Heartless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Fourth (33 page)

Two of the figures inside the hat leaned over the edge, pointing at her.

“Yoo-hoo!” yodeled one of them jovially.

“Over here! Quickly, gentlemen, please, this way!” replied Alexia at full volume, waving her parasol madly.

One of the gentlemen touched the brim of his top hat at her (no tipping was possible with a hat tied down for air travel). “Lady Maccon.”

“By George, Boots! How the deuce can you possibly tell that there is Lady Maccon?” queried the other top-hated gentleman.

“Who else would be standing in the middle of a street on full-moon night with a raging ruddy fire behind her, waving a parasol about?”

“Good point, good point.”

“Lady Maccon,” came the yell. “Would you like a lift?”

“Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps,” said Alexia in exasperation, “ask a silly question . . .”

The dirigible gondola bumped softly down, and she toddled over to it.

Boots and the second young dandy, who proved to be Viscount Trizdale, hopped nimbly out and came to assist her. Tizzy was a slight, effete young blond with an aristocratic nose and a partiality for the color yellow. Boots had a bit more substance in physicality and taste, but not much.

Lady Maccon looked from one to the other of the two gentlemen and then at the side of the gondola that she must now scale. With great reluctance and knowing she had no other choice, she put herself into their well-manicured hands.

No one, later that evening, nor ever again so long as any of them lived, mentioned what had to be done in order to get a very pregnant Lady Maccon into that passenger basket. There was some heaving, and a good deal of squeaking (both from Alexia and Tizzy), and hands might have had to be placed upon portions of the anatomy pleasing to neither Alexia nor her rescuers. Suffice it to say that Lady Maccon had cause to be grateful Lord Akeldama insisted that his drones undertake some sporting activity, for all their fashionable proclivities.

Alexia landed upon her bustle, legs slightly in the air. Gravity being even more forthright than Lady Maccon, she flailed about before managing to roll to one side and climb laboriously to her feet. She had a rather severe stitch in her side, a few bruises on her nether regions, and she was flushed with heat and exertion, but everything else, including the child, seemed to be in working order. The two young men jumped back inside after her.

“What are you doing here?” Lady Maccon demanded, still in shock that her plan to signal for help had actually worked. “Did my husband put a tail on me? What is it with werewolves and tails?”

Tizzy and Boots looked at each other.

Finally Boots said, “It wasn’t entirely the earl, Lady Maccon. Our lord asked us to keep an eye on you this evening as well. He indicated things might come to pass on full moon that required additional recognizance in this part of London, if you take my meaning.”

“How on earth would he know to do a thing like that? Oh, forget I asked. How does Lord Akeldama know anything?” Logic returned along with dignity, and Alexia took stock of her change in circumstances.

Boots shrugged. “Things
always
come to pass on full moon.”

Without having to be directed, the pilot was already taking the small craft back up, away from fire and smoke. He was a diminutive man, clean-shaven, with a snubbed nose and a mercurial expression. His cravat was very well tied and it coordinated perfectly with his waistcoat.

“Don’t tell me.” Alexia looked him up and down. “This dirigible happens to be owned by Lord Akeldama?”

“If that’s what you desire, my lady, we won’t tell you.” Boots looked guilty, as though he were somehow failing her in this request.

Lady Maccon twisted her lips together in thought. The infant-inconvenience kicked at her mightily, and she clutched reflexively at her stomach. “I hate to do this to you, gentlemen, but I find myself in desperate need to call upon Westminster Hive, as quickly as possible. How fast does this contraption go?”

The pilot gave her a cheeky grin. “Oh, you’d be surprised, my lady. Very surprised. Lord Akeldama had this little beauty retrofitted by Madame Lefoux. That he did.”

“I didn’t know they had professional dealings with each other.” Lady Maccon arched an eyebrow.

