Heartless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Fourth (34 page)

Together the two women entered the party.

The house itself had not changed from when Alexia visited it that first time. Inside, it was far more luxurious than its exterior suggested, although all displays of prosperity were tasteful, without a hint of vulgarity. Persian carpets still lay thick and soft, in coordinating shades of deep red, their patterns subtle, but they were difficult to see as so many top boots and evening slippers trod over them. Striking paintings still hung on the walls, masterworks ranging from contemporary abstract pieces to one relaxed, porcelain-skinned lady that could only be by Titian. But Alexia only knew they were there because she had seen them before; this time as she wended her way through the throng, coiffured comb-outs and flowered headdresses obscured her view. The lavish mahogany
furniture was actually being sat upon, and the many stone statues of Roman senators and Egyptian gods had become nothing more than stony members of the milling throng.

“My goodness me,” yelled Alexia at her escort over the loud chatter. “This is quite the crush.”

The actress nodded enthusiastically. “The countess is supposed to make a very important announcement this evening. Everyone, and I do mean
everyone,
accepted her invitation.”

“Announcement, what kind of . . . ?”

But Miss Dair’s attention was back to pushing their way through the throng.

One or two people recognized Alexia—heads tilted in her direction, faces perplexed. “Lady Maccon?” came the confused acknowledgment of her presence, accompanied by small nods. She could hear the gossipmongers whirling away like so many steam engines gearing up to explode.
What was the wife of an Alpha werewolf doing there? And so far along in her pregnancy. And alone! On full moon!

As they pressed on, Alexia became aware of a presence shadowing them through the crowd. Just as a tall, thin man accosted Miss Dair from the front, a person behind them cleared his throat.

Lady Maccon turned to find herself face-to-face with a nondescript gentleman, so nondescript in countenance as to be challenging to describe. His hair was just this side of brown, and his eyes just that side of blue, combined with an arrangement of other features neither striking nor interesting. He wore unremarkable but stylish clothing, all of which suggested a level of premeditated obscurity that reminded her irresistibly of Professor Lyall.

“Your Grace,” she said warily in greeting.

The Duke of Hematol did not smile, but that might have been because he did not wish to show her his fangs just yet. “Lady Maccon, what an unexpected pleasure.”

Alexia glanced at Miss Dair, who was engaging in a hushed and rather forceful conversation with Dr. Caedes, another member of Countess Nadasdy’s inner circle. He was a tall, thin vampire who Alexia always thought looked like a parasol without its fabric cover, all points and sharp angles. He
unfolded
rather than walked. He did not look pleased.

The duke was more subtle and better able to hide his feelings over Lady Maccon’s unanticipated presence. Alexia wondered where Lord Ambrose, the last member of this little band, was stashed. Probably near the countess, as he acted as her
praetoriani.
At a party as crowded as this, the queen would want her pet bodyguard as close as possible.

“We did not expect you on this particular night, Lady Maccon. We had assumed you would be assisting your husband with his”—a calculated pause—“disability.”

Alexia narrowed her eyes and fished about in her reticule, coming up with the required card. “I have
an invitation.
”

“Of course you do.”

“It is most urgent I speak with your mistress immediately. I have some vital information to impart.”

“Tell it to me.”

Alexia put on her most superior Lady Macconish expression and looked him up and down. “I think
not.
”

The vampire stood his ground.

He was not a very large man. Alexia figured if push
came to shove, she could probably take him on even in her current state. Being soulless had its uses. She removed her gloves.

He watched this movement with concerned interest.

“No need for that, Lady Maccon.” If he was as much like Professor Lyall as Alexia believed, physical conflict would not be his preferred solution to any given confrontation. He looked up toward the storklike doctor and gestured sharply with his chin. The other vampire reacted with supernatural swiftness, grabbing Miss Dair’s arm and melting away into the crowd, leaving Lady Maccon with a new, far less attractive, escort.

“It really is most vital that I see her as soon as possible. She may be in grave danger.” Alexia left her gloves off and tried to impress upon the vampire her urgency without being too threatening.

The duke smiled. His fangs were small and sharp, barely present, as subtle as the rest of his projected image. “You mortals are always in a hurry.”

Lady Maccon gritted her teeth. “This time it is in
your
best interest—really, it is.”

The duke looked at her closely. “Very well, come with me.”

He led her through the crowd, which thinned as they left the main hallway that serviced the drawing room, parlors, dining hall, and receiving area. They rounded a corner into a part of the house Alexia loved, the museum of machinery, where the history of human innovation was displayed with as much care as the marble statuary and oil paintings of the public areas. The duke moved at a sedate pace, too sedate for Alexia, who, even pregnant and knowing she was going beyond the bounds of proper etiquette, pushed past him. She scuttled by the very first
steam engine ever built and then past the model of the Babbage Engine with barely a glance to spare for either feat of human ingenuity.

The vampire hurried to catch up, pushing past her in turn when they reached the stairs, leading the way up rather than, as had occurred on previous occasions, into the back parlor that was the countess’s preferred sanctuary. This was a special evening, indeed. Lady Maccon was being let into the high sanctum of the hive. She had never before been allowed
upstairs.

There were drones strategically placed on the staircase, all attractive and perfectly dressed, looking like they might be guests at the party, but Alexia knew from the way they watched her that they were as much fixtures in the house as its Persian rugs. Only more deadly than the rugs, one supposed. They did nothing, however, as Lady Maccon was in the company of the duke. But they did watch her carefully.

They arrived at a closed door. The Duke of Hematol knocked, a pattern of taps. It opened to reveal Lord Ambrose, as tall, as dark, and as handsome as any milk-water miss might wish her own personal vampire to be.

“Lady Maccon! How unexpected.”

“So everyone keeps pointing out.” Alexia tried to barge past him.

