Timeless

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Wherein Alexia Loans Mr. Tumtrinkle Her Gun

The Tunstells had been encouraged by Chancellor Neshi to perform an encore of The Death Rains of Swansea at a local theater for the benefit of the public. The theater was open air, much in the manner of Ancient Rome. Alexia was persuaded to attend and endure a third viewing of the dratted spectacle in an effort to distract her from her worries. Lord Maccon was still off in his huff when they departed for the theater.

The play was as much admired by the masses as it had been by the vampire hive. Or at least Lady Maccon believed it was much admired. It was difficult to determine with any accuracy, when praise was heaped upon the theatricals in a tongue entirely alien to all. However, the approbation did seem genuine. Lady Maccon, patroness, waited for Mr. and Mrs. Tunstell afterward, but so, too, did a collection of excited Egyptians, eager to touch the hero and heroine of the play, press small gifts into their hands, and in one extreme case kiss the hem of Ivy’s gown.

Ivy Tunstell took such accolades in stride as her due, nodding and smiling. “Very kind” and “Thank you very much” and “Oh, you really shouldn’t have” were her pat responses, although no one understood her any more than she them. Alexia thought, if she was reading body language properly, that the locals were convinced that the Tunstells’ Acting Troupe a la Mode represented some species of prophesiers of the American tent-preacher variety. Even the secondary actors, like Mr. Tumtrinkle, seemed to have gained unexpected notoriety and companion acclaim.

Alexia congratulated her friends on yet another fine performance. And, since it looked like otherwise they might never leave, the group wended their way back to the hotel on foot, followed by a collective band of sycophants and admirers. They made quite the raucous crowd through the otherwise quiet streets of Alexandria.

It was only a few hours before dawn, but Alexia was not surprised to find, when she inquired after her key at the hotel, that Lord Maccon had not yet returned. Still angry, she supposed.

They were making their farewells for the evening, Mrs. Tunstell solicitous in her care for Lady Maccon’s low spirits, particularly in light of the buoyancy that admiration had given her own. The hotel was busy trying to eject the legion of Tunstell devotees, when a vision of horror came down the stairs and into the hotel reception area.

No one would have described poor Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk as attractive, even at the very best of times. The Tunstells’ nursemaid had not been selected for her looks but for her ability to tolerate twins plus Mrs. Tunstell, while not crumbling under a strain that would have felled lesser females. She was old enough to be mostly gray, but not so old that her limbs had been sapped of the strength needed to carry two infants at once. She wasn’t particularly tall, but she was sturdy, with the arms of a boxer and the general expression of a bulldog. Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk, Alexia supposed, had some species of hearty leather armchair somewhere in her ancestry. However, the Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk who came down those stairs that early morning was far from sturdy. In fact, she looked to have cracked at last. Her face was a picture of horror, her normally tidy pinafore was wrinkled, her cap was askew, and her graying hair fell loose about her shoulders. She clutched Percival to her breast. The baby boy was crying, his face as red as his hair.

Upon catching sight of Lady Maccon and the Tunstells’ party, she cried out, raising her free hand to her throat, and said, on great gulping sobs of terror, “They’re gone!”

Alexia broke free of the crowd and went up to her.

“The babies, the babies are gone.”

“What!” Alexia brushed past the distraught nursemaid and charged up the stairs to the nursery room.

The chamber was in an uproar, furniture overturned, probably by the distraught nursemaid in her panic. The Tunstells’ two bassinets were empty, as was Prudence’s little cot.

Alexia felt her stomach wrench up into the most tremendous knot and a cold, icy fear trickled through her whole body. She whirled away from the room, already calling out instructions, although the hallway was empty behind her. Her voice was hard and authoritative. Then she heard, from behind her, a querulous little voice say, “Mama?”

Prudence came crawling out from under the bed, dusty, tear-stained, but present.

Alexia ran to her, crouching down to wrap her in a tight embrace. “Prudence, my baby! Did you hide? What a good, brave girl.”

“Mama,” said Prudence seriously, “no.”

