Meat Cute: The Hedgehog Incident
Date: 2020-02-16 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Steampunk; Fantasy; Romance; Paranormal; Short Stories; Historical Fiction; Fiction; Historical; Urban Fantasy; Novella
Description: A Parasol Protectorate Prequel Short From the comedic mind of New York Times bestseller Gail Carriger comes the much requested prequel short story to Soulless. Alexia Tarabotti attends what appears to be a very dull London party, until the new werewolf Alpha turns up, is unconscionably rude to her, and sits on a hedgehog. Don’t miss this charming novelette featuring the very first encounter between the Parasolverse’s most popular power couple, preternatural Alexia and supernatural Lord Conall Maccon. Look out for cheeky appearances from other much beloved characters, not to mention the strateg
Publisher: Gail Carriger LLC

MEAT

CUTE

THE HEDGEHOG INCIDENT

Gail Carriger

Wait, what am I reading?

From the comedic mind of New York Times bestseller Gail Carriger comes the much requested prequel short story to Soulless.

In Meat Cute, Alexia Tarabotti attends what seems to be a very dull London party, until the new werewolf Alpha turns up, Lord Conall Maccon. He is unconscionably rude to her and sits on a hedgehog.

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A Note On Chronology

Set in the spring of 1872 this story occurs just prior to events chronicled in The Parasol Protectorate series featuring this couple (Soulless, Changeless, Blameless, Heartless, Timeless) and after those in Defy or Defend. Alexia also appears briefly in Romancing the Inventor, and Conall is referenced in The Finishing School series.

CONTENTS

About Meat Cute

A Note on Chronology

Meat Cute

Poison or Protect Excerpt

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Want More Gail Carriger?

About the Writerbeast

Copyright

Meat Cute

The Hedgehog Incident

April 1872

The chaperone and the footman walked together down the dingy alleyway towards the house party. It was not an alley where staff should be seen walking. Frankly, it was not an alley where anyone should be seen walking, except perhaps drunkards and the occasional stray cat.

Add to that the fact that they were an incongruous pair, the chaperone and the footman, and no doubt eyebrows would have been raised had anyone seen them. No one did. Which was as they intended. All eyebrows were assured normal resting position.

The footman was a young man, barely eighteen, with a sweet, open countenance and mahogany-dark skin. He looked gentle and rather kind, but he moved like a predator. This gave the impression of the type of man who most likely would make you laugh right before he oh so efficiently killed you. With minimal blood loss, no stains to the carpet, and copious apologies. But still, death.

The chaperone was an older woman, with dull grey hair stuffed severely under a cap and a gown that did her no favors. The dress was a faded salmon silk with yellow lace trim some five years out of style. It had too many orange ruffles at the hem and neck, adding to its bulk and misery. Frumpy, dumpy, and like words instantly sprang to mind. She moved as though she were half her own age, her steps light and arrogant, until they were within sight of their target house. Then, suddenly, her posture shifted. She curled in upon herself until her gait matched her age and her expression became one of parsimony and judgment perfectly suited to the shabby state of her Sunday best. She was someone’s maiden aunt, easily dismissed and best forgotten.

Creatures of the shadows inhabit all levels of society and some of them work hard not to be observed.

The footman took note of his companion’s reduced pace and slumped posture.

“You are a shifter, my heart, in your way.” He slowed to match her pace.

The companion gave him a slow blink, her version of approval. Her voice, when it emerged, was not her true low, musical timbre. It was roughened, as if by drink and time. “There is something else I’ll need to do, while we’re in there.”

“There is always something else.” He looked concerned. He was not so good at hiding his feelings as she. “Are you playing two hands tonight?”

“No. I’m loyal to our employer. This time. There is another matter in which I have an interest. A match to arrange.”

“Dangerous?”

“Not for me.”

No help with that observation. She would say that about most things. It was true, though. Nine times out of ten, she was the most dangerous thing in the room.

The footman smiled to himself. Even when we’re in that room together, and me a werewolf, I’d lay the odds in her favor.

He pressed her gently for more. “Are the parties in question aware of our connections?”

“No. Nor will they be. This is not that kind of match.”

“Is it connected to our official task?”

“It is.”

“You know you cannot actually kill two birds with one stone?”

“True, but I can disturb two werewolves with one soulless.”

The footman frowned. This was already a delicate business. One match was enough per evening, especially when werewolves were involved.

“And this will help.” She raised her chaperone’s basket. It was a wicker affair, largish and round, with a tight weave to disguise its contents. It might contain any manner of things, including the expected supplies of a maiden aunt, such as needle and thread and smelling salts. Of course, the spools of thread would be garrotes and the salts more deadly than reviving.

She lifted the lid and a wiggly pink nose poked out inquisitively.

“A hedgehog?” He was startled, then pleased. He should be used to the sensation, but it delighted him that after so many years, she still surprised him. Which, to an immortal, also meant joy.

“Two hedgehogs. Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“The first one doesn’t work.”

She closed the lid. He realized then that the basket was shaped like a chicken.

“You’re a hedgehog smuggler. A chicken transport hedgehog smuggler.”

“Someone has to be.”

“Do they indeed?”

Her face was very bland. “Yes.”

He hid his grin. “I adore you, you know.”

Her face was even more bland. “Yes.”

The swell of warmth was infinite, that she accepted them together so readily – he had never learned to take that for granted. He hoped he never would.

“Do we anticipate other players?” He returned them to the business at hand.

“Not as such. I will need to make use of Winston.”

The footman’s face lost a little of its perennial cheer. “Are you sure that’s wise? We wouldn’t want to jeopardize the mission.”

“It is not so complicated as to be beyond his abilities. Nor is managing him beyond mine.” There was no pride in her statement, simply truth.

“Very little is, my heart. It doesn’t mean you must do a thing, simply because you can.”

“Oh, in this instance I think I must.” She flashed him a smile then.

It was the small, tight, vicious smile that he loved with all that was left of his soul. It was the one that said she was being careful, and wicked, and arranging the world to her exact specifications. He, like the world, was pierced by the sharp anticipation of it, eager to see what she could do, for she did it so very beautifully.

He let himself smile in reply. Showing his joy and pride in her secrecy, for only he would know that it was his lady who had arranged it all. The privilege of the shadows. His privilege.

“You know I will help you,” he said.

“I never doubted it for a moment.”

Alexia Tarabotti would not be moved from the punch bowl. She had selected her station for the evening and would wallflower there with the best of them. She should be good at it by now; it was all she ever did at a party. And in this instance, as it was remarkably tasty punch, any relocation seemed fraught with fruitlessness.

The gathering, it must be said, was a failure, like so many of Alexia’s evenings of late. Certainly not by their host’s standards, for in that respect it was a veritable crush. The large house was stuffed near to bursting with beautiful dresses, fine manners, and mild insults. The card-room emitted the requisite cigar smoke, impolitic politics, and raucous masculine laughter. The string quartet tinkled encouragingly in the ballroom, where gentlemen obliged young ladies of superior fashion and ignored Alexia Tarabotti.

From her position by the punch, Alexia could see that her sisters were having a lovely time. Or perhaps one might say that they were putting on a terribly decent show of having a lovely time. They fluttered their eyelashes at dance partners, they giggled encouragingly at witticisms, and they waved fans in tolerably flirtatious code. They were not so wealthy as to attract throngs of admirers, but they did very well for themselves by solidly representing the gentry as only the most vapid could. Their dresses were very pretty and modish; Felicity’s of pale blue and yellow with plenty of rosettes, and Evylin’s of white and pink with a number of bows. No doubt there were the same number of bows as there were rosettes or words would have been exchanged. They flitted, like sinister butterflies, from refreshment alcove to music room to dance floor, alighting upon each for the exact amount of time society dictated and no more.

Miss Tarabotti, on the other hand, stayed by the punch and wished for something stronger. Not that she knew what something stronger might taste like, or do to her, but when one was faced with the burden of two sisters flitting, one felt the burning desire for a beverage that burned on the way down. The gentlemen in the card-room always seemed to have the most jovial time at any society gathering. Alexia refused to believe this was the result of either the gentlemen (who were merely older imitations of the ones forced to dance, and thus insipid at best and boorish at worst) or the cards, so it must be the brandy that so often accompanied the smoking.

