Heartless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Fourth (16 page)

“For BUR? Espionage! Oh, really? How terribly glamorous.” Ivy clasped yellow-gloved hands together in delight.

“To which end I was hoping to, well, induct you into a kind of secret society.”

Ivy looked as though she had not heard anything so thrilling in all her life. “Me?” she squeaked. “Really? How
marvelous.
What’s it called, this secret society?”

Alexia hesitated and then, recalling a phrase her husband had once offered up in the heat of annoyance, suggested tentatively, “The Parasol Protectorate?”

“Oooh, what a perfectly splendid name. So full of ornamentation!” Ivy practically bounced up and down on the lavender settee in her excitement. “Must I make a pledge, or memorize a sacred code of conduct, or engage in some pagan ritual or other?” Ivy had an expectant look on her face that suggested she would be very disappointed if this were not the case.

“Well, yes, of course.” Lady Maccon floundered, trying to come up with something appropriate to the occasion. She couldn’t make Ivy kneel, not in that dress—a periwinkle muslin day gown with an extremely long, tight bodice of the style favored by actresses.

After a moment’s thought, Alexia stood laboriously and waddled over to the umbrella stand to retrieve her parasol. This she opened and placed point downward in the center of the room. Since the room was so very small, this did manage to take up most of the free space. Motioning Ivy to
stand, Alexia handed her the handle and said, “Spin the parasol three times and repeat after me: I shield in the name of fashion. I accessorize for one and all. Pursuit of truth is my passion. This I vow by the great parasol.”

Ivy did as she was told, face serious and concentrated. “I shield in the name of fashion. I accessorize for one and all. Pursuit of truth is my passion. This I vow by the great parasol.”

“Now pick the parasol up and raise it, open, to the ceiling. Yes, just like that.”

“Is that all? Shouldn’t the vow be sealed in blood or something like?”

“Oh, do you think?”

Ivy nodded enthusiastically.

Alexia shrugged. “If you insist.” She took back her parasol, snapped it closed, and twisted the handle. Two wickedly sharp spikes projected out of the tip, one of silver, the other of wood.

Ivy inhaled in appreciation.

Lady Maccon flipped the parasol about. Then she took off one of her gloves. After a moment’s hesitation, Ivy did the same. Alexia nicked the pad of her thumb with the silver spike and then did the same for Ivy, who gave a little squeak of alarm. Then Alexia pressed their two thumbs together.

“May the blood of the soulless keep your own soul safe,” intoned Alexia, feeling appallingly melodramatic but knowing Ivy would love this better than anything.

Ivy did. “Oh, Alexia, this is so very stirring! It should be part of a play.”

“I shall have a special parasol made up for you, similar to mine.”

“Oh, no, but thank you for the thought, Alexia. I couldn’t possibly carry an accessory that emitted things all willy-nilly like that. Really, I’m much obliged, but I simply couldn’t bear it. You, of course, manage to carry it off with aplomb, but it would be too vulgar on someone like me.”

Lady Maccon frowned, but knowing her friend’s true weakness, she made another suggestion. “A special hat, perhaps?”

Ivy hesitated.

“Madame Lefoux designed my parasol.”

“Well, perhaps a small hat. One that isn’t too oozy?”

Alexia smiled. “I am convinced that could be arranged.”

Ivy bit her lip on a smile. “Oh, Alexia, a secret society. How marvelous of you. Who else is a member? Do we have regular meetings? Is there a covert signal so we should know one another at social gatherings?”

“Um, well, as to that, so far you are my first inductee, so to speak. I anticipate future members, though.”

Ivy looked quite crestfallen.

Lady Maccon continued on hastily. “But you will have to operate and report in under a cipher, of course—for aetherograms and other secret messages.”

Ivy brightened at that. “Oh, of course. What shall my cipher be? Something romantic yet subtle, I hope?”

Lady Maccon contemplated her friend while a series of rather silly names suggested themselves. Finally, she settled on one she knew Ivy would like, because it represented a style of headdress to which she was rather devoted but that Alexia might remember because it struck her as particularly Ivyish. “How about Puff Bonnet?”

