their ideas have merit. Not the least of which being the fact that this particular theory has temporarily halted Templar-sanctioned vivisections of supernatural test subjects.”
“You are a progressive?” Alexia was surprised.
“I try to stay out of politics. However, England seems to be doing rather well having openly accepted the supernatural. That is not to say I approve. Making them hide, however, has its disadvantages. I should love to have access to some of the vampires’ scientific investigations for one; the things they know about clocks! I also do not believe the supernatural should be hunted down and treated like animals as in the Italian mode.”
The little room in which they sat turned a pretty shade of gold as the sun began to set over the Parisian rooftops.
The clockmaker paused upon noticing the change. “Well, well, we have chatted long enough, I suspect. You must be exhausted. You will be staying the night with me, of course?”
“If you don’t mind the imposition, cousin.”
“It’s no trouble at all. So long as you forgive the arrangements, for they will be quite cramped. I am afraid you ladies will have to bunk down together.”
Alexia gave Madame Lefoux an assessing look. The Frenchwoman had made her preferences, and her interest, clear. “I suspect my virtue is safe.”
Floote looked as though he would like to object.
Alexia gave him a funny look. There was no possible way her father’s ex-valet could be a prude in matters of the flesh. Was there? Floote had terribly rigid ideas about sensible dress and public behavior, but he had never batted a single eye at the entirely untoward private doings of Woolsey Castle’s rambunctious werewolf pack. On the other hand, he had never particularly liked Lord Akeldama, either. Alexia twitched a small frown in his direction.
Floote gave her a blank stare.
Perhaps he still mistrusted Madame Lefoux for some other reason?
Since puzzling over the matter would certainly yield no results, and talking to Floote—or, more precisely, at Floote—never did any good, Alexia swept by him and followed Monsieur Trouvé up the hallway to a tiny bedroom.
Alexia had changed into a claret-colored taffeta visiting dress and was just enjoying a little nap before supper when the most amazing racket awakened her. It seemed to be emanating from the downstairs clock shop.
“Oh, for the love of treacle, what now?”
Grabbing her parasol in one hand and her dispatch case in the other, she charged out into the hallway. It was very dark, as the lights in the apartment were not yet lit. A warm glow emanated up from the shop below.
Alexia bumped into Floote at the top of the stairs.
“Madame Lefoux and Monsieur Trouvé have been consulting on matters clock-related while you rested,” he informed her softly.
“That cannot possibly account for such a hullabaloo.”
Something crashed into the front door. Unlike London, the Paris shops did not stay open late in order to cater to werewolves and vampires. They shut down before sunset, locked firmly against any possible supernatural clientele.
Alexia and Floote bounded down the stairs—as much as a dignified butler-type personage and a pregnant woman of substance can be said to bound. There Alexia thought Paris’s closed-door policy might well have its merits. For just as she entered the clock shop, four large vampires did the same by way of the now-broken front door. Their fangs were extended, and they did not look in favor of formal introductions.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Trouble with Vampires
The trouble with vampires, thought Professor Lyall as he cleaned his glassicals with a handkerchief, was that they got hung up on the details. Vampires liked to manipulate things, but when things did not turn out as planned, they lost all capacity for refinement in the resulting chaos. The upshot was that they panicked and resorted to a course of action that never ended as elegantly as they had originally hoped.
“Where is our illustrious Alpha?” asked Hemming, sitting down at the table and helping himself to several slices of ham and a kipper. It was dinnertime for most, but for the werewolves this was breakfast. And since gentlemen were never served at breakfast, the staff merely provided mounds of meat and let the pack and clavigers see to themselves.
“He is in the clink and has been all day, sobering up. He was so drunk last night he went wolf. The dungeon seemed like the best place to stash him.”
“Golly.”
“Women will do that to a soul. Best avoided, if you ask me.” Adelphus Bluebutton wandered in, followed shortly thereafter by Rafe and Phelan, two of