“I understand this was a first commission. The very first. Lord Akeldama was delighted with her work. Quite delighted. As, indeed, am I. Can’t try floating himself, poor man.” The pilot looked as though he really felt genuinely sorry for the vampire’s inability. “But he’s had this beauty put through her paces around the green, and I assure you, that Frenchwoman is a miracle worker. A miracle worker, I say. The things she can do with aeronautics.”

“She did comment once that it was her specialty at
university. And, of course, there’s always Monsieur Trouvé and the ornithopter.”

The pilot looked up from his activities with a gleam of interest. “Ornithopter you say? I’d heard the French were branching out. My goodness, what a sight that must be.”

“Yes.” Lady Maccon’s voice was low. “Better to see in action than to use oneself, if you ask me.” She raised her voice. “About this dirigible going faster? It’s very important that I put in an appearance within the next few minutes. Why don’t you show me the full extent of this lovely craft’s paces?”

Another grin met that request. “Just point me in the appropriate direction, my lady!”

Alexia did so, gesturing north. They were already above the rooftops, the fire well behind them. She toddled to the edge and looked down: Hyde Park was to their left and a little ahead, while Green Park and the Palace Garden lay spread behind them and to the right. Even so high, she could hear the howling of Queen Victoria’s personal werewolf guard, the Growlers, locked away in one special wing of Buckingham below.

She indicated a point ahead and slightly to the right, between the two parks—the center of Mayfair. The pilot pulled down hard on a doorknob-ended lever, and the craft lurched in that direction, faster than Alexia had thought dirigibles could go. Madame Lefoux’s touch, indeed.

“Does she have a name, Captain?” she yelled into the rushing air.

Both the interest and the title earned Lady Maccon a great deal of loyalty from the young pilot. “ ’Course she does, my lady. Himself calls her
Buffety,
for the rocking motion, I suspect. She’s on the registry as
Dandelion Fluff
Upon a Spoon.
Don’t know as I can rightly explain that one.”

Tizzy tittered knowingly. Lady Maccon and the pilot looked at him, but the young lordling seemed disinclined to elaborate.

Lady Maccon shrugged. “I suppose Lord Akeldama names in mysterious ways.”

Boots, his eyes on Alexia’s other hand, which was still wrapped protectively about her swollen belly, inquired solicitously, “Is it the child, Lady Maccon?”

“The reason for our urgency? Oh, no. I have an invitation to attend Countess Nadasdy’s full-moon party, and I am late.”

Boots and Tizzy nodded their full understanding of this grave social necessity. All speed was indeed called for.

“We shall make haste, then, my lady. We wouldn’t want you to arrive beyond the fashionable hour.”

“Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps.”

“And the fire, my lady?” Boots’s muttonchops fluffed up in the breeze.

Alexia batted her eyelashes. “Fire? What fire?”

“Ah, is that how it is?”

Lady Maccon turned to look once more out of the gondola. She could make out the massive form of the octomaton, careening through the corner of Hyde Park behind Apsley House directly below them. But with another pull on that lever,
Dandelion Fluff Upon a Spoon
surged ahead and on into Mayfair, leaving the rampaging octopus far behind. The drones, having noticed the great crashing beast, made little warbling noises of distress before insisting Alexia tell them
all about it.

The Westminster Hive house was one of many similar fashionable residences. It stood at the end of the block and a little apart from the row, but nothing else distinguished it as special or supernaturally inclined. Perhaps the grounds were a little too well tended and the exterior a little too clean and freshly painted, but no more or less than that customarily afforded by the very wealthy. It was a good-enough address, but not too good, and it was large enough to accommodate the countess, the primary members of her hive, and their drones, but not too large.

On this particular full moon, it was busier than usual, with a number of carriages pulling in at the front and disgorging some of the ton’s very highest and most progressive politicians, aristocrats, and artists. Alexia, as muhjah, knew (although others might not) that the assembled were all in the vampire’s enclave, or employ, or service, or all three. They were attired in their very best, collars starched high, dresses cut low, britches tight, and bustles shapely. It was a parade of consequence—Countess Nadasdy would allow nothing less.