Ivy’s pretty face glowed with pleasure. “Oh, fabulous. Perfectly modish. And what’s yours?”

Again, Alexia was ill prepared for the question. She cast about helplessly. “Uh. Oh, let me think.” She grappled, running through her mind several of Lord Akeldama’s epithets and some of her husband’s more affectionate endearments. Nothing quite suited a secret society, at least not that she could admit openly to Ivy. Finally, she settled on the simplest she could think of. “You may refer to me as the Ruffled Parasol. That should do well enough.”

Ivy clapped her hands. “Oh, excellent. Alexia, this is superb fun.”

Lady Maccon sat back down. “Do you think we might have tea now?” she asked plaintively.

Ivy immediately rang the bell rope, and in short order a nervous young maid brought in a laden tea tray.

“Marvelous,” said Lady Maccon in evident relief.

Ivy poured. “And now that I have been properly inducted into the Protectorate, what is my first assignment?”

“Ah, yes, the reason I came to visit in the first place. You see, there is a matter of national delicacy concerning an assassination attempt on Queen Victoria. Some twenty years ago, members of the Kingair Pack tried to eliminate Her Majesty.”

“Oh, no, really? Not those nice Scotsmen? They couldn’t possibly do anything so treasonous. Well, except trot around displaying their knees for all to see, but nothing so calamitous as attempted regicide.”

“I assure you, Ivy, this is the honest truth, universally acknowledged by those in a position to know such details.” Lady Maccon sipped her tea and then nodded wisely. “Fact—my husband’s previous pack tried to kill Queen Victoria by means of a poison. I need
you
to float back to Castle Kingair and ascertain the particulars.”

Ivy grinned. She had developed, since her first trip with Alexia to Scotland, a most unladylike fondness for dirigible travel. Her current position in life did not allow her to indulge, but now . . .

Lady Maccon grinned back. “All I know is that the previous Beta spearheaded the plot and was killed. My husband left the pack as a result. Any further information could be invaluable to my current investigation. Do you think you are up to this task, even in your present condition?”

Ivy blushed at the very mention. “I am barely along, and you
certainly
cannot go.”

Alexia patted her belly. “My difficulty exactly.”

“Can I take Tunny with me?”

“I should hope you would. And you may tell him of your mission, although not your new position.”

Ivy nodded. More pleased, Alexia suspected, by the need to keep one secret from her husband than by permission to reveal another.

“Now, Ivy, please pay particular attention to any information on the poison that was going to be used. I believe that may be key. I shall give you a crystalline valve frequensor for aetheric transmission to my personal transponder at Woolsey. At sunset you are to report in, even if you have uncovered nothing of interest. I should like to know you are safe.”

“Oh, but, Alexia, you know how clumsy I am with gadgetry.”

“You will do fine, Ivy. How soon can you leave? Naturally your expenses will be covered.”

Ivy blushed at the mention of such unseemly matters as fiscal settlements.

Alexia brushed her friend’s embarrassment aside. “I know one doesn’t ordinarily talk of such matters, but you are operating under the umbrella of the Parasol Protectorate now, and you must be free to act in accordance with the needs of the organization, regardless of expense. Is that clear, Ivy?”

Mrs. Tunstell nodded, cheeks still hot. “Yes, of course, Alexia, but—”

“It is a good thing I am to be patroness of your acting troupe, as it is the perfect way to hide pecuniary advancements.”

“Oh, yes, indeed, Alexia. But I wish you didn’t insist on mentioning such things while we are eating—”

“We shall say nothing more on the subject. Can you leave directly?”

“Tunny has no performances on at the moment.”

“Then I shall send Floote tomorrow with the necessary papers.” Lady Maccon finished the last of her tea and stood. She was suddenly tired. It was as though she had been out and about most of the night, sorting out the problems of the entire empire. Which, in her way, she had.

Mrs. Tunstell stood as well. “To Scotland I go, investigating assignation attempts of the past!”

“Assassination,” corrected Lady Maccon.