Alexia thought she might quite like brandy. It might help her to cope with her own dress, which was also modish (because Alexia’s mother couldn’t countenance being thought mean) but profoundly unflattering. Mrs Loontwill, Alexia’s mother, had been told that her eldest daughter ought to wear bright colors and seemed to have decided as a result that Alexia ought to wear them all together at once. Her dress was cerulean blue, which would’ve been fine, except that the scalloped edges were trimmed first in marigold yellow, and then in black lace. Given that Alexia was dark of hair and skin and eyes, the dress did her no favors, and made her feel not unlike a circus performer or a stage actress.

When I am an old spinster, she thought, I shall wear nothing but jewel tones and drink all the brandy I like. Then she corrected herself. When I am an older, independent spinster. By society’s standards she was long in the tooth and on the shelf already, the color of the dress only helping to make this point, even if punch-based land occupation and wallflower status had not.

She glanced up from a thorough examination of her yellow gloves, which she held in one hand so that she might drink punch with the other, and noticed that her mother was heading in her direction. Desperately, she cast about, hoping for salvation.

But this was a house party. No salvation was to be had here for an unwed girl in her mid-twenties.

“Alexia, there you are,” said Mrs Loontwill, lips scrunched as if she had eaten something bitter.

“Here, as you say, I am. Precisely where you left me, Mother.”

“Oh, why must you be so difficult?” Mrs Loontwill swished her own dress as she drew to a stop before Alexia and tapped one gloved hand with her fan.

Mrs Loontwill had made no allowances for her own age with her gown, which much resembled those of her younger daughters. It was cream and lavender and festooned with yellow silk peonies. Alexia had no doubt that there were twice as many peonies on her mother’s gown as there were bows on Evylin’s or rosettes on Felicity’s.

“May I help you, Mother?”

“Why couldn’t you have learned to play? Young ladies without other attributes ought to develop a demonstrable skill. I would even have accepted singing. Perhaps opera. You have the physique of a leading soprano.”

“Mother,” said Alexia, keeping her tone as civil as possible under the circumstances, “no one, and I do mean no one, wishes to hear me sing. As to the other, it was you who fired our only capable governess, remember?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re intimating. You might have taught yourself to play the harp or something dignified like that. It worked with reading.”

Alexia looked past her mother at the dance floor in simulated interest. “You know perfectly well that I can never do anything creative or artistic. It’s not in my nature.”

Mrs Loontwill sneered at her eldest. “So like your father. Honestly, what did I see in that man?”

Alexia was genuinely interested. “I’ve no idea – what did you?”

Mrs Loontwill looked around to ascertain if they were observed. They were not and they’d drifted away from the punch bowl. “He was rather handsome. But what is swarthy and brooding and exotic in a man of his caliber is unfortunate in a girl of yours.”

Alexia tried very hard not to roll her eyes. Her eyes strained under the effort. “So kind, as always, Mother.”

“Well, I do wish you were a touch more normal, dear.” Mrs Loontwill actually attempted to make her tone sympathetic.

“Careful, you might hurt yourself trying to be nice to me.”

Mrs. Loontwill sniffed. “I want you on your best behavior. And for heaven’s sake, where are your gloves?”

Alexia waggled them at her. “I was drinking punch. I cannot leave my gloves on for that.”

“Well, stop drinking anything and put them on, dear, do. We can’t have you touching anyone unexpectedly.”

Alexia looked around at the assembled quality. There was, perhaps, a minor lordling or two in attendance, but most of those present were solid gentry like themselves, no one of truly exalted rank. “Why? Are we expecting vampires?”

“Oh no, dear, no. Nothing so important as all that. But there was talk of perhaps, you understand, the gentlemen of a more hirsute nature giving this humble gathering a look-in.”

“Werewolves? Really? How very disturbing.” Alexia Tarabotti had lived in London all her life, and she had been out since she turned sixteen – perhaps a bit young, but her mother was anxious to see her married. Not that it had worked. Almost a decade later and she was firmly on the shelf. She had been too much, even at sixteen, for most gentlemen to handle: too willful in her manners, too direct in her address, too tan, too tall, too curvy. Too much. And that was without telling anyone of her preternatural affliction. Age had only intensified the too much-ness.

But in all her Seasons spent milling about garden parties and balls, picnics and house calls, horse races and cricket matches, Alexia had yet to actually, formally, meet a werewolf. In the proper way of things. By introduction. She’d been around them, of course. At the occasional high quality party where she circled the dainty sandwiches with the other wallflowers, and werewolves circled the dance floor with the other predators.

But as this was a small gathering by London standards, it might afford her the opportunity to actually speak with a werewolf face to face. Not that she wanted such a thing, of course. Werewolves in London always struck her as rather ominous. But she should like to know she could stand up to conversation with one and maintain her dignity. That was assuming her mother’s information was accurate rumor and not hopeful speculation.

“Loners?” she asked her mother.

“What, dear?” Mrs Loontwill’s attention was caught by something across the room. No doubt something her sisters were doing well, rather than something – everything – that Alexia was doing poorly.

“The werewolf guests, are they pack or loners?”

“Don’t be crass, dear.”

Alexia did roll her eyes this time. “It’s not crass to ask after a supernatural’s station, Mother.”

“Isn’t it? I suppose you’d march right up to a vampire in the street and demand his hive or rove status now, would you?”

Alexia couldn’t respond to such an outrageous statement. To start with, a vampire was never to be found wandering the street.

“Oh Mother, don’t talk nonsense.”

Mrs Loontwill fluttered a hand. “Hush now, girl. Look, there they are now.”

Alexia hated to admit it, but her mother seemed to be in possession of accurate information. They were without a doubt currently in the presence of werewolves.

A group of gentlemen entered the room. The largish ballroom suddenly seemed not so very large. There were only five of them, but they managed to occupy more than their fair share of space and attention, especially one particular gentleman, front and center. He seemed compelled to suck a young lady’s breath away via the crass application of impossibly broad shoulders and an absurdly aggressive glower.

Alexia Tarabotti glowered back.

Not that he noticed her, but there was a principle in play.

The newcomers were all dressed to the height of fashion, although the glowerer in the middle was a tiny bit rumpled. They were all very big, although the one to the far right was smaller and seemed quietly amused by everyone’s reactions to his compatriots.

The crowd had, indeed, reacted. A collective inhalation, not quite a gasp. Titillation and horror and, of course, fear rippled through the assembly. For there was no way around the fact that they were now being confronted by predators, socially and physically, and for one stomach-churning moment everyone in that room felt hunted.

Everyone except, of course, Alexia Tarabotti.

She was caught counter-glowering by the smallest werewolf. He met her frown with subdued glee and gave her a sardonic little bow. He looked faintly familiar.

The big one, the leader, who must also be the Alpha, turned his frown upon Alexia then, his attention homing in on his pack mate’s small acknowledgement.

Lord Maccon, Earl of Woolsey. It had to be. The relatively new Alpha, come from Scotland to infiltrate London society. Or so the gossip went. He looked more inclined to conquer London at the moment. And possibly set it on fire after pillaging it of every single meat pie.

Or something.

His eyes were fierce and tawny brown, almost yellow. Alexia met them without fear. She was no maiden on the marriage mart to lower her lashes and blush. She was no prey animal, either. He had to know of her existence in his city. BUR would’ve informed him the moment he established residence. The Bureau of Unnatural Registry had kept close tabs on Alexia Tarabotti since birth. A preternatural in their midst. A soulless female, a rarity, a strange kind of threat… or a useful kind of weapon.

Except that her mother had accidentally arranged it so that Alexia was neither. She was nothing more than an awkward spinster in an ugly dress. Sometimes she thought BUR was grateful for this. She might have been dangerous, but Mrs Loontwill had made Alexia useless through willful miseducation, poor presentation, and the expected resulting disregard. Or perhaps I did it to myself, thought Alexia. It was easy for London society to forget about a female. And with Alexia, it seemed, everyone preferred it that way.

Except Alexia.

So she glared at the werewolf.

His yellow eyes narrowed.

Then abruptly his attention shifted. The hosts of the gathering accosted him with excessive courtesy, welcoming him to their not at all humble home with gestures too wide and praise too effusive.

Alexia turned back to her mother.

But Mrs Loontwill was gone, no doubt to find her sisters and arrange for them to meet the werewolves as soon as may be. After all, they were beautiful girls, and werewolves had been known, on occasion, to take wives. Mrs Loontwill would get no grandchildren from such a match, but she would get increased social standing and unparalleled social connections, and she did have three daughters. Not that Alexia counted, of course. Mrs Loontwill could afford to waste a daughter on a werewolf. Of course, she also quite disliked werewolves, but the marriage mart was no place for preferences.

