Lyall said, “Perhaps not as a full pack. We are rather large in both individual size and numbers. We have been known to overwhelm laymen en masse.”
“Small groups, you think? Or even just pairs?” Biffy considered. “Yes, and spread out the visits over the next few months. Professor, can you draw up a schedule? Leave off Channing, of course. He’s too much. And Riehard is out of town until Thursday week.” He glared around at the pack. “But the others can go. You’ll wear your Sunday best or I’ll know the reason why.”
No doubt every one of them now boasts pristine Sunday best. Lyall was not yet certain in the manner and style of his new Alpha’s rule, but he could be confident in Biffy’s militant insistence on appropriate attire. Lord Maccon hadn’t cared how his werewolves dressed, Lord Falmouth absolutely did. The London pack would be the best-dressed werewolves in all the Empire or their Alpha would birth kittens. (Which, given his gender and species, was a manifold impossibility.)
“Also, it’s an opportunity to gather local gossip,” Lyall suggested delicately.
Biffy looked back at the baby, which was now asleep in his lap, in a dead fish kind of way. “Of course. See if we can catch wind of Robin’s relations. Unfortunate that the pastor couldn’t help us with that.”
Lyall added, “A rival church is also concerning.” Outside of the Anglican faith, very few religions embraced the supernatural. To have a pack and a, perhaps, anti-immortal church occupying Greenwich at the same time could cause civil unrest.
“All the more reason to integrate ourselves into the community and ingratiate ourselves with the establishment.” Biffy glared about, but the pack mainly seemed resigned to the occasional night of worship for the sake of Greenwich peace and harmony.
The Christmas season is soon upon us. Lyall pondered. “I shall send round a brace of pheasant to the pastor next time we hunt as well.”
Rafe returned at that juncture, fortunately, having met with greater success at the workhouse. He was trailing a buxom young lady who was all smiles. He introduced her as a Mrs Whybrew and their prospective wet nurse. She had a baby tucked under one arm, which appeared to be her issue, if appearances were anything to go by. The baby boasted the same cornflower eyes, wide face, and honey hair. Mrs Whybrew was rather too rough in her language and rather too forward in her manner and address for Lyall’s taste, but he had to admit that would serve her well, dealing with werewolves.
He noticed that Biffy winced a bit. But Biffy was even more a snob than he. One of his more adorable qualities.
I should certainly not be thinking of my Alpha as adorable.
Mrs Silence Whybrew was a widow, her husband’s overenthusiastic celebration of their own blessed event having occasioned a drunken tumble over an ill-placed whitebait stall directly in front of the local music hall. The resulting pinwheeling collapse was thought to be a modern interpretive dance-commentary on the current state of dockside fish-trading facilities. He was thus left to expire and did so, with no one the wiser until he began to smell worse than the whitebait.
Mrs Whybrew delivered this tragic tale with an unprecedented degree of amusement. “Oh, you’re welcome to laugh, boyos.”
Rafe and Hemming were both struggling to respect the gravity of her loss (as opposed to the ridiculousness of its execution). Lyall felt his own lips twitch, and he was usually the best of them.
“He was a right ol’ sod. I’m no’ ashamed to say I was plumb glad to be rid of ‘im, ‘cepting for that it landed me in the workhouse. ‘Course now I’m ‘ere, and this seems a fine place to be.”
She grinned around at the assembled large gentlemen.
“And grateful for the attention, I don’t mind saying.”
Lyall wished she wouldn’t. Silence Whybrew seemed a startlingly ill-named individual.
She continued to defy her moniker. “You’re a fine lot of muffins, aren’t you?”
Zev blushed. Hemming’s mouth dropped open. Rafe started to snicker.
She strode forward towards Biffy. “So lemme see to the little ‘un.”
Lyall slid like oil in front of her. No one, but no one, approached his Alpha without being properly vetted first.
“Oh, well, then. Who’re you?”
“Mrs Whybrew? Perhaps if you’d take a seat over there, I will bring the child to you.”
“Well then, if you insist, m’ boy. Funny ol’ things, you werewolves, aren’t you, then?”
Lyall scooped the baby off Biffy’s lap (Biffy giving him an inscrutable look) and deposited it on Mrs Whybrew’s. Robin did not amend his floppy state, and she seemed remarkably capable of handling two at once.
She looked down on the infant with genuine interest and affection.
At least there is no artifice to this woman.
“Aw now, ain’t he sweet? We’ll do nicely, he and I and little Gracie here.” She grinned around at the assembled pack. “I’ve more milk than my Gracie-girl can handle.” Her eyes shone with hope. “If you’d like me here, I could get up with him in the night and all sorts.”
Everyone looked at Biffy.
Mrs Whybrew finally realized her breach of protocol. “Oh, ‘eck, you’re the new Alpha, ain’t you? Didn’t know your lot came so pretty. I thought you was one of them clavigers. I didn’t mean anything by...”
She trailed off, blushing crimson at her many gaffes.
“My mama always said I couldna stop my mouth with anything short of a dirigible, it was tha’ big.”
Biffy quirked an eyebrow at her.
“I beg pardon, m’lord. But I’m a good woman, I surely am. I’d do my best for you.” She straightened, but her care for the two infants in her lap didn’t waver. “Thinking I ought stop talking now.”
“Why alter a habit you’ve clearly no intent to change?” Biffy spoke at last, seeming genuinely curious rather than cruel.
Mrs Whybrew laughed. “Oh, aye! You and me, we’re fine, aren’t we, m’lord?”
Biffy grinned at that, his sweet, solemn face suddenly suffused with aching beauty. It’d been a very long time since Lyall had seen him smile like that.
“Welcome to the pack, Mrs Whybrew.”
Lyall sighed. That was his cue.
“Perhaps Mrs Whybrew and I might step into the conservatory for a little chat. Alpha, if you’re certain?”
Biffy nodded.
A short interview later, Lyall concluded that Mrs Whybrew was a salt-of-the-earth type with no immediately apparent character flaws – aside from a certain breeziness of manner. Older than she appeared, crass and unashamed, but nothing seriously debilitating. She was utterly without malice or guile. While Lyall wasn’t certain how well she would fit in with the pack in the long term, she seemed entirely well suited as a temporary salve to the unexpected fatherhood that had been thrust upon them. Or thrust upon their doorstep.
They agreed upon terms so generous, the lady in question began to cry in gratitude. Lyall gave her a handkerchief and saw her installed, plus measly belongings, in the nursery. The babies remained gratifyingly uninterested in the proceedings and settled down under Mrs Whybrew’s practiced touch with no further histrionics.
Then, because he could, Lyall sent Zev off in pursuit of some decent clean clothes for all three of their new additions – Gracie, Robin, and Mrs Whybrew. He included an extensive list of other necessities that Mrs Whybrew claimed were not urgent but would certainly smooth matters over with the infants in question. Things like blankets, and knitwear, cloth for nappies, and associated cleaning apparatus of such elaborate and complex nature that Lyall really would prefer not to think about their use.
By dawn, everything was settled and the pack was asleep.
Channing returned directly before sunup and gave Lyall a grumpy look out of ice-blue eyes.
“You back, then?”
“Yes, Channing, I’m back.”
“Good. It’s been hell without you. And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll categorically deny it.”
“Good to know where I stand.”
“Nothing’s changed there.”
“Just so you’re aware, there are two babies and a wet nurse now in residence.”
That managed to ruffle Channing’s arrogant icy air. “Not... yours?”
“How would that even be possible?”