Alexia let her go slightly, grabbing on to her shoulders and speaking at her straight on. Grave brown eyes met grave brown eyes. “But where is Primrose? Did they take Primrose? Who took her, Prudence? Did you see?”

“No.”

“Bad men took the baby. Who were they?”

Prudence only tossed her dark curls, pouted, and burst into unhelpful tears. Partially a response to her mother’s frantic behavior, Alexia supposed, trying to calm herself.

“Dama!” the little girl wailed. She broke free of her mother’s grasp and ran to the door, turning back to look at her mother. “Dama. Home. Home Dama,” she insisted.

“No, dear, not yet.”

“Now!”

Alexia marched over to her daughter and scooped up the child’s struggling form. She strode back down the stairs into the hotel reception room, where all was still chaos.

Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk began to weep openly upon seeing Prudence clutched safely in Lady Maccon’s arms and dashed over to coo over the toddler.

“Prudence hid under the bed, but it does look as though they took Primrose,” announced Alexia baldly. “I am so very sorry, Ivy. Who knows why or what they want from a baby, but she is definitely gone.”

Mrs. Tunstell let out a high keening wail and fainted back into her husband’s arms. Tunstell looked as though he, too, might be in favor of fainting. His freckles stood out starkly against his white face and he stared at Alexia with desperate green eyes.

“I don’t know where my husband is,” replied Alexia, guessing at the nature of the plea in those eyes. “Of all the times for him to be off in a huff!”

The Tunstells were well loved by their troupe, so this misfortune threw all the other actors into sympathetic paroxysms of distress. The ladies fainted or had hysterics, whichever better suited their natures. Some of the gentlemen did the same. One ran out into the night with a fake sword, determined to track down the dastardly culprits. Mr. Tumtrinkle began stuffing his face with those little honey pastries and blubbering into his mustache. Percival was busy screaming his head off, only pausing to spit up all over anyone who came near.

Lady Maccon really could have used her husband’s booming voice at that juncture. However, knowing the onus fell on her, and relieved her own daughter was accounted for, she took charge. Alexia was quite worried for Primrose’s safety, but she was also clear on two fronts. Either the baby had been kidnapped in order to extract a ransom, in which case they could expect contact relatively soon, or they had the wrong baby, in which case they could expect her return momentarily. After all, why would anyone want the daughter of an actress? No matter how popular said actress was in Egypt.

Alexia cast a desperate look about for the only other person who might still have as level a head as she under such circumstances, but Madame Lefoux was nowhere to be found. She inquired of the hotel clerk, interposing herself in front of the poor man as he attempted to control the bedlam in his reception chamber.

“My good man”—Lady Maccon pulled him away from one of the hysterical actresses—“have you seen Madame Lefoux? One of our fellow travelers, the Frenchwoman inventor who dresses as a man. She might be useful at this juncture.”

“No, madam.” The man bowed hurriedly. “She’s gone, madam.”

“What do you mean gone?” Alexia did not like this turn of events. Now two ladies were missing! Well, Primrose was barely half a lady and Madame Lefoux dressed as a man, so Alexia supposed together they made up only one whole lady, but—Alexia shook herself out of spiraling thoughts and returned to the clerk.

“Left the hotel, madam, not one hour ago. Moving rather quickly, I must say.”

Lady Maccon turned back to the pandemonium, a little floored. Gone, Genevieve, but why? Had she perhaps sent the kidnappers? Or was she on their trail? Or could it be that she was the kidnapper herself? No, not Genevieve. The Frenchwoman might build a massive octopus and terrorize a city, but that had been because someone kidnapped her own child. She would hardly put another mother through such an ordeal. I suppose it could be coincidence?

Still puzzling over the matter, Alexia stopped dead in the center of the room and took stock of her situation. “You—fetch smelling salts, and you—get cold compresses and wet towels. Everyone else—do be quiet!”

