nerves with the necessary application of a hot beverage. Feeling more the thing, she made several forthright decisions that resulted in her requesting pen and paper from the hostess. She dashed off three quick notes and then settled in to wait out the lazy part of the morning. Several hours passed thus agreeably, with nothing but an occasional lurch from the hatbox to disturb her reverie.
Upon entering Chapeau de Poupe, Professor Lyall thought that the proprietress was looking a little tired and substantially older than when he’d seen her last. This was peculiar, as on all their previous encounters, the lady inventor had possessed that indefatigably French air of agelessness. Of the kind, of course, that did not come from actually being ageless. She was dressed in her usual odd attire—that is to say, masculine clothing. Most of them considered this shockingly inappropriate, but some were coming to expect such eccentricities from artists, authors, and now milliners. That said, Madame Lefoux may have been dressed as a man, but that did not stop her from being stylish about it, employing perfect tailoring and pleasing subtle grays and blues. Professor Lyall approved.
Madame Lefoux glanced up from an emerald-green silk bonnet she was trimming with satin roses. “Ah, she wanted to see you as well? Very good. Sensible of her.”
The establishment was devoid of customers despite the excellent selection of headgear, probably because a polite little sign on the door indicated it was currently closed to visitors. The hats were beautifully arranged, displayed not on stands but dangling at the ends of gold chains attached to the arched ceiling far above. They fell to different heights so that one had to brush through them to cross the shop. The hats swayed slightly as Professor Lyall did so, simulating a pleasing undersea forest.
Professor Lyall took off his hat and bowed. “Sent a note a few hours ago. She has her moments, does our Lady Maccon.”
“And you brought Woolsey’s librarian with you?” Madame Lefoux’s perfectly tended eyebrows arched in surprise. “That is unexpected.”
Floote, having followed Professor Lyall in from the street, tipped his hat to the Frenchwoman in such a way as to indicate mild censure, which Lyall supposed stemmed from the fact that he did not approve of her choice of attire and never had.
“Lady Maccon’s missive indicated his presence might be acceptable.” Lyall set his hat carefully down on the edge of the sales counter, where it would not look as though it were part of the stock. It was a favorite hat. “You are aware that he was valet to Lady Maccon’s father? If we are going to discuss what I believe we are going to discuss, his input might prove invaluable.”
“Was he really? Of course, I knew he was butler to the Loontwills before Alexia’s marriage. I don’t recall her revealing anything further.” Madame Lefoux looked with renewed interest at Floote, who remained stoic under her pointed scrutiny.
“Everything that has happened, up to a point, probably has something to do with Alessandro Tarabotti.” Professor Lyall drew her attention back to himself.
“You believe so, do you? Including this impromptu clandestine meeting of Alexia’s?”
“Isn’t that always the way of things with preternaturals? Should we go somewhere more private?” The open airiness of the hat shop with its long front windows made the Beta feel uncomfortably exposed. He would feel more relaxed below the shop in Madame Lefoux’s secret underground contrivance chamber.
Madame Lefoux put down her work. “Yes, Alexia will know where to find us. If you would like to—”
She was cut off by a knock sounding at the shop door. Bells jingled charmingly as it was pushed open. A cheerful-looking ginger-haired young blunt entered the room wearing a tan top hat, slightly too-tight red plaid breeches, gaiters, and a wide smile that had the unmistakable air of the theater about it.
“Ah, Tunstell, of course.” Professor Lyall was not surprised at this addition to Lady Maccon’s little gathering.
Floote gave Lord Maccon’s former claviger a nod. Then he slipped past him to shut the shop door and check the CLOSED sign. He’d only lately been made Alexia’s personal secretary and librarian; before that he’d been a very good butler. Sometimes it was hard to take the butlering out of a fellow, especially where doors were concerned.
“What ho, Professor? Lady Maccon’s note didn’t say you’d be here. What a pleasure, indeed. How’s the old wolf?” Tunstell doffed his hat and gave the assembly a sweeping bow and an even wider grin.