“Oh, gol y!” Evylin seemed to have found the troublesome passage. She read it out for al to hear. “‘London was flabbergasted last week when news reached this reporter’s ears that Lady Maccon, previously Alexia Tarabotti, daughter of Mrs. Loontwil , sister to Felicity and Evylin, and stepdaughter to the Honorable Squire Loontwil , had quit her husband’s house, after returning from Scotland without said husband. Speculation as to the reason has been ample, ranging from suspicions as to Lady Maccon’s intimate relationship with the rove vampire Lord Akeldama, to suspected family differences hinted at by the Misses Loontwil ’—oh look, Felicity, they mentioned us twice!—‘and certain lower-class social acquaintances. Lady Maccon cut quite a fashionable swath through London society after her marriage’—la, la, la… Ah! Here it picks up again—‘but it has been revealed by sources intimately connected to the noble couple that Lady Maccon is, in fact, in a most delicate condition. Given Lord Maccon’s age, supernatural inclination, and legal y recognized postnecrosis status, it must be assumed that Lady Maccon has been indiscreet. While we await physical confirmation, al signs point to The Scandal of the Century.’ ”

Everyone looked at Alexia and began talking at once.

Evylin snapped the paper closed, the crisp noise silencing her family. “Wel , that explains that! Captain Featherstonehaugh must have read this. Which is why he broke off our engagement this morning. Felicity was right! This real y is your fault! How could you be so thoughtless, Alexia?”

“No wonder she’s been off her feed,” commented Squire Loontwil unhelpful y.

Mrs. Loontwil rose to the occasion. “This is simply too much for a mother to endure.

Too much! Alexia, how did you manage to bungle matters so completely? Didn’t I raise you to be a good, respectful girl? Oh, I don’t know what to say!” Words failed Mrs.

Loontwil . Luckily, she did not try to strike her daughter. She had done that once, and it hadn’t worked out well for anyone. Alexia had ended up married as a result.

Alexia stood. Angry again. I spend a considerable time out of temper these days, she reflected. Only four people had known of her unseemly condition. Three of them would never even consider talking to the press. Which left only one option, an option that was currently wearing the most reprehensible blue lace dress, sporting a suspiciously red face, and sitting across from her at the breakfast table.

“Felicity, I should have realized you wouldn’t be able to keep your trap shut!”

“It wasn’t me!” Felicity instantly leaped to the defensive. “It must have been Madame Lefoux. You know how these Frenchwomen are! They’l say anything for a modicum of fame and money.”

“Felicity, you knew about Alexia’s condition and did not inform me?” Mrs. Loontwil recovered from her shock just in time to be shocked again. That Alexia would keep a secret from her own mother was to be expected, but Felicity was supposed to be on Mrs. Loontwil ’s side. The chit had been bribed with enough pairs of shoes over the years.

Lady Alexia Maccon slammed one hand down on the tabletop, causing teacups to rattle ominously, and leaned forward toward her sister. It was an unconscious application of intimidation tactics learned during several months spent living with a werewolf pack.

She was nowhere near as hairy as was general y required for the maneuver, but she stil managed to execute it flawlessly. “Madame Lefoux would do no such thing. I happen to know for a fact she is the soul of discretion. Only one person would talk, and that person is not French. You promised me, Felicity. I gave you my favorite amethyst necklace to keep silent.”

“Is that how you got it?” Evylin was envious.

“Who is the father, then?” asked Squire Loontwil , apparently feeling he ought to try and steer the conversation in a more productive direction. The ladies, fluttering agitatedly al around the table, entirely ignored him. This was a state comfortable to them al . The squire sucked his teeth in resignation and went back to his breakfast.

Felicity went from defensive to sulky. “It was only Miss Wibbley and Miss Twittergaddle. How was I to know they would go running off to the press?”