In very short order, she had the staff trotting to her bidding. She ordered them not to touch the nursery, as the offenders could have left clues behind. She had them set up the still-hysterical nursemaid in a new room, one with very secure windows and better locks. She left her there with Prudence, Percy, Ivy, Mr. Tumtrinkle, and several other actors now restored to sense and ready to do battle. She gave Mr. Tumtrinkle her gun, as he assured her he had pointed many a prop firearm at many a hero in his day and shooting a real one could hardly be much different. Alexia assured him that she would be back as soon as possible and to please make certain he ascertained the truth of any enemy attack before shooting Ethel at anyone, particularly a hero.

She sent Tunstell to alert the local constabulary, the other actors and actresses back to their rooms, and the now-rather-worried-looking collective of Tunstell Troupe admirers off about their business. She had to use gesticulations, shushing sounds, and, eventually, a broom in order to accomplish this last.

The sky was beginning to pink and things were finally calm at Hotel des Voyageurs, when a dark shadow loomed in the doorway and Lord Maccon, wearing only a cloak and a sour expression, entered the room.

Alexia hurried up to him. “I know you are still angry with me, and you have a perfect right to be. It was beastly of me to keep the information from you, but we have a far more serious problem that needs your attention now.”

The frown deepened. “Go on.”

“Primrose appears to have been baby-napped. She was taken from her room several hours ago while the Tunstells were engaged in a performance. I was with them. Madame Lefoux has also vanished. Apparently, the nursemaid was asleep and when she awoke, she found both Primrose and Prudence had disappeared.”

“Prudence is gone, too?!” Lord Maccon roared.

The clerk, dozing fitfully behind his desk, snapped to attention with the expression of a man near to his breaking point.

Alexia put a hand on her husband’s arm. “No, dear, do calm down. It turned out ours had taken refuge under a bed.”

“That’s my girl!”

“Yes, very sensible of her, although she seems to be having some difficulty describing the kidnappers to us.”

“Well, she is only two.”

“Yes, but as she really must learn coherent phrasing and syntax eventually, now would be an excellent time to complete the process. And she has let forth a complete sentence lately. I was hoping… never mind that now. The fact is, Primrose is gone and so is Genevieve.”

“You believe Madame Lefoux took the baby?” The earl was frowning and chewing on his bottom lip in that darling way Alexia loved so much.

“No, I don’t. But I think Madame Lefoux may be chasing the kidnappers. She was around the hotel at the time, and the clerk said she left in a great hurry. Perhaps she spotted something out her window. Her room is near the nursery.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“I’ve sent Tunstell to the local authorities. I haven’t let anyone into the room. I thought you might be able to smell something.”

Lord Maccon nodded crisply, almost a salute. “I’m still angry with you, wife. But I can’t help but admire your efficiency in a crisis.”

“Thank you. Shall we go check the scents?”

“Lead on.”

Unfortunately, up the stairs and in the nursery, the earl smelled nothing of significance. He did say he thought he caught a whiff of Madame Lefoux and that it was possible she had grappled with the assailants or perhaps simply stuck her head in to see what had happened. It was also possible that it was a lingering remnant from the previous evening. He said he smelled a trace of the Egyptian streets about the place, but nothing more than that. Whoever had taken Primrose had hired ruffians to do it. He traipsed back out into the hallway, still sniffing.

“Ah,” he said, “there is Madame Lefoux again—machine oil and vanilla. And here.” He began walking back down the steps. “You know, wife, I do believe I have a fresh trail. I’m going after her.” He dropped his cloak, revealing an impressive bare chest matted with hair, and shifted form. Luckily the lobby was deserted but for the extremely harried clerk who watched, openmouthed, as his esteemed guest, a real British earl, changed into a wolf right there in front of him.

The poor man’s eyes rolled up into his head and he followed in the path of many a young lady that evening and fainted dead away behind the desk.

Alexia watched him fall, too dazed to make any effort to help him, and then turned back to her husband, now a wolf, carefully picking up his discarded cloak with his mouth.

“Conall, really, the sun is almost up. Do you think you’ll have time…?”

