Soulless (Parasol Protectorate, #1)

by Gail Carriger

“Well, what brings you to call on me this morning, then, my lord? You certainly have thrown the Loontwill household into a tizzy.” She tilted her head to one side and strove for cool politeness. “Um, aye, apologies for that.” He looked abashedly at the chicken carcasses. “Your family, they are a bit, well”—he paused, hunting for the right word and then appearing to have come up with a new one of his own—“fibberty-jibbitus, are they not?” Alexia’s dark eyes twinkled at him. “You noticed? Imagine having to live with them all the time.”

“Very well, Lord Maccon. If we are going to play this particular hand, would you be interested in becoming my…” Miss Tarabotti scrabbled for the right word. What does one properly call a male lover? She shrugged and grinned. “Mistress?” “What did you say?” roared Lord Maccon, outraged. “Uh. The wrong thing?” suggested Alexia, mystified by this sudden switch in moods. She had no more time to correct her gaffe, for Lord Maccon’s yell had reached out into the hallway, and Mrs. Loontwill, whose curiosity was chomping at the proverbial bit, burst into the room. Only to find her eldest daughter entwined on the couch with Lord Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, behind a table decorated with the carcasses of three dead chickens.

Mrs. Loontwill did what any well-prepared mother would do upon finding her unmarried daughter in the arms of a gentleman werewolf: she had very decorous, and extremely loud, hysterics.

Miss Tarabotti would have moved off the couch and seated herself an appropriate distance from Lord Maccon, but he coiled one arm about her waist and would not let her shift. She glared at him in extreme annoyance from under dark brows. “What are you doing, you horrible man? We are already in enough trouble. Mama will see us married; you see if she does not,” she hissed under her breath. Lord Maccon said only, “Hush up now. Let me handle this.” Then he nuzzled her neck. Which naturally made Miss Tarabotti even more put out and uncomfortable.

Squire Loontwill bumbled into the front parlor with a handful of household accounts he had been in the middle of reckoning. Upon observing Alexia and the earl, he dropped the accounts and sucked his teeth sharply. He then bent to retrieve the paperwork, taking his time so as to consider his options. He ought, of course, to call the earl out. But there were intricate layers to this situation, for the earl and he could not engage in a duel, being as one was supernatural and the other not. As the challenger, Squire Loontwill would have to find a werewolf to fight the earl as his champion. No werewolf of his limited acquaintance would take on the Woolsey Castle Alpha. As far as he knew, no werewolf in London would take on such a Herculean task, not even the dewan. On the other hand, he could always ask the gentleman to do the right thing by his stepdaughter. But who would willingly take on Alexia for life? That was more of a curse than even werewolf change. No, Lord Maccon would probably have to be forced.

Alexia was belligerent. “Nothing of significance has occurred. My honor is still intact.” Mrs. Loontwill stepped forward and slapped her eldest daughter smartly across the face. The cracking sound echoed like a pistol shot through the room. “You are in no position to argue this point, young lady!” Felicity and Evylin gasped in unison and stopped giggling. Floote made an involuntary movement from his statuelike state near the door. Lord Maccon, faster than anyone’s eye could catch, suddenly appeared next to Mrs. Loontwill, a steel grip about her wrist. “I would not do that again, if I were you, madam,” he said. His voice was soft and low and his expression bland. But there was a kind of anger in the air that was all predator: cold, impartial, and deadly. The anger that wanted to bite and had the teeth to back it up. This was a side of Lord Maccon that no one had seen before—not even Miss Tarabotti. Squire Loontwill had the distinct impression that, regardless of his decision, Alexia was now no longer his responsibility. He also had the impression that his wife was actually in danger of her life.

“Mama, I will not marry the earl against his will. Should you or Squire Loontwill attempt to coerce me, I will simply not submit to the ceremony. You will be left looking like fools among family and friends, and me silent at the altar.” Lord Maccon looked down at her. “Why? What is wrong with me?”

This shocked Mrs. Loontwill into speaking again. “You mean you are willing to marry Alexia?” Lord Maccon looked at her like she had gone insane. “Of course I am.” “Let us be perfectly clear here,” said Squire Loontwill. “You are willing to marry our Alexia, even though she is… well…,” he floundered. Felicity came to his rescue. “Old.” Evylin added, “And plain.” “And tan,” said Felicity. The squire continued. “And so extraordinarily assertive.” Miss Tarabotti was nodding agreement. “My point exactly! He cannot possibly want to marry me. I will not have him forced into such an arrangement merely because he is a gentleman and feels he ought. It is simply that it is near to full moon, and things have gotten out of hand. Or”—she frowned—“should I say too much in hand?” Lord Maccon glanced about at Alexia’s family. No wonder she devalued herself, growing up in this kind of environment.

She held up her hand when he would have protested. “We have been caught in a compromising position, and you are trying to do the best by me.” She stubbornly refused to believe his interest and intentions were genuine. Before her family had interrupted them, and during all previous encounters, no mention of marriage had ever passed his lips. Nor, she thought sadly, had the word love. “I do appreciate your integrity, but I will not have you coerced. Nor will I be manipulated into a loveless union based entirely on salacious urges.” She looked into his yellow eyes. “Please understand my position.” As though her family were not watching, he touched the side of her face, stroking the cheek her mother had hit. “I understand that you have been taught for far too long that you are unworthy.”