Alexia considered going in search of the library. Except that this seemed like the kind of house where the library had been converted into a fern conservatory or something atrocious like that.

A tiny cough caught her attention.

The smaller werewolf stood diffidently before her. Not so close as to be at all impertinent; in fact, the exact distance any strange gentleman might be expected to stand from a lady to whom he had not yet been introduced.

Mr Winston Quinton-Burburt stood next to him, red about the ears. Winston had, briefly, courted Alexia’s sister, Felicity. He was a nice man, so it was a good thing he’d not lasted. Felicity would’ve eaten him for breakfast – metaphorically speaking, of course. She was not a werewolf.

“Miss Tarabotti?”

“Good evening, Mr Quinton-Burburt.”

“May I introduce Professor Lyall? Professor, this is Miss Tarabotti.” The young man’s expression plainly said he had no idea why a werewolf had dragged him aside to perform introductions to a young lady of Alexia Tarabotti’s poor standing. But when a werewolf asked you to do something, you did it.

“Thank you, Mr Quinton-Burburt,” said the professorial werewolf with a polite but dismissive smile.

His duty done, Quinton-Burburt instantly made good his escape. He sought solace from the awkward interaction in an unexpected place – next to an elderly chaperone of that highly forgettable ilk that circulates parties and gossip in equal measure. The lady in question patted his arm in an approving manner, as if congratulating him on a job well done. Alexia had a moment of recognition. Had they met before? Was that his mother? Surely not. She didn’t seem old enough. Or did she? It was all rather odd, but not odd enough to hold Alexia’s attention for long.

For Alexia Tarabotti was now in the presence of a werewolf.

She liked this one immediately. “How do you do, sir?”

Professor Lyall had a shy manner about him, a slightly self-effacing presence, and a pensive air. He was sandy-haired and brown-eyed and not very remarkable in a way that was entirely unthreatening and thus totally remarkable, in a werewolf. Or perhaps it only felt unthreatening to Alexia. Because of what she was.

“And how do you do, Miss Tarabotti?” His voice was as soft as his regard. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last.”

“You have been meaning to for some time?”

“Of course. You are a rare creature. Even the longest lived amongst us are unaccustomed to a female of your species.”

Alexia looked around, suddenly nervous. “Is that the pack’s design in attending this gathering?”

“No, we had no idea you would be here tonight.”

“This is not a customary haunt of yours?”

“Haunt? No. We have other business to conduct that required our presence here.”

“Business, at a party?”

He inclined his head.

Alexia knew not to inquire further.

A large presence suddenly loomed over them both.

“Lyall,” barked the newcomer, “what are you about?”

Professor Lyall gave a tiny smile. “Miss Tarabotti may I introduce you to Lord Maccon, Earl of Woolsey. Lord Maccon, may I introduce Miss Tarabotti?”

“Why?”

My goodness, thought Alexia, how rude.

Professor Lyall tried again. “Tarabotti? Surely the name must be somewhat familiar. Try, sir, to remember… Tarabotti.”

Alexia turned slightly so that the earl might be included in their circle.

Suddenly that burning tawny gaze was focused on her with critical intensity. “Oh, aye. This is that one?”

Professor Lyall inclined his head.

“She’s bigger than I expected.”

“I beg your pardon!” said Alexia, not quite without reason.

Lord Maccon grinned. His rather harsh features became boyish and engaging. Alexia wouldn’t say handsome, because that was going too far. But he did look, well, better, when he smiled. She had to work hard not to smile back.

Unfortunately, he ruined it by speaking. “You English are such wee fae creatures. A filly of your caliber could take even my weight. I like a good strong lass.”

Alexia goggled. “You want to ride me?”

The man blushed crimson at that. “Och, now, lassie.”

Alexia was about to storm away in a snit (to be compared to a horse – never had she been so insulted in her life!) when the sudden advent of her mother, towing both of her sisters behind, made departure impossible.

“Alexia, darling, introduce us.”

“Alexia?” rumbled Lord Maccon, with something that sounded like approval. “Alexia Tarabotti. Verra exotic.”

Professor Lyall said, sounding long-suffering, “My lord, please.”

“Suits her,” said the werewolf Alpha.

As if he should care! Alexia glared at them both but found herself actually liking her own name for the first time in her life.

Professor Lyall looked half ashamed, half exasperated. “Forgive us, Miss Tarabotti. We cannot take him anywhere.”

“Alexia, darling,” said Mrs Loontwill again, only with added shrillness.

Alexia huffed out a breath, but duty dictated. She purposely got the order of precedence wrong, to put the earl in his place (wherever that was – the gutter, it seemed). “Professor Lyall, Lord Maccon, may I present my mother, Mrs Loontwill, and my sisters, Miss Loontwill and Miss Evylin. Mother, Felicity, Evylin, this is Professor Lyall, and this is Lord Maccon, the Earl of Woolsey.”

Alexia pushed on bravely, taking her best guess on rank with a raised eyebrow. “Professor Lyall is, I believe, Lord Maccon’s Beta?”

Professor Lyall tilted his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. He clearly wasn’t accustomed to people noticing him around such an Alpha. Lord Maccon rather occupied one’s attention in a manner that suggested there was rarely much to spare for the rest of his pack. Which was one of the reasons for Alexia’s guess that Professor Lyall was the man’s Beta. He was exactly the type she would have chosen for the job.

She continued with a dismissive gesture of one gloved hand in the earl’s direction. “Lord Maccon is, as I am sure you are aware, Mother, Alpha of the Woolsey Pack.”

She said pack with great emphasis. Alexia would not allow Mrs Loontwill to forget that she professed to finding the very idea of werewolves distasteful.

The two werewolves looked down at Mrs Loontwill and her daughters. Rather far down, it must be said. All three ladies were rather short.

Felicity and Evylin Loontwill couldn’t be more different from their half-sister. They were fine-boned and white-skinned, with blonde hair and supercilious expressions. Their eyes were big and blue, their gestures narrow and controlled, their heads and hearts empty.

Familial obligation prevented Alexia from hating them, but she certainly didn’t like them very much.

“Oh, my lords,” said Felicity, even knowing Professor Lyall held no title, “you honor us with your presence this evening.”

Lord Maccon looked at her as though he’d prefer to be looking at something else. Which, Alexia thought smugly, must be a new sensation for Felicity.

He rumbled out, “Aye, we do.”

Alexia suppressed a laugh. It was almost worth not storming off to witness her sister trying to cope with this man’s consummate rudeness.

Alexia sidled around and said softly to Professor Lyall, “I see he’s like this with everyone, then? I’m not so special as to be the only lady roundly insulted of an evening?”

“Oh, you’re special.”

Alexia would’ve blushed, but she had to assume this was a reference to her preternatural state. “I take it you know the parameters of my condition?”

“Of course. I’ve been in London much longer than Lord Maccon and I make it my business to know all such things. And what I know, the pack knows. Your kind is rare, and – no offense – dangerous.”

“None taken,” said Alexia. Who rather enjoyed being thought dangerous. It was better than not being thought of at all. “Is that why he was so boorish with me?”

“No, as you say, he’s impertinent with everyone. Although, in your case, I don’t believe it was intentional. And that is unusual for him.”

“Should I take comfort in that?”

“If you like.”

They watched as her sisters and mother attempted to converse with the Alpha werewolf. A great deal of eyelid lowering and fan fluttering seemed to be required – by the ladies, of course, not the earl.

Lord Maccon couldn’t have been less interested. In fact, after a few moments of concentrated exposure to Loontwill flirtations times three, he began looking over at Alexia and Professor Lyall with something like desperation in those ridiculous yellow eyes.

“He’s not very good in society, is he?” Alexia allowed herself to indulge in mild condescension.

“Practically wild when I got him. Would you believe this is a vast improvement?”

“His cravat is crooked.”

“I know.” Professor Lyall gave a small, sad sigh.

Lord Maccon chose that moment to stop talking to the Loontwills. Gesturing them aside, he ostentatiously joined Alexia and Professor Lyall’s private conversation instead. This meant he presented Mrs Loontwill and her daughters with his very broad back. It was almost a cut, except that he clearly didn’t care what others thought, not even enough to cut them.

“What’s going on here then?”

The Professor and Alexia exchanged a long-suffering look.

Lord Maccon bristled like a dandelion gone to seed. “Stop flirting with her, Lyall.”

Professor Lyall looked momentarily horrified.