But he was already gone, dashing out the door, nose lowered before him like a scent hound after a fox.

Lord Conall Maccon returned well after sunup. Alexia was coping with an utterly distraught Mrs. Tunstell. She had finally convinced Ivy to take a dram of poppy to quiet her nerves. At which point both Ivy and her nerves became rather floppy and confused.

Ivy managed to raise her head from where it bent low over Percy, asleep in her lap, when Lord Maccon tapped quietly at the door.

Mr. Tumtrinkle, seated facing the door with Alexia’s gun in his lap, started violently and fired Ethel at the earl. Lord Maccon, slower than usual after a long evening’s run and a good few hours dashing about as a human under the scorching heat of an Egyptian sun, ducked too late, but the bullet missed him.

Alexia tsked at the actor and put out her hand for the return of her pistol. The man handed it over, apologized profusely to Lord Maccon, and resumed his chair in embarrassed silence. Lady Maccon noted, however, that he did take one of the rapiers, tipped for use in stage fights and thus rather useless, and placed it to hand. Alexia supposed he could ferociously poke someone if he tried hard enough.

“Osh, Lord Maccon!” cried out Ivy, head lolling back and eyes rolling slightly. “Ish that you? Hash you any… indigestion… no… information?”

The earl gave his wife a pained look.

“Laudanum,” explained Alexia succinctly.

“Not as such, Mrs. Tunstell. I am very sorry. Wife, if you could spare me a moment?”

“Aleshia!”

“Yes, Ivy dear?”

“We should go dancing!”

“But, Ivy, we’re in Egypt and your daughter is missing.”

“But I can’t see myself from here!”

Alexia stood up from where she was seated next to her nonsensical friend, experienced some difficulty in convincing Ivy to let go of her hand, and followed her husband out the door.

He spoke in a hushed voice. “I traced Madame Lefoux to the dahabiya docks. A peculiar sort of place. Lost the scent there. I’m afraid she may have boarded a ship. I’m going to go ascertain how Tunstell is getting on with the local authorities. Then I think we might need to notify the consular general. Bad publicity, very bad, a missing British baby on his watch.”

Alexia nodded. “I’ll go back to the docks, shall I? See if I can work my womanly charm and discover who accepted Madame Lefoux’s fare and where she might be headed.”

“You have womanly charm?” The earl was genuinely surprised. “I thought you simply harangued a blighter until he gave in.”

Alexia gave him a look.

Lord Maccon snorted. “Only one direction to head if one is going by dahabiya.”

“Up the Nile to Cairo?”

“Indeed.”

“Well, they might at least tell a female if a passenger had a baby. They might even be convinced to say if she was chasing after someone.”

“Very well, Alexia, but be careful, and take your parasol.”

“Of course, Conall. I shall require a parasol, as the sun is up. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yes, very amusing, wife.”

Neither of them mentioned sleep, although Alexia was feeling the strain of having been awake since four the previous afternoon. Bed would have to wait; they had a baby to catch and a Frenchwoman to trace.

Biffy awoke before sunset and, after struggling with his hair for a quarter of an hour, returned to the maps he’d laid out of Egypt and the expansion of the God-Breaker Plague. He’d awakened with a certain feeling that he was missing something. He went back to the circles he’d drawn and reviewed notes on times indicating the plague’s expansion and general location. He began to extrapolate inward, trying to determine its course. What if the plague had always been expanding, very slowly? What if there was a starting point?

He got so distracted he very nearly missed his appointment with Lady Maccon and the aethographor. He took the maps with him to the receiving chamber to await any missive, studying them carefully.

It was while he was waiting alone in that tiny attic room that he came upon the missing piece of the puzzle. All signs pointed to the fact that the epicenter for the God-Breaker Plague was near Luxor, at one prominent bend in the Nile River close to the Valley of the Kings. His books said very little on the archaeology of the area, but one report indicated that the bend housed the funerary temple of the expunged and vilified Pharaoh Hatshepsut. He had no idea how this might tie into the plague, but he resolved to send Lady Maccon the information, should she contact him that evening.

