Heartless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Fourth (35 page)

“Lady Maccon!”

Alexia had hoped not to reveal the identity of the culprit. It was one thing to warn the hive of imminent attack; it was quite another to expose Madame Lefoux without first understanding her motives.
Well, perhaps if my
friend
had let me in on her reasoning, I might not now be forced into this situation. But in the end, I am muhjah, and I
must remember that my duty is to maintain the solidarity of the peace between humans and supernatural folk. No matter Madame Lefoux’s grounds, we cannot have a hive arbitrarily attacked by an inventor. It is not only impolitic, it is impolite.

So, Lady Maccon took a deep breath and told the truth. “Madame Lefoux has built the octomaton. She intends to kill you with it.”

The countess’s big cornflower-blue eyes narrowed.

“What!” That was Lord Ambrose.

The Duke of Hematol made his way over toward his queen. “I told you no good would come of taking in that French maid.”

The countess held up a hand. “She’s after the boy.”

“Of course she is after the boy!” The duke’s voice was harsh with annoyance. “Dabble in the affairs of mortal women and this is what transpires. Octomaton at your doorstep. I warned you.”

“Your complaint was recorded by the edict keeper at the time.”

Lady Maccon blinked. “Quesnel? What has he to do with any of this? Wait.” She tilted her head and gave the countess a look. “Did you kidnap Madame Lefoux’s son?”

Alexia often felt it wasn’t possible for a vampire to look guilty. But the countess was giving the expression a fair facsimile.

“Why? I mean, for goodness’ sake.” Lady Maccon shook her finger at the hive queen as though the ancient vampire were a very naughty schoolgirl caught with her hand in the jam jar. “Shame on you! Bad vampire.”

The countess tsked dismissively. “Oh, really. There’s no cause for condescension, soul-sucker. The boy was
promised to us. In her will, Angelique named the hive guardian to her child. We didn’t even know he existed until that moment. Madame Lefoux wouldn’t hear of it, of course. But he
is ours.
And we never let go of what is rightfully ours. We didn’t kidnap him. We
retrieved
him.”

Lady Maccon thought of her own child, now promised away to Lord Akeldama in order to keep them both safe from fang interference and assassination attempts. “Oh, really, Countess.
I mean to say!
What is it with you vampires? Don’t you ever relax your machinations? No wonder Genevieve wants to kill you. Kidnapping. That’s very low. Very low, indeed. What could you possibly want with the boy anyway? He’s a terrible scamp.”

The countess’s round, pleasant face went very hard. “We want him because he is
ours
! What more reason do we need? The law is on our side in this. We have copies of the will.”

Lady Maccon demanded details. “Does it name the hive, or you specifically, Countess?”

“Me alone, I believe.”

Lady Maccon cast her hands heavenward, although there was no one up there for her to appeal to. It was an accepted fact that preternaturals had no spiritual recourse, only pragmatism. Alexia didn’t mind; the latter had often gotten her out of sticky situations, whereas the former seemed highly unreliable when one was in a bind. “Well, there you have it. With no legal recourse, Genevieve only has to see you dead in order to get her child back. Plus, she has the added pleasure of killing the woman who corrupted her lover.”

The countess looked as though she had not thought of matters in such a way.

“You cannot be serious.”

Alexia shrugged. “Consider her perspective.”

The countess stood. “Good point. And she is French. They get terribly emotional, don’t they? Ambrose, arm the defenses. Hematol, send out runners. If it really is an octomaton, we are going to need additional military support. Get me my personal physician. Oh, and bring out the aethertronic Gatling gun.”

Lady Maccon could not help but admire the countess’s command of the situation. Alexia herself was sometimes known, among members of the pack, as
the general.
Of course, the gentlemen in question believed their mistress unaware of this moniker. Alexia preferred it that way and would periodically go into fits of autocratic demands simply to ascertain if she could get them to grumble about it when they thought she couldn’t hear. Werewolves tended to believe all mortals slightly deaf.