Alexia felt hot with shame at both comment and reaction. It was not as though she thought the professor was courting her. But they’d been having a perfectly chummy conversation. The Professor seemed the type of man to hide his reactions better than that, so his obvious shock at her expense was insulting. However, his face quickly smoothed out, back to bland congeniality.

Perhaps, Alexia thought, it’s because I’m soulless? Not that she wanted the professor’s suit. It was simply that there was no need for him to be so very appalled at the idea. In truth, the notion was preposterous – as if a werewolf would have anything romantically to do with a preternatural. Quite apart from the fact that she was obviously not tempting as a human woman. Nevertheless, Alexia had believed she and the professor were at least convivial.

She tried not to sound bitter, “I’ll take my large self elsewhere, shall I? A pleasant evening to you both, gentlemen.”

She did not say it had been pleasure to meet them, because it hadn’t.

Well, she thought, as she made her way through the crowd, if that’s how werewolves are, I’m glad not to have spent any time amongst them.

There was indeed no library, and thus lacking her customary sanctuary, Alexia made her way to the conservatory. Some stroke of questionable genius had allowed a harmonium to enter the room. Young ladies of equally questionable genius were displaying their skill upon it with wanton disregard for the eardrums of their victims. Since Alexia had no ear, she hid, immune, behind a large potted palm, and tried to pretend she was enjoying the entertainment.

At least it prevented her mother and sisters from finding her. Not that they were looking.

Mrs Loontwill had long since stopped concerning herself with her eldest daughter. After a certain point in any evening’s entertainment, Alexia was expected to make herself absent.

Really, thought Alexia, I’ve no idea why she even brings me to these things. I suppose there is the off chance I might be compromised and some poor unfortunate soul forced to marry me. That would make Mother happy.

She was preparing herself for the remainder of her evening spent in mild discomfort trying to avoid werewolves, when a footman shimmered up next to her.

He was a personable, dark-skinned young man, who issued her a sweet smile and offered her a wrap. With a start of surprise, she realized it was her own shawl.

“Are we leaving already?” It was early for the Loontwill ladies to depart a gathering, but if something had gone wrong with Felicity (and it would always be Felicity, not Evylin) they might scarper off early. Her heart fluttered in hope.

“No, miss. Did you not indicate that you wished to perambulate about the grounds?”

“Did I? Alone?” Alexia was disgustingly independent, so far as her mother was concerned, but still. To stroll by oneself though the grounds at an evening party was truly daring.

“I was told you requested your wrap.”

“By whom?”

“A chaperone.”

“Oh, yes? Which one?”

The footman gave a slight shrug as if to say wasn’t one chaperone much the same as another?

Alexia sighed and decided to take this as a suggestion from the universe. The music, even to her utterly untrained and untrainable ear, was abysmal.

“Perhaps I will take a little air.”

“This way, miss.”

The young footman showed her through the house. Most people seemed now to have collected in the larger rooms or gone to play cards, thus very few observed her passage. He swung open the double doors to the gardens and bowed her through, a touch obsequiously but with no mockery. Which was nice, for a change.

The grounds were impressive, for central London, but then, the whole house was built for show.

The family had arranged for the latest in floating gaslights. Hundreds of tiny lanterns shaped like dirigibles bobbed about the gardens, lighting the paths and showcasing particularly exotic plants collected from around the globe. This resulted in a pleasing fairytale effect that Alexia found delightful.

Perhaps just a short stroll.

The footman abandoned her to her own devices and her own thoughts. Naturally they turned to her disastrous evening. That horrible Lord Maccon! Really, did he have to be such a boor? And those eyes, so appallingly yellow. Alexia fumed internally at the man. Big, looming buffoon.

She had liked the professor, until he, too, accidentally insulted her.

Werewolves! Curse the lot of them. Which thought made her chuckle, because of course they were already cursed.

Her thoughts returned to the Alpha. How dare he call her large when he himself was so very, very large indeed? And the way those ridiculous eyes had assessed her person before rendering judgment. Quite beyond simple regard.

I mean to say, yes, my gown is hideous, but did he have to mentally occupy himself in taking it off me? Because that was what it felt like. She shook her head at her own uncharacteristic flutters. To be so judged. And found wanting. By a werewolf!

Alexia spent a pleasant half hour exploring the grounds, alone, under the bobbing lights of the floating lanterns. The gardens were well tended and pleasingly arranged. There was the occasional private nook for assignations, but she happened upon none in progress, and fortunately no one tried to approach her. She admired the rockery and trailed her fingers through a peaceful little lily pond.

She was just considering how long she might continue to amble without repercussion when a disturbance in a corner she had not yet explored caught her attention.

There was a kerfuffle occurring in a large, circular folly. The folly appeared to cherish pretentions towards becoming a Grecian temple.

Alexia approached cautiously but not stealthily. She was too big (yes, she did know that) and too mulish to be at all subtle. Nevertheless, no one noticed as she chevied up and peeked inside.

All attention was focused on the center of the folly.

The gentlemen – and it was all gentlemen (which ought to have given Alexia pause but in fact only caused greater curiosity) – were mainly of the larger, fiercer variety. They were standing in a circle facing inwards, interspersed between the fluted marble columns.

With a start, Alexia realized it was the werewolf pack. The four who’d come with Lord Maccon were there, including Professor Lyall, and one other man, also large, whom Alexia did not know.

In the center of the folly, pacing around one another in a threatening manner, were two wolves. One was very large and black in color, or (she squinted) more likely dark brown and mottled here and there with other shades.

The other wolf was smaller, with reddish fur tinted black and white about the face. There was something funny about his eyes. It took a moment for her to realize that one was blue and the other yellow. He looked shifty and twitchy, while the bigger wolf seemed sure and confident, powerful.

She was relatively certain they intended to do battle, or perhaps they had already begun and this was a hiatus of pacing. She wasn’t entirely certain about the etiquette of wolf fights – perhaps there were required regular intervals of pace-and-scowl. They seemed so very intent on one another. It was rather exhilarating, but also a terribly gauche maneuver, to have a beastly fracas in the middle of someone else’s garden. She supposed that they might have obtained permission.

The smaller one struck first, side-swiping with one paw, as if they were boxers at fisticuffs. Instead of dodging the blow, the larger one just knocked it aside, in a remarkable display of lack of concern. The smaller one hadn’t used his claws, which led Alexia to wonder if this altercation was for show rather than in earnest.

Then they met each other in mid-leap with a decidedly loud thump and tumbled together to the floor of the folly.

The gentlemen surrounding them crowded in close.

Alexia lost sight of the battle then, for she could see very little of it between trouser legs. It seemed to be a rollicking good time. There were claws and teeth involved, but so far as she could tell, little blood.

She crept closer.

She might have stayed like that, watching quietly and unobserved from the sidelines between the trouser legs of some large gentleman or another, if it had not been for the hedgehog.

He was only a little chap and Alexia had no idea how he got there. But he was reeling in a slightly confused manner – well, you would be too, if a couple of ruddy big werewolves were fighting in your folly. He stumbled out from behind one of the marble columns and instead of dashing away like any sane hedgehog ought to do, he trotted out into the middle of the battleground.

Alexia Tarabotti was quite fond of hedgehogs.

She gave a small shriek (fine, perhaps not so small), which had the effect of causing everyone but the two circling wolves to swing, startled, in her direction.

But it did not cause them to save the hedgehog.

Alexia darted forwards, muscled her way through the assembled, and surged after the poor defenseless creature.

Of course she had her gloves off, for what reason she couldn’t recall. And of course, instead of catching the hedgehog, who seemed to have realized the danger at last and dashed off, she stumbled and caught herself on the body of the larger wolf.

Because Alexia was, in fact, preternatural, her touch instantly turned him from wolf back to human, so that she was no longer touching a wolf at all but instead the now naked form of one Lord Maccon, Earl of Woolsey.

She shrieked again, even louder this time, and lurched backwards, breaking contact. She turned and covered her eyes with both hands. She also realized that there was a great deal she didn’t know about the male anatomy and that certain books in her father’s collection would need to be cracked open.

Meanwhile, the gentlemen about her all began talking at once.

“Hung fight!”

“What’s that bloody chit doing here?”

“Language, Rafe!”

“God’s teeth, is that the curse-breaker? I knew we had one in town, of course. Impressive skills. Is it always that fast?”

“Mr Tiklebark, you’d better shift back. This is going to take ages to sort out.” Alexia recognized the voice of Professor Lyall.