He was about to creep out and gather together some acid and a metal slate when the receiving chamber activated, the metal particles between the receiver panes shifted about, and a message appeared.

“Ruffled Parasol. Conall upset. Primrose kidnapped. Uproar.”

Biffy recoiled. What interest could Egyptian kidnappers possibly have in Mr. and Mrs. Tunstell’s daughter? The child of thespians. How odd. He awaited further information but nothing more came through. He moved next door, dialed in the appropriate frequensor codes, and sent his message back.

“GBP center is Hatshepsut’s temple, Nile River, Luxor. Wingtip Spectator.”

Silence met that and after a quarter of an hour, Biffy supposed his message had been received and there was nothing else to relate. He shut down the aethographor, made certain his own missive was tucked securely away, and ate the scrap of paper on which he’d scribbled Lady Maccon’s. He’d witnessed Lyall do so in the past with delicate information and figured it was a werewolf tradition he’d better uphold. Then he went to find his Beta, not certain he was authorized to relay either bits of information.

It was in thinking about this, and wondering who might kidnap Primrose and how Lady Maccon might be coping with this new crisis—violently, he suspected—that Biffy came upon another realization. Following that realization to its inevitable, horrible conclusion, he detoured toward the servants’ quarters.

Floote was sitting alone at the massive table in the kitchen, polishing the brass candlesticks, a sturdy apron tied about his waist. His jacket was off and draped over the back of a nearby chair. The moment he saw Biffy, he made a move toward it, but Biffy said hastily, “No, Floote, please don’t trouble yourself. I simply had a question.”

“Sir?”

“When Mr. Tarabotti traveled in Egypt, did he visit Luxor?” Biffy came casually over to Floote’s shoulder, standing a little too close, pretending to inspect the polishing. He bent down as though particularly interested in one of the candlesticks and with one hand behind his back, quick as any vampire, snaked the tiny little gun out of the inside pocket of Floote’s jacket.

Biffy tucked the gun up his own sleeve, wondering that there weren’t more werewolf and vampire conjurers; sleight of hand was easy when one had supernatural abilities.

Floote answered him, “Yes, sir,” without looking up from his polishing.

“Well, ahem, yes. Thank you, Floote, carry on.”

“Very good, sir.”

Biffy escaped to his own room where he locked the door and immediately took out the gun.

It was one of the smallest he had ever seen, beautifully made with a delicate pearl handle. It was of the single-shot variety popular some thirty years ago or more, outdated in this age of revolvers. It must be sentiment that urged Floote to keep it, for it wasn’t the most useful of weapons. Difficult to hit anything at more than five paces and it probably shot crooked. Biffy swallowed, hoping against hope he wasn’t about to find what he predicted. With a twist, he opened and checked the chamber. It was loaded. He tipped the bullet out into his hand. Such a small thing to damn a man so utterly. For that bullet was made of hardwood, capped in metal to take the heat and caged in silver. It was not quite the same as the modern ones, of course, but still undoubtedly a sundowner bullet.

At first Biffy didn’t want to believe it, but Floote had been at liberty the night that Dubh was shot—with all his employers out of the house. Floote had access to Lord Akeldama’s dirigible, for no drone would comment on Lady Maccon’s butler coming and going from Lord Akeldama’s house. Floote owned a gun that was loaded with sundowner bullets of exactly the kind with which Dubh was shot. Then later, when Lady Maccon rushed in with the injured man, Floote had been left alone with Dubh, and Dubh had died. Floote certainly had the opportunity. But why? Would the butler really kill to protect his dead master’s secrets?

Biffy sat for a long time, rolling the bullet about in his hand and thinking.

A polite knock disturbed his reverie. He stood to open the door.

Floote walked quietly in, his jacket back on.

“Mr. Rabiffano.”

“Floote.” Biffy felt strangely guilty, standing there holding Floote’s gun, which was obviously very precious to him, the damning bullet in his other hand.

