unmistakable—a lion and a unicorn with a crown in between. The message on the interior was equally 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—well, not that tiny—ball. But she was already dressed, and principles must be maintained even in the direst of times.
She should not have been surprised. For all her progressive politics, Queen Victoria was morally conservative. She still 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 allow 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, fellow 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 Conall 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 bell 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 thoughtfully gifted her with the deadly ornament. Damn and blast Conall. Why didn’t he believe her? So what if all known history contradicted her? History wasn’t precisely revered for its accuracy at the best of times. Nor was it overflowing with female preternaturals. Scientifically, no one understood how she was what she was or did what she did even now, with all 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.
“My darling Chamomile Button!” he wrote. “I received your card, and given certain recent intelligence, it has occurred to me that you may be in ever-increasing need of accommodation but were far too polite to request it openly. Let me tender my most humble offer, to the only person in all of England currently thought more outrageous than myself. You would be welcome to share my unworthy domicile and hospitality, such as they are. Yours, et cetera, Lord Akeldama.”
Alexia grinned. She had been hoping he would read the appeal behind her formal social nicety. Even though his card had been written before her condition had become public knowledge, she suspected her vampire friend would still be amenable to an extended visit and had probably already known about the pregnancy. Lord Akeldama was a rove of such