Then there came a rumble from Lord Maccon. “Weel then, that there was a wee bit unsettling. Miss Tarabotti? Are you feeling quite the thing? Does it affect you poorly, too? I canna possibly have startled you any more than you did me. What a remarkable sensation, forced shift. Not exactly pleasant. Miss?” A pause. “What is it, Lyall?”

Alexia kept her mouth shut and her eyes covered.

“What’s that?” barked his lordship.

A quiet whisper that could only be coming from Professor Lyall.

She couldn’t hear what he said, but she certainly made out Lord Maccon’s response. “Clothes? Clothes, you say? Weel, if you insist. Dashed inconvenient. Has the lassie taken ill? She seems more quiet and subdued than she was earlier this evening.”

Another spate of Professor Lyall’s whispers while the others murmured and argued amongst themselves. The gentlemen werewolves still seemed torn about the interrupted fight, such as it was. They kept harping on about the fact that it hadn’t ended to protocol, whatever that meant.

Above the hubbub, Lord Maccon’s voice rose again, “Nay, leave off the cravat. Nonsense thing. We willna be rejoining the party. I’m decent enough for laymen.”

Alexia felt a slight touch upon her shoulder.

“Miss Tarabotti?”

“Oh, Professor Lyall, please pardon my gross interference. There was this hedgehog, you see? And I was horribly afraid he might be crushed in the fracas. Poor little mite. He simply dashed out right there into the folly, and with the wolves ferociously fighting and so forth—”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Lord Maccon came into her field of view.

Alexia winced. He was no longer naked, but he was not (as he had claimed) at all decent. He was wearing his shirt and trousers only (and barely that). No waistcoat, no coat, and no cravat. He looked like some lad set to till the fields. No doubt he could do so easily, all rolling muscles and sweat and… And where are you going with that my girl?

Alexia returned to explaining and defending herself, including the Alpha in her earnest diatribe, along with the more sympathetic Beta.

“My lord, I do apologize for unsolicited preternatural touch. I was going for the hedgehog.”

“It wasna serious challenge. Barely a test match,” responded Lord Maccon, as if he were trying to protest that the hedgehog hadn’t been in any danger.

“But he was such a little thing.”

“I dinna think Mr Tiklebark—”

“Call me Riehard,” said Mr Tiklebark, whoever that was, from somewhere out of Alexia’s field of vision.

Lord Maccon continued, “I dinna think Riehard would care to be pitied like that, my lass. He dinna need your help.” Lord Maccon looked grim. “And we canna have you interfering in pack business like this.”

“Not Riehard, the hedgehog.”

“Hedgehog?” Lord Maccon looked confused. “Hedgehog! What hedgehog?”

“The one you nearly crushed, you big oaf.”

“I never! Rather fond of hedgehogs.”

Alexia crossed her arms over her ample bosom and glared. “Well, so am I and I didn’t want to see that one crushed by your massive paw. Or knocked about by a tail sweep or whatnot.”

“Weel,” Lord Maccon frowned and then looked at the other men now surrounding them. “Extenuating circumstances, aye, lads? What do you say, rematch or call it good? It’s not his fighting skills that really matter to us anyway, is it?”

The rest of the pack looked from Lord Maccon to Alexia, and then seemed to take some kind of unspoken cue and ignored her in order to answer his question.

Professor Lyall said, “You know my feelings. He’s an asset. Trust will come, or it won’t, but I say tether him in.”

One of the others said, “Agreed. But given his profession, Channing might see him as a threat to Gamma position. Would you be willing to fight again, Riehard, when he gets back from overseas?”

The disembodied voice that belonged to Riehard and seemed to be emerging from the bushes somewhere to the left of the folly answered him. “That’s fair. So long as I don’t have to go up against this here Alpha again. He was holding back on me, but I’m still thinking I’ll need all night to recover and I could use a nice hot bath. Wolf hits hard!”

Alexia blushed at that. Imagine mentioning bathing in front of a lady. I suppose I haven’t been behaving in a very ladylike manner.

Lord Maccon looked puffed up and proud of his prowess.

Riehard continued, “If your Gamma challenges, I’ll accept, but I’ve no real interest in his position. No more than I did Alpha. But I’ll follow protocol as ordered. I may not be accustomed to pack, but I’ve studied the forms. I’m no newly metamorphosed puppy.”

Professor Lyall looked at Alexia for a long moment. He seemed the only one really aware she was still there. Alexia was listening avidly, learning more about werewolves in one evening than she had before in her whole life.

That said, while he wasn’t looking at her, Lord Maccon had moved so that he stood next to and a little in front of her. Not touching, but sort of looming in a proprietary manner.

Professor Lyall said, carefully, “And your other ties, Mr Tiklebark? If we agree that you’re pack now?”

“Severed, I assure you.”

Professor Lyall’s eyes narrowed. “So long as they are also untangled. The one does not necessarily preclude the other.”

“That may take me a little longer, Beta.”

The professor nodded. “Understood. Gentlemen, if you would show our newest member home? The butler has already been told to prepare quarters. Welcome to the Woolsey Pack, Mr Tiklebark.”

“Thank you, sir.” And strangely enough, to Alexia’s ears the newly adopted werewolf sounded not only genuinely grateful, but profoundly relieved. As if, until that moment, he had been experiencing a great deal of tension.

“That’s settled, then.” Lord Maccon pivoted to glare at Alexia. “No thanks to your interference. Touch at the wrong time and you could’ve caused one of us serious injury, even death. Turning mortal in the middle of a wolf fight is no minor thing, young lady. I hope you realize that.”

Alexia Tarabotti did not like to be scolded. Especially by a man of no relation and new acquaintance. Especially not when she knew herself to be in the wrong and had already apologized. “I beg your pardon!”

“As you should.”

“I maintain that the hedgehog was in danger.”

“Ridiculous female. How do I know there was a hedgehog at all? You might have wanted to test your abilities a little, stretch your soulless legs as it were, see naked evidence of your power?”

Alexia gasped and stood in a huff, near to tears. “As if I would lie about hedgehogs. What a horrible thing to say! I understood this folly assembly to be a private concern for gentlemen werewolves only, and I would have stayed well out of it had I not seen the poor thing in danger. I resent your suggesting otherwise!”

Lord Maccon looked disgruntled. “Hedgehogs make for a verra weak excuse, if you ask me.”

Alexia planted her hands on her hips. “I didn’t ask you.” Then she turned away from him to Professor Lyall and the disembodied Riehard. Perhaps he had no clothes, so must stay in the bushes. She wished him well of them. “I do beg your pardon for my inadvertent interference. I hope I have caused no permanent damage. Good evening, gentlemen.”

And then she dashed off into the gardens, stung by such unwarranted lack of faith in her good word and honorable intentions.

There was a murmur of masculine voices as she ran away, Professor Lyall’s quiet and reprimanding, Lord Maccon’s louder and militant.

Of course, she forgot how exactly to get back to the house and promptly got lost in the grounds, finding herself eventually at the center of a small maze sitting hunched on a stone bench.

Which was where the hedgehog found her.

She sat very still as he emerged out of the bushes from the direction of the Grecian folly, and approached her with all the shy sweetness of his species.

No doubt this was where he was fed regularly by the household. Hedgehogs could be tamed, and this one seemed accustomed to human company.

She bent over, emotions mostly contained by now. Her temper had flared, and her feelings were injured by Lord Maccon’s calling her a bare-faced liar. But here was the hedgehog and Alexia, at least, knew the truth. She held out her hand, bare, for now she had most assuredly lost her gloves. The little creature snuffled at her fingertips.

A rumbling from the shadows did not disturb him, although it slightly startled Alexia.

“Miss Tarabotti, I must apologize. Your hedgehog hallucination would appear to be a reality.”

She did not look up at him, because the hedgehog was gracing her with his presence. Climbing into her open palms.

“I assure you, Lord Maccon, I am not the kind of girl to go around hallucinating hedgehogs all willy-nilly. And I resent that you should think so.” She lifted the small animal carefully and then rested him on the stone bench next to her, allowing him to sniff her hand further.

Lord Maccon came forward out of the maze. “I dinna mean to imply that you lied merely to test your preternatural strength against me. Willing victim or no. I only meant to suggest that perhaps your interest, with me in particular, was in seeing me become, weel, not a wolf at that moment.”

“I don’t take your meaning,” said Alexia, because she didn’t.

“Aye,” he replied, almost kindly, “I can see that you dinna. Och, weel. My loss, eh?”