“Miss Twittergaddle’s father owns the Chirrup. As you are very well aware!” But then Alexia’s anger simmered off slightly. The fact that Felicity had held her tongue for several weeks was practical y a miracle of the third age of mankind. Undoubtedly, Felicity had told the young ladies in order to garner attention, but she probably also knew such gossip would effectively dissolve Evylin’s engagement and ruin Alexia’s life. Sometime after Alexia’s wedding, Felicity had evolved from frivolous to outright spiteful, which, combined with a gooseberry-sized brain, resulted in her being an acutely disastrous human being.

“After al this family has done for you, Alexia!” Mrs. Loontwil continued to heap recriminations on her daughter. “After Herbert permitted you back into the safety of his bosom!” Squire Loontwil looked up at that turn of phrase, then down at his portly frame with disbelief. “After the pains I went through to see you safely married. To go outside of al standards of decency like a common strumpet. It is simply intolerable.”

“Exactly my point al along,” stated Felicity smugly.

Driven to heights of exasperation, Alexia reached for the plate of kippers and, after due consideration of about three seconds, upended it over her sister’s head.

Felicity shrieked something fierce.

“But,” Alexia muttered under the resulting pandemonium, “it is his child. ”

“What was that?” Squire Loontwil brought a hand down sharply on the tabletop this time.

“It is his bloody child. I have not been with anyone else.” Alexia yel ed it over Felicity’s whimpering.

“Alexia! Don’t be crass. There is no need for specifics. Everyone is well aware that is not possible. Your husband is basical y dead, or was basical y dead and is mostly dead now.” Mrs. Loontwil appeared to be confusing herself. She shook her head like a wet poodle and sal ied stoical y on with her diatribe. “Regardless, a werewolf fathering a child is like a vampire or a ghost producing offspring—patently ridiculous.”

“Wel , so is this family, but you al appear to exist in accordance with the natural order.”

“What was that?”

“In this case, ‘ridiculous’ would seem to require a redefinition.” Blast this child to all four corners of hell, anyway, thought Alexia.

“You see how she is?” interjected Felicity, picking kipper off herself and glowering murderously. “She just keeps talking like that. Won’t admit to doing a single thing wrong.

He has chucked her over—are you aware of that? She is not returning to Woolsey because she cannot return. Lord Maccon cast her out. That is why we left Scotland.”

“Oh, my goodness. Herbert! Herbert, did you hear that?” Mrs. Loontwil looked about ready to have the vapors.

Alexia wasn’t certain if this was manufactured distress at Conal publicly booting Alexia or if it was genuine horror at the prospect of having to board her eldest for the foreseeable future.

“Herbert, do something!” Mrs. Loontwil wailed.

“I have died and gone to the land of bad novels,” was Squire Loontwil ’s response. “I am il -equipped to cope with such an occurrence. Leticia, my dear, I leave it entirely in your capable hands.”

A more inappropriate phrase had never yet been applied to his wife, whose hands were capable of nothing more complex than the occasional, highly stressful, bout of embroidery. Mrs. Loontwil cast said hands heavenward and sagged back into her chair in a partial faint.

“Oh, no, you don’t, Papa.” An edge of steel entered Felicity’s tone. “Forgive me for being autocratic, but you must understand Alexia’s continued presence under our roof is entirely untenable. Such a scandal as this wil substantial y hinder our chances of matrimony, even without her actual attendance. You must send her away and forbid her further contact with the family. I recommend we quit London immediately. Perhaps for a European tour?”

Evylin clapped her hands, and Alexia was left wondering how much planning Felicity had put into this little betrayal. She looked hard into her sister’s unexpectedly pitiless face. Deceitful little plonker! I should have hit her with something harder than kippers.

Squire Loontwil was taken aback by Felicity’s forthright talk, but always a man to take the path of least resistance, he took stock of his col apsed wife and fierce-faced daughter and rang the bel for the butler.

“Swilkins, go upstairs immediately and pack Lady Maccon’s things.”