As the countess set about putting her people in order, her meal, left to lie on the tea table in soporific languor, stirred. The young blonde raised herself slowly up onto her elbows and looked about foggily.

“Felicity!”

“Oh, dear, Alexia? What on earth are
you
doing here?”

“Me! Me?” Lady Maccon was reduced to sputtering. “What about you? I’ll have you know, sister mine, that I came here because I had an invitation to the party!”

Felicity wiped delicately at the side of her neck with a tea cloth. “I didn’t know you ran in the countess’s circles.”

“You mean, supernatural circles? My husband is a werewolf, for goodness’ sake! Must you keep forgetting that tiny little detail?”

“Yes, but on full-moon night, shouldn’t you be with him? And aren’t you terribly far along to be out in public?”

Lady Maccon practically growled. “Felicity. My presence here is not of concern. But yours most certainly is! What on earth are you doing allowing a vampire—and not just any vampire, mind you, but the ruddy Westminster queen herself—to feed on you? You’re . . . you’re . . . not even chaperoned!” she sputtered.

Felicity’s expression became hard and calculating. Alexia had seen that look before but had never given it much credence beyond smallness of mind. However, this time she had the upsetting realization that she might have underestimated her sister. “Felicity,
what have you done?
”

Felicity gave a humorless little smile.

“How long has this relationship been going on?” Alexia tried to think back. When had her sister first started wearing high-necked dresses and lace collars?

“Oh, Alexia, you can be so dim-witted. Since I met Lord Ambrose at your wedding, of course. He very kindly said that I looked like just the type of creative and ambitious young lady who would have excess soul. He asked if I would like to live forever. I thought to myself, well,
of course
I have excess soul. Mama is always saying what a good artist I would be, should I ever try, and what a good musician I would be, should I ever learn to play. And, most assuredly, I should like to live forever! Not to mention be courted by Lord Ambrose! Then what should the other ladies have to say?”

Lady Maccon ground her teeth together. “Felicity! What have you done? Oh, gracious me, it was you who stole my journal on the dirigible to Scotland, wasn’t it?”

Felicity looked archly up at the ceiling.

“You leaked my pregnancy to the press intentionally, didn’t you?”

Felicity gave a delicate little shrug.

Alexia was quite disgusted with her sister. To be stupid was one thing; to be stupid and evil yielded up untidy consequences. “Why, you conniving bit of baggage! How could you? To your own flesh and blood!” She was also scandalized. “Do pull your dress up. What a neckline!” Alexia was so out of temper, in fact, she nearly forgot that they were all in danger from a rampaging two-story octopus. “And?”

Felicity pursed her lips and looked at the ceiling.

“Go on!”

“Oh, really, sister, there is no need to take that tone of voice with me. All Lord Ambrose wanted was a few reports on your activities and health now and again. Well, and the journal. Until this recent change of address—then we thought if I were to take up residence with you, well, you know . . . And I’ve been visiting with the countess only now and again, let her have a little nibble, relay some information. No harm done. She’s perfectly lovely, isn’t she? Quite the motherly sort.”

“Aside from the neck biting?” Sarcasm was, of course, the lowest form of discourse, but sometimes Alexia couldn’t resist such temptation as her sister offered. That was probably how Countess Nadasdy felt.
Which explains those ugly shawls Felicity’s been wearing. She’s been hiding her neck.

They both turned to watch the countess as she conferred with two of her drones. She was moving lightning fast from one task to the next, preparing to defend her territory with both might and cunning and, if Alexia’s eyes were to be believed, a tin of what looked to be pickled herring. The vampire queen had the demeanor and
appearance of some sort of small, quick hedge bird—a tit, perhaps. If a tit could kill you with a mere nod of its little feathered head.

“Felicity. What did you tell her about me?”