He lumbered over and made as if to take a seat on the bench next to her.

“Wait, no!”

But it was too late. So she poked him hard on the posterior. Startlingly firm it was, to be sure. Instead of sitting entirely on the hedgehog, he lurched sideways in surprise, grazed the top of the little creature, and slid off the side of the bench to land hard on the damp, loamy earth.

Fortunately, the hedgehog seemed only confused by its brush with the nether regions of a werewolf. Alexia was not so complacent, since she’d just prodded an earl.

“Really,” she said to the little creature, who didn’t seem to comprehend his peril, “I believe Lord Maccon has it out for you.”

Lord Maccon sighed, stood, and brushed himself off. “Dinna see the wee beastie there. He’s hurt?” He didn’t attempt to check for himself.

“No, near thing though. You aren’t going to make amends?”

In the light of the floating dirigibles, his face looked strangely sad for a moment. “Prey animal, I’m afraid. Willna take kindly to my scent or touch.”

“He doesn’t seem too fussed.”

“No, he seems quite tame. Or perhaps he is nose blind. To wander out into a fight like that.”

“You see why I tried to stop it?”

“You did stop it.”

“And why I had to prod you just now?”

“You’re verra bad for my dignity, Miss Tarabotti.”

What dignity? she wondered. “And you’re very bad for hedgehogs, Lord Maccon.”

She let the hedgehog have one last sniff, then set him gently on the ground before nudging him towards the bushes. She stood. “And now, at the risk of being compromised, I shall take my leave. Good evening, my lord.”

“Good night, Miss Tarabotti. Dinna let the hedgehogs bite,” he advised, trying to be witty. “Or werewolves, for that matter.”

Alexia ignored him, feeling disconcerted and slightly confused, but confident that while she’d misplaced her gloves, he’d lost half his clothing and gained a soggy bottom, which would suggest she’d emerged the victor in their encounter.

She went find her mother, and somehow the presence of werewolves in London did not seem so ominous as it once had.

The footman and the chaperone left the party separately. It would not do for them to be seen departing together. However, they ended up back in each other’s company later that same night. Or to be more accurate, early the next morning.

Without her ugly salmon dress and her uglier lace cap, the chaperone looked younger. Not so young as the footman, but then, he was a werewolf and did not show his age. Her hair, powdered to look dull and lifeless, did actually have a few streaks of grey in it. He uncovered them as he brushed out the powder.

He concentrated on his task, stroking through her fine, soft locks, bringing back the shine and ignoring the grey. It was just as thick and glossy as it had been when they first met.

She was focused on the mirror in front of them, rubbing cream into the soot she’d used to darken the shadows under her eyes. Those eyes, when he met them in the glass, were still as bright and as vibrant a green as they’d been at sixteen. But these days, the cream did not remove all the shadows and never would again.

Almost twenty years, he thought, we’ve been at this game.

“So Riehard will join the Woolsey Pack.”

She nodded slightly. “He will. It is a good thing. He was drifting. With us, here, in our work. You’re not Alpha enough to hold him safe and he is too mercurial for his own good. And he cannot hold himself tethered, of course. Lord Maccon is right for him. Solid and sure.” Her gaze sharpened on his in the looking glass. “I worry about you too, sometimes, in that regard.”

He concentrated on brushing. “Ah, my heart, but I have you. And you are my tether.”

She looked a little sad, one long, deadly finger paused on the wrinkles at the corner of one eye. “Not forever.”

“No, but I think we have much more to do here yet.”

“Yes. Together.”

He put down the brush and took her sharp shoulders in his hands. “And that other matter of personal interest?”

“It is begun well.” She looked pleased with herself. “They must tangle the threads themselves.” A tiny frown. “Although I did not expect the hedgehog to reappear.”

“You cannot control all the variables, my dear. Did you know the girl?”

“I was her nanny.”

“Oh yes, I remember now. I should have thought the Beta a better match.”

“Oh no, too much blood spent there. You forget their history. He does not show it and he never will, but his feelings for the girl could never be more than fatherly.”

“But Lord Maccon – why him? Why not a more peaceful pairing?”

“The Sidheag connection.”

“Of course. He’s the great great grandfather who broke her heart.”

“There might be one more great in there. It broke his too, you know, leaving Scotland.”

“Did it? No, I didn’t know.”

“Alexia Tarabotti will mend it for him. It will be good. Besides, neither of them seeks peace as a surrogate for happiness.”

“Something you yourself are familiar with.”

She inclined her head and raised her hands to cover his, smoothing the backs of his hands with the remnants of her cream.

He watched her fingers like pale tendrils on his skin. Her pinky was crooked from an old injury and he knew her knuckles ached in the cold. He would rub them with warm camphor oil tonight, before bed. “I never took you for a matchmaker.”

“Sometimes, my love—” She smiled that other smile, the one that was only for him, the one that lit up her face and stole his breath. “—we of the shadows also bring light.”

“You’re a romantic, Sophronia.”

“You doubted it?”

“Never.”

This is the prequel to the Parasol Protectorate series

POISON OR PROTECT
by

Gail Carriger

A sample of the first chapter follows!

CHAPTER ONE

The Game Begins

March 1867, on a train platform…

Gavin knew who she was the moment he saw her. He also knew there was a good chance he would have to kill her. Assuming, of course, she didn’t kill him first.

Lady Preshea Villentia. The Mourning Star. Widowed too many times under suspicious circumstances, too smart to be caught, and too beautiful to be ostracised She was like opiates – expensive, intoxicating, and deadly in large doses.

He wasn’t sure exactly how he knew it was Lady Villentia. They’d never been introduced. They didn’t attend the same social functions (her circles being more rarefied than those of a mere army captain).

Also, she was standing with her back to him.

Yet he did know her.

He’d read the papers and dismissed their breathless descriptions as romanticized nonsense. He’d seen the sketches and assumed a great deal of artistic license. To his chagrin, he realized now that neither had done her justice.

She moved into profile.

The lady was a porcelain doll, perfect in every detail, delicate as fine china and no doubt more costly. Yet she directed the porters with the sure command of any field marshal.

She must be attending the same house party. There was no other reason for a woman of such exalted skills to disembark at a country station. It was reasonable to assume her ultimate destination was the Snodgrove gathering. And equally reasonable to assume, Lady Villentia being an assassin, that she was there to kill the duke. Which meant Gavin was there to stop her.

She turned into the light.

It wasn’t that a chorus of angels opened up and sang. Nor did pixies sprinkle fairy dust in his vision. For the day was all gloom and grey, and the engine of the train was as smelly and loud as may be. Gavin, however, was horrified to feel his world start to shift, right under his massive boots. Usually, he was brick-wall steady, and brick-wall solid. But now his entire body, like a magnet to iron, centred on Lady Villentia.

Lust, is it? Isn’t that convenient? Hell’s waistcoat.

Her figure was neat and slender under a green carriage dress of pure simplicity with gleaming jet buttons down the front. She wore a little velvet hat, as dark and glossy as her hair. She lifted one hand to test its presence, showing black leather gloves.

“My, my, that one has stepped off the pages of a French fashion periodical.” Jack followed Gavin’s gaze and was struck as well, although perhaps not quite so dumbstruck.

“Nay. Too wee for that,” Gavin was moved to grumble.

Jack laughed, a spark of joy that caught the lady’s attention. Fortunately, Jack then lowered his voice. “Yes, yes, you like more to grab hold of.”

Gavin was known amongst his friends for his abhorrence of tiny females. But such a widely stated preference suddenly seemed absurd.

Every part of Lady Villentia was covered but for her heart-shaped face – white and emotionless. A ceramic doll in truth and likely just as cold. Except there… For one unguarded moment beneath all that beauty, her eyes flashed a depth of misery he’d seen only in the worst slums.

She blinked and it was gone.

Jack continued, “That one looks more wax than human. Were it not daylight, I’d think her vampire.”

Gavin did not point out the idiocy of that statement. Even were it night, no female vampire traveled. Queens could not leave their hives. He had to presume Jack knew this, or his friend was thicker than treacle.

Luggage accumulated, they all moved towards the exit. Yet they were a thousand miles apart for lack of introduction.

Lady Villentia even walked beautifully. Gavin found himself, preferences be damned, imagining what it might like to unbutton that dress. One jet bead at a time, from top to bottom, until he knelt at those tiny feet.

Are ye daft? he reprimanded himself. Assassin?