High floating was assuredly a fashionable way to arrive at a party, the latest and greatest, some might say. But it was not at all convenient for a street already clogged with private carriages and hired hansoms. As the dirigible neared, a few of the horses spooked, rearing and neighing. Ground conveyances crashed into one another in their efforts to clear space, which resulted in a good deal of yelling.

“Who do they think they are, arriving like that?” wondered one elderly gentleman.

Vampires enjoyed investing in the latest inventions,
and they did have trade concerns, most notably with the East India Company, but they were traditionalists at heart. So, too, were their guests. For no matter how modish the private pleasure dirigible might be in principle, no one approved of it disturbing their own dignified arrival with its puffed-up sense of novelty. Dignity aside, the dirigible was going to land whether they liked it or not, and consequently, space was eventually made. The gondola bumped down in front of the hive house’s wrought-iron fence.

Lady Maccon was left in a quandary. She now had to get out over the side of the passenger basket. She could conceive of no possible way her exit would be any less humiliating than her entry. She did not want to go through such a process again, let alone in front of such august bodies as those now glaring at her. But she could swear she heard the crashing sound of the octomaton, and she really had no time to spare for anyone’s decorum, even her own.

“Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps, Viscount, if you would be so kind?” She puffed out her cheeks and prepared herself for mortification.

“Of course, my lady.” The ever-eager Boots stepped over to assist her. Tizzy, it must be admitted, moved with less alacrity. As they prepared to boost her (there really was no other way of putting it) over the edge of the gondola (at which juncture she foresaw landing on her much-abused bustle yet again), a savior appeared.

No doubt alerted by the disapproving cries and exacerbation of activity in the street, Miss Mabel Dair emerged from the hive house, dramatically silhouetted against the crowded, well-lit interior. She paused, center stage, on the front stoop. She wore an evening gown the color of old gold
with a low square neckline, trimmed with loops of black lace and pink silk roses. There were fresh roses in her hair and her bustle was full—the more risqué trends out of Paris with the smaller bustle and form-fitting bodice were not for her. No, here, under her mistress’s guarded eye, even an actress like Miss Dair dressed demurely.

Lady Alexia Maccon, at the side of a dirigible passenger basket, looked as though she was in imminent danger of not playing by the rules.

Miss Dair yelled from the step, using her stage voice to cut through the noise of the crowded street. “Why, Lady Maccon, how delightful. We did not expect you. Especially not in so elaborate a transport.”

“Good evening, Miss Dair. It is rather smart, isn’t it? Unfortunately, I seem to be having difficulty getting out.”

Miss Dair bit her lower lip, hiding a smile. “Let me fetch some help.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, Miss Dair, but I
am
in a wee bit of a hurry.”

“Of course you are, Lady Maccon.” The actress turned back into the house, signaling with a sharp gesticulation of a satin-gloved hand. Mere moments later, she turned and traipsed down the steps followed by a veritable herd of dignified-looking footmen, all of whom took to the lifting and depositing of Lady Maccon as they would any household task, with gravely serious faces and not one flicker of amusement.

Once Alexia had attained her freedom, Boots touched his hat brim with one gray-gloved hand. “A very good evening to you, Lady Maccon.”

“You won’t be joining me?”

Boots exchanged a telling look with Mabel Dair. “Not at this particular party, my lady. We would make things”—he paused delicately—“prickly.”

Lady Maccon nodded her understanding and gave the matter no further thought. There are some places where, despite their universal skills at being ubiquitous, even Lord Akeldama’s drones could not go.

Mabel Dair offered Lady Maccon her arm. Alexia took it gratefully, although she firmed her grip on her parasol with her free hand. She was, after all, entering a hive house, and despite the strictures of polite society, vampires had never looked upon her, and her soullessness, with any degree of acceptance. On every prior occasion but one, Lady Maccon had visited this hive with her husband. Tonight she was going in alone. Miss Mabel Dair may have her arm, but Alexia knew very well that the actress did
not
have her back.