor Lyall nodded. “Both are too much alpha.”

Miss Tarabotti looked suddenly worried. “That is not why he is marrying me, is it? So I can be muhjah?” A little bit of her old insecurity came back to haunt her.

“Do not be ridiculous,” admonished the queen curtly. “He has been mad for you these many months, ever since you prodded him in the nether regions with a hedgehog. It has been driving everyone balmy, all this dancing about. Glad it is finally getting settled. This wedding of yours is going to be the social event of the season. Half the guests in attendance will be there simply to make certain you both go through with it. Outside of enough, that is our opinion.”

Miss Tarabotti, for one of the first and last times in her life, was entirely at a loss for words.

The queen stood up. “Well, that is settled, then. We are most pleased. And now we suggest you go to bed, young lady. You look exhausted.” With that, she swept from the house.

“She is so short,” said Miss Tarabotti to Professor Lyall once the queen had gone.

“Alexia,” said a tremulous voice from the other side of the room, “what is going on?”

Alexia sighed and struggled to her feet, wobbling over to her confused mama. All of Mrs. Loontwill's anger had evaporated upon waking to find her daughter in conversation with the Queen of England.

“Why was the queen here? Why were you discussing the Shadow Council? What is a muhjah?” Mrs. Loontwill was very confused. She seemed to have utterly lost control of the situation.

Me, thought Alexia with pleasure. I will be muhjah. This is going to be such fun. Aloud she said the only thing calculated to shut her mother up. “Do not worry about a thing, Mama. I am going to marry Lord Maccon.”

It worked. Mrs. Loontwill's mouth snapped closed. Her expression evolved rapidly from perturbation to uncontrollable elation. “You caught him!” she breathed in delight.

Felicity and Evylin reentered the room, both wide-eyed. For the first time in their entire lives, they regarded their older sister with something other than mild contempt.

Noticing her other two daughters had arrived, Mrs. Loontwill added hastily, “Not that I approve your methods of catching him, of course. Out all night, indeed. But thank heavens you did!” Then in an aside, “Girls, your sister is going to marry Lord Maccon.”

Felicity and Evylin looked even more shocked, but they recovered quickly enough.

“But, Mama, why was the queen here?” Evylin wanted to know.

“Never mind that now, Evy,” said Felicity impatiently. “The important question is, what will you wear for a wedding dress, Alexia? You look horrible in white.”

The afternoon papers reported the bulk of the news accurately enough. Miss Tarabotti and Lord Akeldama's names were left out, and the exact makeup of the experiments was omitted in favor of emphasizing their sensational grisliness and illegal nature.

The reports threw all of London into a fervor of speculation. The Royal Society scrambled to deny any association with the Hypocras Club, but BUR commenced a whirlwind of undercover operations. A good many other scientists, some with well-known names indeed, suddenly found themselves without funding, on the run, or in prison. No one ever explained the octopuses.

The Hypocras Club was shut down permanently and Its premises impounded and placed on the market. It was bought by a nice young couple from East Duddage whose success in the chamber-pot business had brought them up in the world. The Duchess of Snodgrove regarded the entire affair as a travesty designed solely to impinge on her social standing. The fact that her new neighbors, nice young couple or no, hailed from Duddage and were involved in trade sent her into a fit of hysteria so pervasive her husband removed her instantly to the country ducal estates in Berkshire for the sake of everyone's health. He sold their town house.

As far as Miss Tarabotti was concerned, the worst thing to result from the whole sordid affair was that, although both club premises and Lord Akeldama's house had been searched top to bottom, BUR never did recover her brass parasol.

“Bah,” she complained to her intended as they strolled through Hyde Park late one evening, “I did so love that parasol.”

A carriage of dowagers swept past. One or two nodded in their direction. Lord Maccon tipped his hat to them.

Society had come, albeit reluctantly, to accept the fact that one of the most eligible bachelors was going off the market by marrying a spinster nobody. One or two, witness the nods, had even come around to extending cautious overtures of friendship to Miss Tarabotti. Miss Tarabotti further improved her standing among the aristocracy as a force to be reckoned with by turning her large nose up at such sycophancy. Lady Maccon-to-be was clearly as formidable as her intended.

Lord Maccon took Miss Tarabotti's arm soothingly. “I shall have them make you a hundred such parasols, one for every dress.”

Miss Tarabotti raised her eyebrows at him. “Silver tipped, you realize?”

“Well, you will be facing down the dewan several times a week; you might need some silver. Though I do not anticipate he will give you too much trouble.”

Alexia, who had not yet had an opportunity to meet the other members of the Shadow Council and would not until after her wedding, looked at Lord Maccon curiously. “Is he really that fainthearted?”

“Nope. Simply ill-prepared.”

“For what?”

“You, my love,” the earl said, tempering the insult with an endearment.

Alexia sputtered in such a charming way that Lord Maccon simply had to kiss her, right there, in the middle of Hyde Park. Which made her sputter even more. Which made him kiss her more. It was a vicious cycle.

Of course, it was Mr. MacDougall who had taken possession of the brass parasol. The poor young man had slipped everyone's mind, including Alexia's, as soon as the Hypocras investigation was put to rest. He took the parasol back to America with him—as a sort of memento. He had been genuinely heartbroken to read the announcement of Miss Tarabotti's engagement in the Gazette. He returned to his mansion in Massachusetts and threw himself with renewed scientific vigor and a more cautious attitude into measuring the human soul. Several years later, he married a veritable battle-ax of a woman and happily allowed himself to be bossed around for the remainder of his days.