Swilkins remained motionless, impassive in his surprise.

“Now, man!” snapped Felicity.

Swilkins retreated.

Alexia made a little huffing noise of exasperation. Just wait until she told Conal about this latest familial absurdity. Why he’d… Ah, yes, never mind. Her anger once again died, buckling under the ache of a werewolf-sized hole. Attempting to fil up the void with something, she helped herself to a dol op of marmalade and, because she had nothing left to lose, ate it directly off the spoon.

At that, Mrs. Loontwil actual y did faint.

Squire Loontwil gave his wife’s limp form a long look and then, with due consideration, left her there for the time being and retreated to the smoking room.

Alexia remembered her mail, and since she needed a distraction and would rather do anything other than converse further with her sisters, she picked up the first letter and broke the seal. Until that moment, she had actual y thought things couldn’t get any worse.

The seal on the letter was unmistakable—a lion and a unicorn with a crown in between. The message on the interior was equal y forthright. Lady Maccon’s presence was no longer welcome at Buckingham Palace. The Queen of England would henceforth be unable to receive her. Lady Maccon’s duties as a member of the Shadow Council were suspended until further notice. She no longer carried Her Majesty’s confidence or authority. The position of muhjah was once more vacant. She was thanked kindly for her previous services and wished a pleasant day.

Alexia Maccon stood up very decidedly, left the breakfast room, and walked directly into the kitchen, ignoring the startled servants. With barely a pause, she marched over and stuffed the official missive into the huge iron range that dominated the room. It caught fire and immolated instantly. Craving solitude, she went from the kitchen into the back parlor, rather than back to the breakfast room. She wanted to retire to her room and crawl back under the bed covers in a tiny—wel , not that tiny—bal . But she was already dressed, and principles must be maintained even in the direst of times.

She should not have been surprised. For al her progressive politics, Queen Victoria was moral y conservative. She stil wore mourning for her husband, dead, ghosted, and gone for over a decade. And if any woman didn’t look good in black, it was Queen Victoria. There was no way that the queen would al ow Lady Maccon to continue in her clandestine role of preternatural advisor and field agent, even if it remained an entirely secret and classified position. Lady Maccon could not possibly have even a hint of an association with the queen, not now that she had become a social pariah. The morning’s news was probably already common knowledge.

Alexia sighed. The potentate and the dewan, fel ow members of the Shadow Council, would be delighted to see her gone. She hadn’t exactly made life easy for them.

That, too, had been part of the job requirements. She experienced a shiver of apprehension. Without Conal and the Woolsey Pack to protect her, there were probably quite a number of individuals who would count her as better off deceased. She rang the bel for one of the maids and sent her to retrieve her parasol-cum-weapon before the butler packed it away. The maid returned shortly, and Alexia felt slightly comforted by having her favorite accessory on hand.

Her thoughts, unbidden, returned once more to her husband, who had so thoughtful y gifted her with the deadly ornament. Damn and blast Conall. Why didn’t he believe her?

So what if al known history contradicted her? History wasn’t precisely revered for its accuracy at the best of times. Nor was it overflowing with female preternaturals.

Scientifical y, no one understood how she was what she was or did what she did even now, with al England’s vaunted technology. So what if he was mostly dead? Her touch turned him mortal, didn’t it? Why couldn’t it also turn him human enough to be able to give her a child? Was that so impossible to believe? Horrible man. So like a werewolf to get overly emotional and fluff up the duster like that.

Just thinking about him and Alexia became overcome with sentiment. Annoyed at her own weakness, she dabbed the tears away and looked to her other note, expecting more bad news. However, the writing on this one, bold and entirely too flowery, made her give a watery smile. She’d sent a card ’round shortly after she returned to London. She wouldn’t be so rude as to ask, but she had hinted at her uncomfortable domestic situation, and he, of course, would know what had happened. He always knew what was happening.