Blameless - By Gail Carriger Page 0,78

gratin, if you take my meaning. You will hardly be surprised when I tell you, London is all in uproars over the impending nuptials! I do hope this letter finds you well. As always, your dearest friend, Ivy.’ ”

Alexia folded the letter up, smiling. It was nice to be reminded of the mundanities of everyday life where there were no Templars stalking one through the streets of Florence, no drones in armed pursuit, and nothing was more worrisome than Miss Wibbley and her “au gratin” antics. “Well, what do you make of that?”

Madame Lefoux gave Alexia a particularly droll look. “Just out of finishing school, indeed.”

“I know. Shocking. Most girls recently out of finishing school are like soufflés: puffed up, not very substantial inside, and prone to collapsing at the slightest provocation.”

Madame Lefoux laughed. “And earmuffs with hair attached. How is it you English put it? I say!”

Floote returned with a pony and trap for their bags.

Alexia smiled, but she was, she hated to admit it, a little disappointed. She could not help noticing that there had been no mention of Lord Maccon, nor the Woolsey Pack, in Ivy’s letter. Either Ivy was being circumspect—which was about as likely as Floote suddenly dancing an Irish jig—or the London werewolves were staying well out of the social limelight.

“You may find yourself the exclusive owner of a highly profitable hairmuff business instead.”

Madame Lefoux flipped the newspaper clipping over and then stilled, face drawn.

“What is it? Genevieve, are you unwell?”

Mutely, the inventor passed the bit of paper back to Alexia.

It wasn’t the whole of the article, just a section of it, but it was enough.

“… surprised us all with a printed apology to his wife in the Morning Post. He has claimed that all previous rumors and accusations were not only false, but his fault, and that the child is not only his, but a miracle of modern science. Speculation is rampant as to the earl’s purpose in issuing this retraction. No one has seen Lady Maccon since…”

Alexia’s knees, previously quite reliable support structures, failed her, and she sat suddenly straight down onto the stone floor of the customs depot.

“Oh,” she said, because it was all she could think to say, followed by, “Blast.”

Then, surprising everyone, including herself, she started to cry. And not in the elegant, slow-dripping manner of true ladies of quality, but in loud embarrassing sobs like a little child.

Madame Lefoux and Floote stared down at her in stunned silence.

Alexia simply went on crying. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop.

Madame Lefoux finally reacted, crouching down to wrap her friend in a bony but comforting embrace. “Alexia, my dear, what is wrong? Isn’t this a good thing?”

“B-b-b-bastard,” blubbered Alexia.

Madame Lefoux was clearly at a loss.

Alexia, taking pity on her, tried desperately to control herself and explain. “I was doing so well, being angry at him.”

“So you are crying because you cannot be angry at him anymore?”

“No. Yes!” Alexia wailed.

Floote handed over a large handkerchief. “It is relief, madam,” he explained to the Frenchwoman.

“Ah.” Madame Lefoux applied said square of cotton to Alexia’s blotchy face with tender care.

Alexia realized she was making a spectacle of herself and tried to stand. Too many things were going on in her head at once, and it was causing her eyes to leak. She took a deep, shaky breath and blew her nose loudly into Floote’s handkerchief.

Madame Lefoux patted her back, still looking at her in concern, but Floote’s attention had shifted.

Alexia followed his gaze. Four robust-looking young men were heading purposefully in their direction across the garden.

“Those are definitely not Templars,” said Madame Lefoux with conviction.

“No nightgowns,” agreed Alexia, sniffing.

“Drones?”

“Drones.” Alexia stuffed the handkerchief up one sleeve and got shakily to her feet.

This time the drones looked to be taking no chances: each man held a wicked-looking knife and walked with decided purpose.

Alexia heard a faint shout and thought she could see, some way across the green, their group of Templar shadows running in their direction. They would in no way be fast enough.

Alexia raised her parasol in one hand and the clerk’s letter opener in the other. Madame Lefoux reached for her cravat pins. Finding she wore no cravat, she swore and groped blindly for the nearest heavy object, coming up with her stealth hatbox, the heavy one that contained her tools, from the stack of luggage in the cart behind them. Floote relaxed into a kind of loose-limbed fighting stance that Alexia had seen before: in a battle to defend the location