Blameless - By Gail Carriger Page 0,75
to still work with the man.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Professor Lyall was a tad surprised; it was rare for the dewan to involve himself in pack business. He and Lord Maccon had never exactly liked each other ever since that fateful game of bridge. Lord Maccon had, in fact, given up cards as a result.
With his usual inappropriate timing, Lord Maccon returned from his jaunt at that very moment. He marched in, clad only in a cloak, which he removed in a sweeping motion and flung carelessly in the vicinity of a nearby hat stand, clearly intent on striding on to the small changing room to don his clothes.
He stilled, naked, sniffing the air. “Oh, hello, Fluffy. What are you doing out of your Buckingham penitentiary?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Professor Lyall, frustrated. “Do hush up, my lord.”
“Lord Maccon, indecent as always, I see,” snapped the dewan, ignoring the earl’s pet name for him.
Now, bound and determined to remain nude, the earl marched around Lyall’s desk to see what he was reading, as it clearly had some connection with the unexpected presence of the second most powerful werewolf in all of Britain.
The dewan, showing considerable self-restraint, ignored Lord Maccon and continued his conversation with Professor Lyall as though the earl had not interrupted them. “I am under the impression the gentleman in question may have also managed to persuade the Westminster Hive to his line of thinking, or he would not have sent that order.”
Professor Lyall frowned. “Ah, well, given—”
“Official extermination mandate! On my wife!”
One would think, after twenty-odd years, Professor Lyall would be used to his Alpha’s yelling, but he still winced when it was conducted with such vigor so close to his ear.
“That lily-livered, bloodsucking sack of rotten meat! I shall drag his sorry carcass out at high noon—you see if I don’t!”
The dewan and Professor Lyall continued their conversation as if Lord Maccon weren’t boiling over next to them like a particularly maltreated porridge.
“Really, by rights, preternaturals,” Lyall spoke coldly, “are BUR’s jurisdiction.”
The dewan tilted his head from side to side in mild agreement. “Yes, well, the fact remains that the vampires seem to think they have a right to take matters onto their own fangs. Clearly, so far as the potentate is concerned, what that woman is carrying is not preternatural and thus no longer BUR’s jurisdiction.”
“That woman is my wife! And they are trying to kill her!” A sudden deep suspicion and sense of betrayal caused the Alpha to turn upon his Beta in accusation. “Randolph Lyall, were you aware of this and yet didna tell me?” He clearly didn’t require an answer. “That’s it; I’m leaving.”
“Yes, yes, well, never mind that.” Professor Lyall tried unsuccessfully to calm his Alpha down. “The question is, what do they think she is carrying?”
The dewan shrugged and pulled his cloak back up over his head, preparing to leave. “I rather think that is your problem. I’ve risked enough bringing this to your attention.”
Professor Lyall stood, reaching over his desk to grasp the other werewolf’s hand. “We appreciate you giving us this information.”
“Just keep my name out of it. This is a domestic matter between Woolsey and the vampires. I wash my fur of the entire debacle. I told you not to marry that woman, Conall. I said no good could possibly come of it. Imagine contracting to a soulless.” He sniffed. “You youngsters, so brash.”
Lord Maccon began to protest at that, but Professor Lyall shook the dewan’s hand firmly in the manner of pack brothers, not challengers. “Understood, and thank you again.”
With one last mildly offended look at the naked, red-faced, sputtering Alpha, the dewan left the office.
Professor Lyall, drawing on long years of practice, said, “We have got to find Lord Akeldama.”
Lord Maccon sobered slightly at that abrupt change in subject. “Why is that vampire never around when you need him, but always around when you don’t?”
“It is an art form.”
Lord Maccon sighed. “Well, I canna help you find the vampire, Randolph, but I do know where the potentate has his object stashed.”
Professor Lyall perked up. “Our ghost overheard something significant?”
“Better, our ghost saw something. A map. I thought we might just go steal the object back, before I leave to fetch my wife.”
“And you still haven’t told me where you sent Channing.”
“It’s possible I was too drunk to remember.”
“It’s possible, but I think not.”
Lord Maccon took that as an opportunity to get dressed, leaving Professor Lyall in possession of the field but not the information.
“So, about