Clearly, the damage done could not be mended with a few words from him in the space of one disastrous morning.

“Do not interfere, Mrs. Loontwill. Knowing Alexia, your approbation is likely to turn her more surely against me than anything else possibly could.” Mrs. Loontwill looked like she would like to take offense, but given this was the Earl of Woolsey, she resisted the inclination. Then Lord Maccon turned to Squire Loontwill. “Understand, my good sir, that my intentions are honorable. It is the lady who resists, but she must be allowed to make up her own mind. I, too, will not have her coerced. Both of you, stay out of this.” He paused in the doorway, donning his hat and coat and baring his teeth at the Loontwill girls. “And, you two, keep quiet. Your sister’s reputation is at stake, and never doubt that it drastically impacts your own. I am not one to be trifled with in this matter.

“Lord Maccon and I are currently not on speaking terms.” “Good gracious me, why ever not? It is so much more fun when you are.” Lord Akeldama had seen Miss Tarabotti and the earl through many an argument, but neither had ever resorted to silence before. That would defeat the purpose of their association. “My mother wants him to marry me. And he agreed!” said Miss Tarabotti, as though that explained everything.

“Now, hold just a moment,” insisted Alexia. “I refused him.” “You did what?” Now Lord Akeldama really was startled. “After leading him on for so many years! That is just plain cruel, my rosebud. How could you? He is only a werewolf, and they can be terribly emotional creatures, you understand? Quite sensitive about these things. You could do permanent damage!” Miss Tarabotti frowned at this unexpected diatribe. Wasn’t her friend supposed to be on her side?

“I understand you have heard some of Mr. MacDougall’s theories?” Miss Tarabotti thought back to that morning drive. It seemed to have occurred an age ago, to a different person, in a different time. However, she did remember much of the conversation, for it had been most diverting. “I recall some,” she replied cautiously, “to the best of my recollection and limited feminine capacities, of course.” Alexia hated to do it, but it was always advantageous to undermine one’s enemy’s confidence in one’s intelligence. Mr. MacDougall gave her a shocked glance. As subtly as possible, Alexia winked at him. He looked as though he might faint but sat back in his chair, clearly of a mind to let her deal with the situation in whatever way she saw fit. Miss Tarabotti had the transitory idea that he might be suitable husband material after all.

And then realized that a lifelong alliance with a man of such weak character would certainly turn her into a veritable tyrant.

Siemons smiled in a superior manner at this explanation. Alexia was seized with a quite unladylike desire to slap the smug expression right off his fat face. With those jowls, her hand would probably make a very satisfying smack.

“Why, Lord Maccon, you are stark naked!” Alexia said. She was appalled beyond all reason by this last in the long string of indignities she had had to suffer in the space of one torturous evening. The Earl of Woolsey was indeed completely nude. He did not seem particularly perturbed by this fact, but Miss Tarabotti felt the sudden need to close her eyes tight and think about asparagus or something equally mundane. Coiled about him as she was, her chin wedged over one of his massive shoulders, she was being forced to look down directly at a nicely round, but embarrassing bare, moon. And not the kind that caused werewolves to change either. Although it did seem to be changing aspects of her own anatomy that she would rather not think about. It was all a very heady—or bottomy?—experience.

smelled you,” he admitted gruffly. “It sparked off a whole different set of instincts. I do remember being very confused, but not much else.” “What kind of different instincts?” Miss Tarabotti asked archly. She knew she was treading dangerous ground, but for some reason she could not resist encouraging him. She wanted to hear him say it. She wondered at what time she had become such a hardened flirt. Well, she reasoned, one must get something from one’s mother’s side of the family. “Mmm. The reproductive variety.”

“Well, my love,” said Alexia with prodigious daring to Lord Maccon, “shall we?” The earl started to move forward and then stopped abruptly and looked down at her, not moving at all. “Am I?” “Are you what?” She peeked up at him through her tangled hair, pretending confusion. There was no possible way she was going to make this easy for him. “Your love?” “Well, you are a werewolf, Scottish, naked, and covered in blood, and I am still holding your hand.”

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.

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.

“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.

“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.

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.

“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.

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.

She took the Loontwills’ carriage without asking and went round to Lord Akeldama’s gilt-edged town house. She sailed in the front door past various drones and woke Lord Akeldama from his deadlike daytime sleep with a touch. Human, he blinked at her groggily. “It is almost sunset,” said Miss Tarabotti with a tiny smile, her hand on his shoulder. “Come with me.” Clad only in his sleeping robe, she took the vampire firmly by the hand and led him up through the splendor of his gilt house and out onto the rooftop into the waning light. Alexia rested her cheek on his shoulder, and they stood silently together and watched the sun set over the city. Lord Akeldama refrained from pointing out she would be late for her own wedding. Miss Tarabotti refrained from pointing out that he was crying.

Lord Akeldama also cried during the ceremony, which took place at Westminster Abbey. Well, he was a bit of a weeper. So did Mrs. Loontwill. Miss Tarabotti, rather callously, figured her mama’s tears were more for the loss of her butler than for the loss of her daughter. Floote had given notice and moved, along with Alexia’s father’s entire library, into Woolsey Castle that very morning. Both were settling in nicely.