She even slept through the earl gently transferring her into Professor Lyall's arms and the Beta carrying her rapidly past the arriving press, her head, and thus identity, covered by one of Lord Akeldama's ever-present lace handkerchiefs.
She did not, however, sleep through her mother's shrieks upon her arrival back at the Loontwill town house. Mrs. Loontwill was waiting up for them in the front parlor. And she was not pleased.
“Where have you been all night, young lady?” said her mother in the sepulchral tones of the deeply put-upon.
Felicity and Evylin appeared in the doorway of the parlor, wearing nightdresses and draped in heavy pelisses and shocked expressions. Upon noticing Professor Lyall, they squeaked in alarm and dashed back up to their rooms to dress as quickly as possible, horrified that decorum dictate they miss any part of the undoubted drama occurring downstairs.
Miss Tarabotti blinked at her mother sleepily. “Uh...” She could not think. Iwas off meeting with a vampire, got abducted by scientists, attacked by a werewolf, and then spent the remainder of the night holding hands with a naked peer of the realm. She said, “Uh...” again.
“She was with the Earl of Woolsey,” said Professor Lyall firmly, in a tone of voice that brooked no objection, as though that settled the matter.
Mrs. Loontwill ignored his tone entirely and made a move as if to strike her daughter. “Alexia! You wanton hussy!”
Professor Lyall twisted fast so that his charge, still held in his arms, was well out of the woman's reach and glared furiously.
Mrs. Loontwill turned her wrath on him, like a rabid poodle. “I will have you know, young man, no daughter of mine spends an entire night away from home with a gentleman without being securely married to that gentleman first! I do not care if he is an earl. You werewolf types may have different rules for this kind of affair, but this is the nineteenth century, and we do not hold with such shenanigans. Why, I ought to have my husband call your Alpha out right now!”
Professor Lyall raised one refined brow. “He is welcome to the attempt. I would not recommend that particular course of action. To the best of my recollection, Lord Maccon has never actually lost a fight.” He looked down at Alexia. “Except to Miss Tarabotti, of course.”
Alexia grinned up at him. “You can put me down now, Professor. I am quite awake and able to stand. Mama will do that to a person. She is like a glass of cold water.”
Professor Lyall did as she requested.
Miss Tarabotti found that she had not actually spoken the truth. Her whole body ached most awfully, and her feet did not seem to wish to work as instructed. She stumbled heavily to one side. Professor Lyall made to grab her and missed.
With the majestic efficiency of all good butlers, Floote appeared at her side and took her arm, preventing her from falling.
“Thank you, Floote,” said Alexia, leaning gratefully against him. Felicity and Evylin, both properly attired in cotton day dresses, reappeared and went immediately to sit on the chesterfield before they could be told to leave.
Alexia looked about and noticed one family member still absent. “Where is the squire?”
“Never you mind that, missy. What is going on? I demand an immediate explanation,” insisted her mother, waggling a finger.
Just then, there came the most imperious knocking on the front door. Floote transferred Alexia back to Professor Lyall and went to answer it. Lyall ushered Miss Tarabotti over to the wingback chair. With a nostalgic smile. Alexia sat down in it.
“We are not at home!” yelled Mrs. Loontwill after Floote. “To anyone!”
“You are at home to me, madam,” said a very autocratic voice.
The Queen of England swept into the room: a petite woman, in late middle life but wearing it very well.
Floote trailed in after and said, in tones of shock Alexia had never thought to hear from her unflappable butler, “Her Most Royal Highness, Queen Victoria, to see Miss Tarabotti.” Mrs. Loontwill fainted.
Alexia thought it the best, most sensible thing her mama had done in a very long while. Floote uncorked a bottle of smelling salts and went to revive her, but Alexia shook her head firmly. Then she made to rise and curtsy, but the queen raised her hand.
“No formality, Miss Tarabotti. I understand you have had an interesting night,” she said.
Miss Tarabotti nodded mutely and made a polite gesture for the queen to sit. She was mortified by what now seemed the shabby clutter of her family's front parlor. Her Most Royal Highness did not seem to notice, sitting down on a mahogany side chair next to Alexia, moving it so her back was to the collapsed form of Mrs. Loontwill.
Miss Tarabotti turned to her sisters. Both had their mouths open and were flapping about like ineffectual fish.
“Felicity, Evylin, out, now,” she ordered quite curtly.
Professor Lyall helped hustle the two girls from the room and would have followed, but the queen said curtly, “Stay, Professor. We may need your expertise.”
Floote glided out with an expression that said he would keep all prying ears at bay, although probably not his own.
The queen looked at Alexia a long moment. “You are not at all what I expected,” she said at last. Miss Tarabotti refrained from saying, “Neither are you.” Instead she said, “You knew to expect something?”
“Dear girl, you are one of the only preternaturals on British soil. We approved your father's immigration papers all those many years ago. We were informed the moment of your birth. We have watched your progress since then with interest. We even considered interfering when all this folderol with Lord Maccon began to complicate matters. It has gone on quite long enough. You will be marrying him, I understand?”
Alexia nodded mutely.
“Good, we approve.” She nodded as though she had somehow had a hand in this outcome. Professor Lyall said, “Not everyone does.”
The queen actually snorted at that. “We are the one whose opinion counts, are we not? The potentate and the dewan are trusted advisors, but they are only that: advisors. No legal records for our empire or any previous one forbid marriage between supernatural and preternatural outright. Yes, the potentate informs us hive tradition bans such a union, and werewolf legend warns against fraternization, but we require this business settled. We will not have our best BUR agent distracted, and we need this young lady married.”
“Why?” Alexia asked, confused that her single state should concern the Queen of England.
“Ah, that. You are aware of the Shadow Council?” The queen settled herself in the hard chair, as much as queens do, which is to say her shoulders relaxed slightly.
Alexia nodded. “The potentate acts as your official vampire consultant and the dewan in the werewolf capacity. Rumors are that most of your political acumen comes from the potentate's advice and your military skill from the dewan's.”
“Alexia,” Professor Lyall growled a warning.
The queen looked more amused than insulted at this. She even dropped the royal “we” for the space of a few moments. “Well, I suppose my enemies must blame somebody. I will say that those two are invaluable, when they are not bickering with each other. But there is a third post that has been vacant since before my time. An advisor meant to break the stalemate between the other two.”
Miss Tarabotti frowned. “A ghost?”
“No, no. We have plenty of those flitting around Buckingham Palace; cannot keep them quiet half the time. We certainly do not need one in any official capacity. Not when they cannot maintain solidity that long. No, what we require is a muhjah.”
Alexia looked confused.
The queen explained. “Traditionally the third member of the Shadow Council is a preternatural, the muhjah. Your father declined the post.” She sniffed. “Italians. Now, there simply is not enough of your set left to vote on your nomination, so it will have to be an appointed position. But voting is mostly a formality, even for the positions of dewan and potentate. At least it has been during my reign.”
“No one else wants the job,” said Professor Lyall with feeling.