Biffy looked at Floote.

Floote looked at Biffy.

Biffy knew, and he knew that Floote knew he knew—so to speak. He handed the butler his gun but kept the bullet as evidence, tucking it into his waistcoat pocket.

“Why, Floote?”

“Because he left his orders first, sir.”

“But to kill a werewolf on a dead man’s orders?”

Floote smiled the tiniest of half smiles. “You forget what Alessandro Tarabotti was, sir. What the Templars trained him for. What he trained me to help him do.”

Biffy blanched, horrified. “You have killed werewolves before Dubh?”

“Not all werewolves, Mr. Rabiffano, are like you, or Professor Lyall, or Lord Maccon. Some of them are like Lord Woolsey—pests to be exterminated.”

“And that’s why you killed Dubh?”

Floote ignored the direct question. “Mr. Tarabotti gave his orders, sir,” the butler repeated himself, “long before anyone else. I was to see it through to the end. That was my promise. And I’ve kept it.”

“What else, Floote? What else have you been keeping in motion? Was Mr. Tarabotti responsible for the God-Breaker Plague expanding? Is that what he was doing over there?”

Floote only moved toward the door.

Biffy went after him, hand to his arm. He didn’t want to use his werewolf strength and was horrified by the idea that he might have to, on a member of Lady Maccon’s domestic staff! A longtime family retainer, no less—the very idea!

Floote paused and stared at the floor of the hallway, rather than at Biffy. “I really must see that carpet cleaned. It’s disgraceful.”

Biffy firmed up his grip.

“He left me with two instructions, sir—protect Alexia and protect the Mandate of the Broken Ankh.”

Biffy knew from the way the butler’s face closed over that he would get no more out of Floote that evening. But Biffy also could not afford to be wrong. Even knowing that it would disrupt the smooth running of the household, even knowing there was danger both at home and abroad, even knowing that Floote was elderly, even knowing that there would be werewolves traipsing around with badly tied cravats as a result, Biffy stuffed down his scruples. He drew back his fist and with supernatural speed and strength, tapped the butler on the temple hard enough to knock him senseless.

With a very sad sigh, the dandy flipped Floote’s limp body easily over one well-dressed shoulder and carried him down to the wine cellar. There he removed the man’s guns—there were two, as it transpired—from his pockets, searched for anything else of interest, and locked him in. It was ironic that the wine cellar had originally been fortified as a prison to hold Biffy only two years ago.

Biffy didn’t feel victorious. He didn’t feel as though he had solved some great mystery. He was simply sad. He was also grateful it would be up to Lyall to sort this mess out. His dear Beta would have to decide whether to tell Lady Kingair or not. Biffy did not envy him that conversation. With the heavy heart of a man burdened with unpleasant news, Biffy went looking for Lyall.

Alexia didn’t want to awaken Conall—he was catching up on a few hours of sleep after a very hectic day—but she had news to relate and she was near to dropping from exhaustion herself.

She’d been awake over twenty-four hours with no trace of poor Primrose. No ransom note, no trail, nothing. The sun would set in less than an hour, and Alexia felt like she’d been at her inquiries for an age.

“Conall!”

He snuffled into the pillow.

She reached out to touch his bare shoulder with her bare hand, turning him human. Even that didn’t awaken him. He was knackered. Lord knows what he had been up to, gallivanting around angry and then tracing the baby and dealing with politicians. He had probably expended a lot of energy. And the sun was very hot and bright in Egypt.

“Conall, really. Wake up.”

The earl blinked tawny eyes open and glared at her. Before she could react, he gathered her in against him in a warm embrace. Always amorous, her husband. Then he seemed to remember that not only was there a crisis, he was still angry over her siding with Professor Lyall.

He pushed her away petulantly, like a small child. “Yes, Alexia?”