“Yes, that. I must find my extra special hairmuffs for dirigible travel. I had them made to match my own curls. They are rather stunning, if I do say so myself.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Lady Maccon returned to her new house and then made her way across to Lord Akeldama’s. Floote’s builders produced exemplary work. They had constructed a small
secret drawbridge between the two balconies that operated by way of a hydraulic lever. It flipped downward. At the same time an elaborate spring mechanism caused the railing on each balcony to fold away. This allowed Alexia to easily traverse from one building to the next despite encumbrances.

She retired to her closet with alacrity. She had been keeping remarkably odd hours recently, what with having to consult daylight folk yet living with the supernatural set. It was of little consequence, as the infant-inconvenience was making it increasingly arduous to sleep for any length of time without some part of her body going numb or some unmentionable function driving her out of bed. Really, pregnancy was the most undignified thing she had ever had to endure in all her life, and for several years Alexia Tarabotti had been a confirmed spinster living with the Loontwills—a most undignified state—so that was saying something.

She slept restlessly, shifting aside when her husband joined her only to be awakened fully just after sunset by someone banging on the closet door.

“Conall, there is someone at the door to our
bedroom
!” She shook her massive husband where he lay in a boneless pile next to her.

He snuffled softly and rolled over, trying to gather her in closer. He had to settle for patting her belly absently and burrowing into her neck.

Alexia arched against him as much as she was able, enjoying the affection and the movement of his lips against her skin. For such a scruffy man, he had very soft lips.

“Darling, light of my life, lord of my heart, there is
someone at the door to our closet, seeking entrance. And I don’t believe Lord Akeldama and his boys are awake yet.”

The earl merely burrowed in against her with greater interest, apparently finding the flavor of her neck most intriguing.

The door shook and rattled as whoever it was seemed to be trying to physically force it open. But for all Lord Akeldama’s frolicsome decorative choices, his town house was built with the supernatural in mind, the protection of his clothing being paramount. The door barely budged. Someone on the other side yelled, but a door so massive that it could withstand shoe thieves could also muffle even the loudest commentary on the subject.

Lady Maccon was becoming concerned. “Conall, get up and answer the door, do! Really, it sounds most pressing.”

“I, too, have matters that are pressing and must needs be taken into hand.”

Alexia giggled at the terribleness of both pun and innuendo. She was pleased her husband still thought her attractive, despite her beached-whale state, but was finding it increasingly awkward to accommodate him. The spirit was willing but the flesh was swollen. Still, she enjoyed the compliment and understood that there was no real demand behind the caresses. The earl knew her well enough to realize she valued his desire almost as much as his love. After a lifetime of feeling ugly and unworthy, Alexia was now tolerably assured that Conall genuinely did want her, even if they could do nothing about it at present. She also understood that he was expressing his conjugal interest partly out of knowledge of her own need for such assurances. A werewolf and a buffoon, her husband, but wonderfully caring once he’d blundered into the way of it.

And yet, someone was still torturing their poor door. Conall blinked awake, his tawny eyes wide and direct. He kissed the tip of his wife’s long nose and, with a massive sigh, rolled out of bed and lumbered over to the door.

Alexia, sleepy lidded, admired his backside, then shrieked, “Conall, robe! For goodness’ sake.”

Her husband ignored her, throwing open the door and crossing his arms over a wide, hairy chest. He was wearing not one stitch of clothing. Alexia sank down under the covers in mortification.

She need not have worried; it was only Professor Lyall.

“Randolph,” grumbled her husband, “what’s all the ruckus about?”

“It’s Biffy, my lord. Best come quickly. You’re needed.”

“Already?” Lord Maccon swore a blue streak, his blistering language the result of military service combined with a creative imagination. After a glance about the room, he seemed to decide that changing his form would be faster than getting dressed. He began to shift, the musculature underneath his skin rearranging, the hair on his head migrating downward and turning into fur. Quick enough, he dropped to all fours. Then he dashed out and down the hall, presumably to leap the gap between houses and see to whatever had gone wrong. Alexia caught sight of the brindled tip of his fluffy tail as he skidded out of sight without even a nod in her direction.