“Well, anything I could think of, of course. But really, Alexia, your activities are very dull. I fail to see why anyone should be interested in you or that child of yours.”

“You would.”

With her hive busy mustering up troops, the countess flitted back over, sat down, and looked as though she intended to return to tea.

Lady Maccon narrowed her eyes, marched the last few feet to the beautiful cream brocade settee, and placed a very firm and very bare hand on the vampire queen’s forearm. Alexia was a good deal stronger than a proper English lady ought to be, and the countess was suddenly ill equipped to shake off such a grip.

“No more tea.” Alexia was quite decided on this point.

The countess looked from her to her sister. “Remarkable, isn’t it? Sisterhood, I mean. One would never guess it to look at you.”

Alexia rolled her eyes, let go of the countess’s arm, and gave her a look of mild reproach. “My sister cannot possibly have been an effective spy.”

The vampire queen shrugged and reached for her tea—the ordinary kind. She sipped at the bone china cup delicately, taking no pleasure or sustenance from the beverage.

Waste of perfectly good tea,
thought Alexia. She looked at Felicity. But, then, the countess probably thought Felicity was a waste of perfectly good blood.

Her sister assumed a dramatically relaxed pose atop the tea trolley, her face petulant.

Alexia reached for a treacle tartlet and popped it into her own mouth.

“You have been conducting some interesting investigations recently, Lady Maccon,” said the vampire queen slyly. “Something to do with your father’s past, if what your sister has relayed is true. And a ghost. I know you are adverse to my advice, but trust me, Lady Maccon, it would be best not to delve too deeply into Alessandro Tarabotti’s records.”

Alexia thought about Floote, who always seemed to know more about her father than he was willing to tell her. Or was allowed to tell her.

“Did you vampires somehow have my father classified? Do you have my butler under a gag order? And now you are corrupting my sister. Really, Countess Nadasdy, why go to such lengths?” Lady Maccon put her hand back onto the vampire queen’s arm, turning her mortal once more.

The countess flinched but did not pull away. “Really, Lady Maccon, must you? It’s a most unsettling sensation.”

At which juncture Lord Ambrose turned and saw what was occurring on the couch.

“Let go of her, you soul-sucking bitch!” He charged across the room.

Alexia let go and raised her parasol.

“Now, Ambrose, no harm done.” The countess sounded placid but her fangs were showing slightly.

Felicity was looking back and forth between the players around her with increasing befuddlement on her pretty face. Since Felicity often wore such a look whenever attempting to understand any conversation not directly concerning herself, Alexia saw no reason to explain. The
last thing Felicity needed to know was that her older sister was anything more than a bother.
That is, assuming Felicity still doesn’t know I’m preternatural. Right now it’s difficult to put anything past her.

Lord Ambrose looked as though he would very much like to strike Lady Maccon.

Still holding the parasol at the defensive, Alexia reached inside her reticule and withdrew Ethel. She then lowered the parasol to reveal the gun now pointed at the vampire.

“Back away a little, if you would, Lord Ambrose. You are making me feel most unwelcome.”

Lord Ambrose did as he was told with a snorted, “You
are
unwelcome.”

“Do I have to keep reminding everyone? I had an invitation!”

“Alexia, you have a gun!” exclaimed Felicity, horrified.

“Yes.” Lady Maccon relaxed back into the settee and allowed the gun to waver slightly over toward the countess. “I should warn you, Lord Ambrose, my aim is not very accurate.”

“And is that gun loaded with . . . ?” He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.

“I should never, of course, admit to the fact that Ethel here is equipped with sundowner bullets. But a few may have
accidentally
made it from my husband’s stock into my own. Can’t imagine how.”

Lord Ambrose backed farther away.

Alexia looked with annoyance at her sister. “Get off the tea trolley, Felicity, do. What a place for a young lady to be sitting. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you are in?”

Felicity sniffed. “You sound just like Mama.”

“Yes, well,
you
are beginning to
act
like Mama!”