A private dirigible awaited them outside the station. The Duke of Snodgrove, a consummate host, had seen fit to provide the most modern conveyance. Gavin could have wished him to perdition. He detested floating, and had hoped for something faster after so long a train ride. Dirigibles were all well and good if one wanted to waft about the countryside, taking in views. Gavin wanted his tea.

And not to have to kill Lady Villentia.

But tea first.

The lady in question regarded the Snodgrove crest with her head cocked, showing a slender white neck.

At their approach, she turned with a practiced smile. “I believe we may be traveling together, gentlemen. To Bickerstung Manor?”

Gavin and Jack responded as expected, with bows of agreement. Gavin thought her smile slightly painful, both for her to give and for him to receive. The sorrow in it hurt the space between his eyes. Verra inconvenient.

The jet buttons winked at him.

It was for her to continue. “Might we dispense with the formalities? Otherwise, it will make for an awkward float. I believe our host is under the mistaken impression that we are already acquainted.” She spoke with such precision. Her pert lips slaughtered each word as it left her mouth.

Gavin recovered his voice. “Oh, aye? And why is that, lass?”

“I believe he thinks everyone knows me.”

At which juncture Jack, the nincompoop, blurted, “Good God, you’re the Mourning Star, aren’t you?”

Preshea refused to hope that her target was the larger gentleman. He looked like some minor Greek god, all rock-hewn inertia. Admittedly, since it was drizzling, a damp god.

Yet she had hoped. When he spoke and his accent proved to be nested firmly in the Highlands, a part of her was crushed with disappointment. This was not her target. This was the target’s inconvenient Scottish friend.

Which meant she must focus on the other man, the lanky one with the foolish smile. Pity – she gave a small sigh – I’d have enjoyed climbing Mount Olympus.

Olympus winced when his friend titled her with that ridiculous moniker. Sensitive mountain.

She issued a tinkling laugh, not too brittle, just enough to subtly hint that she was hurt but not angered – playing upon sympathies.

“Jack, dinna be an idiot,” barked the Scotsman.

Preshea assessed him from under her lashes. He held himself like a soldier, with the confidence of a man who has nothing to gain or lose in any given social situation. He was, without doubt, a danger to her schemes.

“Pray do not concern yourselves. I’m aware of the regretful stylings of the popular press.” In point of fact, Preshea was proud of Mourning Star. It had taken two dead husbands before they called her anything special at all, and when it stuck through the next two, she knew herself to be infamous. It could have been worse – some of her American counterparts got monikers like Black Widow. Absolutely ghastly.

The Scotsman gave his companion another quelling look and then doffed his hat. “Captain Ruthven, at your service, Lady Villentia.” His hair was brown. However, dry and in the sunlight, it might be flecked with gold. He gestured with one massive hand. “This feckless blighter is Mr Jackson.”

Preshea bowed her head graciously. “Captain Ruthven, Mr Jackson, delighted. Shall we get on? If we make good time, we may arrive before tea. Captain, if you wouldn’t mind, my bags?”

The Scotsman gave her a measured look. She widened her eyes, keeping them soft and limpid, knowing that even the best of men were prone to sink into them. He did not succumb, did not even look dazed, only inclined his head and went to supervise the loading of the luggage.

This, as Preshea intended, ensured that Mr Jackson must assist her into the dirigible and see her settled.

“Traveling without your maid, Lady Villentia?”

“Afraid for your reputation, Mr Jackson? Or mine? How thoughtful. I’m afraid the deed is done. That very reputation ensures I’m rarely impinged upon.”

Reminding him of her history might be going a step too far, but the young man laughed as if she had made a rollicking joke. “I’m not afraid of you.”

She smiled then and watched his eyes dilate. Too easy. Why is it always so easy? “I should hope not, Mr Jackson. A gentleman like yourself would never be influenced by the base opinions of scandalmongers.”

“Exactly so, my lady.” He puffed with pride.

“So, shall we be friends?”

Mr Jackson was delighted by this premature offer. “At once!”

The Scotsman joined them. His large frame shook the dirigible, tilting it towards the ground as he hauled himself inside.

“I canna believe this contraption will float with Jack and me weighing it down. Helmsman?”

“No fear, milord.” The helmsman was visible out the back window, directing the aircraft. He drew up the mooring rope. They bobbed easily into the air.

Captain Ruthven took great care with his movements. Here was a man accustomed to his size and circumspect about applying it. He would be deadly in a fight when he finally let those coiled muscles free. Let us hope it never comes to that. But oh, it would be glorious to see.

He settled, with ill-disguised discomfort, onto the reverse bench next to his friend. Both men were big, although the captain had a good deal more mass than Mr Jackson. The dirigible bench did not easily accommodate the pair.

“Well, then, gentlemen, how do you know our host?”

This pleasant opening set Mr Jackson chattering – first about the Blingchesters, who would also be in attendance (the Scotsman rolled his eyes and called them “England’s foremost cadgers”) and then about the reason for his invitation. His ladylove. The woman Preshea had been hired to prevent his marrying.

“And what is her name?” Preshea deployed politeness.

A long pause.

Captain Ruthven grinned. “Dinna say you’ve forgotten?”

Mr Jackson whacked his friend with a rolled-up newspaper. “I was marshalling my thoughts, the better to do her justice.”

“Weel, now you’re in for it, Lady Villentia.”

“Oh, dear, what have I wrought?”

Mr Jackson found his voice. “Lady Violet is Duke Snodgrove’s eldest daughter. She’s absolutely topping. A divine mango from heaven. Or do I mean banana from heaven? Well, she’s both. An elegant bastion of womanhood.”

The flowery turn to his phrasing indicated a worrying degree of affection for the lady. Was it possible that this fortune hunter actually believed himself in love with the chit? That would be a complication.

Preshea probed gently. “I myself have never met the lady. She sounds pleasant indeed.”

“Prepare to be delighted,” promised the lovesick swain.

“Well, if she is so fortunate as to secure your attention, I cannot help but be so.”

Mr Jackson chuckled. “I’m known as an expert judge of character.”

Captain Ruthven made a pained face.

Preshea was moved to be coy. “The good captain disagrees with this assessment?”

“Jack is pally with everyone.”

“Thus making himself agreeable through lack of discretion. You object to this approach?”

“Nay. ’Tis one of his charms. I myself am na one to jump in so.”

Jack turned. “And thus you limit your enjoyment.”

“You two are unlikely companions.” Preshea steered them onto a topic she knew would prove pleasurable and no doubt endear her to both. “How did you meet?”

Mr Jackson jumped on the opening. “We share a club. This may shock you, but I’m as likely as not to get myself in a pickle. I was deep in the soup over a cheese bun. Ruthven rescued me and has continued to do so ever since. Stalwart chap.”

“Oh, indeed?” Preshea cast a friendly look at the big Scotsman. Was the captain like this with Mr Jackson alone, or with all his friends? A white knight could sometimes be manipulated to see her as worthy of saving. Although victim was not a role she enjoyed playing.

“It began out o’ goodness and has become dire habit,” admitted Captain Ruthven. Preshea wondered if he was attending this house party in order to assist with his friend’s suit or to persuade him against it. She also wondered if he were prone to airsickness – he was looking peaky.

Mr Jackson nudged the captain in a jolly way, bumping the Scotsman against the side of the cabin.

The two gentlemen were quite squeezed. It was a ridiculous nicety that Preshea should sit alone, when she was half the size of either and not prone to a feeble stomach. Even as she told herself she was not concerned by the captain’s pallor, she found herself making an offer.

“Mr Jackson, why not sit next to me? It seems preposterous to insist on etiquette when the two of you are so much more than that bench allows.”

“What a kind thought! But poor old Ruthven here is a bad floater – he should sit facing.”

Captain Ruthven looked properly horrified. “I couldna possibly.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re positively green, old chap. You know facing will help.”

After further protestations, the big Scotsman shifted to sit next to Preshea. Mr Jackson slid over until he was across from her. This allowed both men to stretch their long legs. Preshea was not opposed – it put her face to face with her target. Unfortunately, it also put that mountain of warm muscles intimately close to her. She held herself aloof, noting that the Scotsman attempted to do the same.

He smells like Christmas – fresh pine boughs and spices. What right has a man to smell so good?

Mr Jackson remained endearingly concerned for his friend. “If the lady doesn’t mind, I’ll pop open the window.”

Preshea did not mind. The weather was unpleasant, but she welcomed fresh air. Not for the sake of the dirigible’s motion, for she was an excellent floater, having attended a finishing school in the skies. No, she wished to blow away Captain Ruthven’s intoxicating scent.