“You can’t come in here.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, I mean her no harm. Truth be told, quite the opposite.”

An exchange of glances occurred between Lord Ambrose and the duke.

“She is part of this new order. I think we must believe her.”

“You used to think Walsingham was right!” Lord Ambrose accused his compatriot.

“I still do. But in character, she is no more her father’s daughter than Lord Maccon is Lord Woolsey’s successor or Lord Akeldama is Walsingham’s.”

Lady Maccon glared. “If you mean that I think for myself and make my own choices, then you are spot-on. Now, I must see the countess immediately. I have—”

Lord Ambrose didn’t budge. “I must take possession of your parasol.”

“Absolutely not. We may need it shortly, especially if you don’t let me in. I tell you I have—”

“I must insist.”

“Let her in, Ambrose dear.” Countess Nadasdy had a voice as warm as butter and just as greasy. She could fry people with that voice, if she wanted to.

Immediately, Lord Ambrose moved out of Alexia’s direct line of sight, revealing the interior of the chamber. It was a very-well-appointed boudoir, complete with not only a massive canopied bed, but also a full sitting area and other highly desirable accoutrements. There was the latest and most sophisticated in exsanguination warmers, an overlarge teapot for storing blood with multiple spouts and tubing attached. Both the pot and the tubes wore knitted tea cozies, and there was a warming brazier underneath to keep the vital liquid moving through the tubes.

The countess was indeed
at tea.
Her version being a lavish affair, complete with lace-covered tea trolley set out with teacups and matched teapot of fine china painted with little pink roses and edged in silver. There were pink and white petits fours that no one was eating and cups of tea that no one was drinking. A three-tiered serving dish
of silver held a tempting display of finger sandwiches and sugared rose petals, and there was even a small platter of . . . could it be?
Treacle tart!

Lady Maccon was excessively fond of treacle tart.

The assembled drones and guests were all dressed in shades of white, pale green, and pink to accessorize the decor. Elegant Greek urns held massive arrangements of flowers—pale cream roses with pink edges and long leaf ferns. It was all very well coordinated, perhaps too well, as a scientific etching of an animal compares to the real thing.

A second tea trolley was also prominently displayed, similarly draped in a fine lace cloth. It was one of the lower styles meant for front parlors and afternoon visiting hours. Upon it lay the supine form of a young lady, dressed to match the china in a white damask evening gown with pink flowers. Her throat was bare and exposed, and her fine blond hair was piled high and off of her neck.

The countess, it would appear, had a very particular definition of high tea.

“Oh, dear. I do hate to interrupt you at mealtime,” said Lady Maccon, not at all apologetically. “But I have the most important information to impart.”

She waddled forward, only to have her way blocked yet again by Lord Ambrose. “My Queen, I must protest, a soulless in your inner sanctum. While you are at table!”

Countess Nadasdy looked up from the young girl’s fine white neck. “Ambrose. We have been over this before.” Alexia had never thought the Westminster queen entirely suited the role of vampire. Not that Lady Maccon’s opinion mattered much. If the rumors were to be believed, Countess Nadasdy had been suiting the role for over a
thousand years. Possibly two. But, unlike Lord Ambrose, she simply didn’t look the part. She was a cozy little woman—short and on the plump side. Her cheeks were round and rosy, and her big eyes sparked. True, the blush was mercuric and the eyes sparkled with belladonna and calculation, not humor, but it was hard to feel threatened by a woman who looked like the living incarnation of one of Lord Akeldama’s shepherdess seduction paintings.

“She is a hunter,” protested Lord Ambrose.

“She is a
lady.
Aren’t you, Lady Maccon?”

Alexia looked down at her protruding belly. “So the evidence would seem to suggest.” The baby inside of her moved around as though to punctuate the statement.
Yes,
said Alexia to it internally,
I don’t like Lord Ambrose either. But now is not the time for histrionics.

“Ah, yes, felicitations on the imminent event.”

“Let us hope not all
that
imminent. Incidentally, my apologies, venerable ones. Until recently, you seem to have found the advent of my progeny discombobulating.”

“Exactly, My Queen, we cannot have that—”

Lady Maccon interrupted Lord Ambrose by the simple expedient of prodding his ribs with her parasol. She aimed exactly for that point in the rib cage that the ticklish find most discomposing. Not that vampires got ticklish, so far as Alexia was aware, but it was the principle of the thing. “Yes, yes, I know you still would prefer it if I were dead, Lord Ambrose, but never mind that now. Countess, listen to me. You have to get away.”

Lord Ambrose moved and Lady Maccon proceeded toward the hive queen.

The countess dabbed at a bit of blood on the side of her mouth with a white linen handkerchief. Alexia barely
caught a hint of fang before they were tucked away behind perfect cupid’s bow–shaped lips. The countess never showed fang unless she meant it. “My dear Lady Maccon, what
are
you wearing? Is that a
visiting
gown?”

“What? Oh, yes, sorry. I hadn’t intended to come to your lovely gathering, or I would be more appropriately dressed. But, please listen, you must leave now!”

“Leave this room? Whatever for? It is one of my particular favorites.”

“No, no, leave the house.”

“Abandon my hive? Never! Don’t be foolish, child.”

“But, Countess, there is an octomaton heading in this direction. It wants to kill you and it knows the location.”

“Preposterous. There hasn’t been an octomaton in a dog’s age. And how would it know where to find me?”

“Ah, yes, well, as to that. There was this break-in, you see—”

Lord Ambrose bristled. “Soul-sucker! What have you done?”

“How was I to remember one little invitation from way back?”

The countess went momentarily still, like a wasp atop a slice of melon. “Lady Maccon, who is it that wants to kill me?”

“Oh, too many to choose from? I am similarly blessed.”