Alexia sighed, knowing he needed time to forgive her, if he ever would, but finding it hard not to be able to hold him under such nerve-wracking circumstances. “I’ve just had a message from Biffy. Or, better said, I remembered at the last minute my standing aethographor appointment. I managed to relay to him the current crisis, not that he could do anything, but I thought home ought to know. He sent a note back. Then I had to stop. The transmitter was booked and they booted me off. Me! Now, of all times! You know, I tried to extend the time, but the little old lady behind me in the queue had a terribly important message for her grandson and would not be reasoned with!”

“Someday, Alexia, you will be that little old lady.”

“Oh, thank you very much, Conall.”

“The message?” her husband prodded.

“Biffy says that he has traced the epicenter of the God-Breaker Plague to one particular bend in the Nile River, near Luxor.”

“And this relates to Primrose how?”

“It might. Because I managed to, well, um, bribe a few of the dahabiya captains down at the dock.”

The earl raised an eyebrow.

“Madame Lefoux definitely hired a boat, one of the fastest and best on the line, to take her upriver. But not to Cairo, only by way of Cairo. No, her fare was for Luxor, or that’s what one man said, based on the amount of money he observed changing hands. She had a mysterious bundle with her and she asked a lot of questions. So what do you think?”

“Very suspicious. I think we should go after her.”

Alexia bounced slightly. “Me too!”

“How are Mr. and Mrs. Tunstell?” Lord Maccon switched topics.

“Coping tolerably well. Tunstell, at least, has been responding to direct questions. Ivy is difficult but then that is Ivy for you. I think we can leave them for a few days and follow Genevieve up the Nile.”

“Right, then. The sooner we set out the better.” Conall lurched out of bed.

Alexia tried to be practical. “But, my love, we both need rest.”

“Still mad at you,” he grumbled at her using an endearment.

“Oh, very well. But, Conall, we still need rest.”

“Ever the pragmatist. We can rest on the train to Cairo. I think we can still catch one. It won’t be as fast as Madame Lefoux, not if she hired one of the new steam-modified dahabiyas. But it will put us only a day behind her.”

Alexia nodded. “Very well, I’ll pack. You tell the others. And get Prudence, please. She’s asleep in the nursery. I’m not leaving her behind with a baby snatcher on the loose.”

The earl lumbered from the room, shirt hanging loose about his wide frame and his feet bare, before Alexia could stop him and make him dress. She supposed Ivy and Tunstell would be too distraught to take umbrage. She began a whirlwind of packing, throwing everything she could think of into two small cases. She had no idea how long they might be but figured they ought to travel as light as possible. Prudence would have to leave her mechanical ladybug behind.

Lord Maccon returned a quarter of an hour later with a sleeping Prudence tucked casually under one arm and Tunstell trailing behind.

“Are you certain I can’t accompany you, my lord?” The redhead was looking frazzled. His trousers were not as tight as usual.

“No, Tunstell, it’s best if you stay. Hold down the home front. It’s possible we could be on the wrong track, that Madame Lefoux isn’t the culprit or isn’t following the culprits. Someone with a reasonable sense of responsibility must remain here to deal with the authorities, keep making a stink, keep them hunting.”

Tunstell’s face was serious, no smiles for once. “If you think it best.”

Conall nodded his shaggy head. “I do. Now, don’t hesitate to bandy my name about if you need the authority.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Alexia added, “If Ivy feels up to it, there are messages coming in for me at the aethographor station every evening just after six. Here is a letter of permission granting Mrs. Tunstell the authority to receive them in my stead. Even so, they may not accept a substitute without my presence, but it’s the best I can do at short notice. Only if she feels up to it, mind you.”

“Very well, Lady Maccon, if you’re certain I won’t do?” Tunstell was clearly falling back on his claviger training in order to deal with this crisis.

“I’m afraid not, Tunstell my dear. The individual sending the messages from London will only respond to me or Ivy.”

Tunstell looked puzzled but didn’t question Lady Maccon further.

“Good luck, Tunstell. And I am sorry this has happened to you and Ivy.”

“Thank you, Lady Maccon. Good luck to you. I hope you catch the bastards.”

“As do I, Tunstell. As do I.”