Preshea Buss! she yelled in her own head, using her maiden name, the one that hurt the most. No living man has ever brought you anything good. They are to be used, not enjoyed. Focus on the target.

Captain Ruthven recovered a little of his colour “Beg pardon, Lady Villentia. I’m a sorry traveler. I’d sooner ride, but Jack tells me it isna the done thing.”

“Gentlemen ride once they are in the country, Ruthven, old hat. They do not ride to the country.”

“Which seems daft.” The captain looked to Preshea for support. “Isna the purpose of country life riding?”

Mr Jackson issued a gormless grin. “Yes, but one gets there by dirigible. What do you take us for? Barbarians?”

Captain Ruthven’s eyes were intent. “Thus I send my lovely Rusticate into Berkshire separately with my batman, and you find me here, crowding lasses in dirigibles. I canna apologize enough.”

“My dear sir, you are hardly responsible for your size.”

Mr Jackson said, “Ruthven forgets that since he resigned his commission, Mawkins is his valet, not his batman.”

Preshea had noticed the gaffe.

The Scotsman winced, which could be from the mistake in etiquette, or something more sinister. Was he still in military employ, perhaps in some secret capacity? Or is my training making me unreasonably suspicious?

She probed. “You were in the cavalry, then?”

“Nay. Coldsteam Guards. But I’m an admirer of horseflesh.”

An Irregular, was he? That meant he would be exceptionally comfortable with the supernatural.

“And you, lass? Do you ride?”

“I can, but not well, I’m ashamed to admit.” Preshea was vaguely aware she ought to object to being called lass. After all, she had worked hard to become a proper lady. But she rather liked it, especially when delivered in that rumbling burr of his. The voice equivalent of mulled wine, warm and heavily spiced.

She moved quickly on from that thought. “My skill set is in quite the opposite direction. It is unladylike to brag, but I could steer this dirigible, if needed.”

Both men looked more admiring than shocked. Good, I have judged them correctly. These were that unusual breed of male that admired a capable female.

Preshea found herself in an unexpected predicament. Enjoying the float, fighting an inclination for the wrong man, and having a genuine affection for both. They seemed so very decent. This is ridiculous. I don’t like people. I certainly don’t like men! It was highly inconvenient. However, she would ignore it as she had ignored all such inconveniences over the years.

Gavin watched as the footman handed Lady Villentia down from the dirigible. Jack jumped down after. Gavin followed.

He heard the poor footman whisper under his breath, “Crikey,” and gave a tiny nod of sympathy. I ken how you feel, lad.

The Duke and Duchess of Snodgrove stood waiting to receive them.

“Welcome. You are the last to arrive.” The duke was one of those remarkable politicians who looked exactly like his caricature – tall, stooped, and lined.

“With tea near to serving.” His lady wife had an eye to the practicalities. “You are timely.” The Duchess of Snodgrove was the opposite of her husband. Her features were delicate and her form well padded. She looked like the human representation of a comfortable settee.

Lady Villentia gave an elegant curtsey of the exact correct depth for a duke and his duchess. Gavin was impressed. He might act and sound provincial (it worked in his favour, to be constantly underestimated), but he’d attended Eton and knew all the forms. Her delivery was perfection itself.

“It is your dirigible that has seen us safely here. Thank you for the kind attention, Your Grace.” She slid as smoothly into the role of guest as she had into that of fellow traveler.

Overly perfect.

“Not at all.” Their host turned to his wife. “My dear, you know Lady Villentia?”

“I know of her, of course.” The duchess’s tone was frosty.

Interesting. The addition of the widow to our party must be the husband’s idea. Gavin was seized with a crushing thought: Is Lady Villentia Snodgrove’s mistress? He shook it off. The Duke of Snodgrove was known for his devout leanings.

How is Lady Villentia acquainted with such a man? And is she really here to kill him by his own invitation? Perhaps she has a different target?

Gavin dared not allow himself to hope, but he must entertain the possibility. If danger to the duke were coming from another source, he could not focus solely on the known assassin. Much as her buttons might wink and her eyes hide a well of sorrow.

“I see you have already met your fellow guests. Captain Ruthven, Mr Jackson.” This time, the duke’s voice was cold.

So, Jack may be the son of a family friend, but his suit is na welcome. And I’m guilty by association, or by birth. There were always some who simply did not like Scotsmen.

Gavin watched closely as the duke gave the widow the tiniest of nods. Is the duke her employer? Is it possible he knows of his own danger and has hired her as protection? Nay. Such a man wouldna take a lass to bodyguard. There must be somewhat else between them.

Lady Villentia (a consummate professional) did not acknowledge Snodgrove’s nod.

Naught for it, thought Gavin, I’ll have to find out the truth myself. No hardship to throw myself on such a sword – she cuts with a bonnie sting.

But before he could intercede, Jack offered Lady Villentia his arm, to the duke’s obvious delight.

Interesting.

Gavin followed them all into the house.

Let the game begin.

Read the Rest!

Author’s Note

Thank you so much for reading. If you enjoyed this story, or if you would like to read more about any of my characters, please say so in a review. I’m grateful for the time you take to do so.

I have a silly gossipy newsletter called the Chirrup. I promise: no spam, no fowl. (Well, maybe a little fowl and the occasional giveaway.)

gailcarriger.com

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my pack of pigeons: Alphas, Betas, and even a few Gammas. And thank you to everyone who wrote asking for more Alexia & Conall… and asking about the hedgehog.

More Gail Carriger?

You’ve just read a short story set in the Parasolverse. Characters cross over a lot! You could play a rousing game of spot that werewolf.

STORIES SET IN GAIL’S STEAMPUNK PARASOLVERSE

The Delightfully Deadly Novellas

Stand-alones featuring polite lady assassins

The Supernatural Society Novellas

LGBTQ stand-alones with proper subversive activities

The Claw & Courtship Novellas

Stand-alones featuring werewolves in cravats and the ladies who love them

The Finishing School Series

Young adult novels, begins with Etiquette & Espionage features spies, girl power, and flying food

The Parasol Protectorate Series

Five novels, begins with Soulless featuring adventure, love, and silly hats)

The Custard Protocol Series

Four novels, begins with Prudence featuring world travel, cat shifters, and stolen tea

The Curious Case of the Werewolf That Wasn’t

Short story set in steampunk Egypt, featuring one sexy and rather unpleasant Italian

GAIL’S OTHER WORKS

Fairy Debt

YA fantasy comedy short story featuring girl power and dragons who hoard cupcakes

My Sister’s Song

High fantasy historical short story featuring a warrior woman taking on a Roman legion alone

AS G. L. CARRIGER

The San Andreas Shifter Series

Stand alone novels in which every werewolf is fabulous - full of blue jokes, raunchy sex, and gentle hearts

Marine Biology: San Andreas Shifter Prequel

Short story in which a geeky werewolf meets hot merman

The 5th Gender

The sweetest most charming alien of them all

About the Writerbeast

New York Times bestselling author Gail Carriger writes to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small-town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in higher learning, a fondness for cephalopods, and a chronic tea habit. She then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She resides in the Colonies, surrounded by fantastic shoes, where she insists on tea imported from London.

G A I L C A R R I G E R L L C

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, used in a fictitious manner, or in the public domain. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

WARNING

This work of fiction may contain sexually explicit situations of a romantic and carnal nature between members of the same sex, opposite sex, or both. If love (in its many forms) and love’s consequences (in even more varied forms) are likely to offend, please do not read this book. Miss Carriger has a young adult quartet, the Finishing School series, that may be more to your taste. Thank you for your understanding, self-awareness, and self-control.

Copyright (c) 2019 by GAIL CARRIGER LLC

Cover © 2019 by GAIL CARRIGER LLC

Cover assembled by Starla Huchton, designedbystarla.com

Formatting by Nina Pierce of Seaside Publications

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or any portion thereof, in any form.

This book is for your personal enjoyment only. If you are reading this book and it was not purchased for your use, then please purchase your own copy.

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the uploading, torrenting, or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting publisher@gailcarriger.com.

The author strives to ensure her self-published works are available as widely as possible and at a price commensurate with her ability to earn a living. Thank you for respecting her hard work.

Version 2.0

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Table of Contents

- A Note On Chronology

- CONTENTS

- Meat Cute

- CHAPTER ONE

- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgements
- More Gail Carriger?
- About the Writerbeast
- G A I L C A R R I G E R L L C