“She has a lot of energy,” said Quinn fervently as he chased after. “We thought we’d run it out of her.”
“Oh, we did, did we?” Biffy crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. No doubt any one of them could catch the little girl if needed – after all, they were supernaturally fast.
At which juncture the toddler in question dashed past Biffy and out into the hallway, where she crashed into the legs of Major Channing, who was collecting his hat from his claviger and preparing to depart for BUR.
Everyone gasped.
Channing looked down. Very far down. Channing was one of the tallest in the pack.
“Yes?” He frowned at the infant. Channing had, under most circumstances, a decidedly overwhelming effect on females of all species. Until he opened his mouth, of course.
Mrs Whybrew, who’d followed the child to the doorway, stood with her hand to her mouth and her gaze fixed on, most likely, one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen. Or would ever see.
Biffy swiveled to watch but did not relax his stance.
The toddler stopped and stared up, transfixed.
Frankly, Biffy could understand the sentiment. Channing was incredibly easy on the eyes. Lanky but muscled, with crystal-clear blue eyes and pale blond hair. He was like some winter god, Jack Frost perhaps.
If only he didn’t also shoot first in the firing squad of premier pompous twats.
“Oh, my heavens,” breathed Mrs Whybrew.
It was likely everyone expected Channing to shake the child off his leg in the manner in which one dismisses a tiny dog or a shoe full of rocks.
Biffy was prepared to intervene, as Alpha, if the man turned violent. Channing was difficult at the best of times, and didn’t particularly like to be touched, not even by his ladybirds. (Biffy preferred not to contemplate how that even worked.)
The toddler was now clinging to Channing’s well-pressed trouser leg, wrinkling it something awful, and there was a good chance sticky finger smudges were also being transferred. (If Biffy knew anything about children, which he did.)
Channing bent down.
The pack held its collective breath.
Biffy relaxed his arms and prepared to shift and strike, or simply place himself in front of a blow. He was, after all, immortal, and he could take the hit.
He could also take Channing, for all the pack Gamma outweighed him by half again as much.
But Channing only slid two fingers through the little girl’s mop of curly red hair.
A look of profound pain crossed Channing’s impassively beautiful face but was gone again so quickly, Biffy wondered if it were a trick of the gas lighting. Or if he had imagined it.
Before anything else could happen, Biffy reached down and scooped the child up, carrying her back inside the drawing room.
Channing left, the front door closing quietly behind him.
Biffy said to the recovering Mrs Whybrew, “It would be best to keep the children away from Major Channing, if at all possible. He is a busy man. In fact, might we avoid the hallways as a general rule? And now, if you wouldn’t mind taking the three in hand, madam? My pack requires feeding and a few words on standards of behavior appropriate to drawing rooms, it would seem.”
He gave what he hoped was a commanding look at the men standing, sitting, and, in the case of Hemming, crawling about the room.
“We are all late for our breakfast. The clavigers have already had theirs. If you would, gentlemen? I require tea.” He turned away, hoping they would follow him.
They did.
*
Biffy must have said something cutting, because Lyall looked up, shortly after Channing left, to see the rest of the pack troop into breakfast without babies and with very cowed expressions.
Lyall didn’t think this was the result of any serious discipline. For one thing, no one was bruised or bleeding. For another, Biffy wasn’t that kind of Alpha. Thank heavens.
Said Alpha seemed more resigned than tense. Lyall hoped Biffy was prepared to stick faithfully to the plan they’d concocted over cravat-tying earlier.
Lyall resisted touching the beautiful knot at his own throat. He certainly wasn’t thinking about those long, fine fingers caressing his neck. Not thinking about it at all.
Lyall turned his attention, very thoroughly, to his breakfast kippers and dried sprats.
Rumpet the Second had somehow known, with that instinct of all good butlers, that Lyall was one of those rare werewolves who preferred fish. Most were of the sausage and bacon persuasion. Well, thought Lyall, amused at his own whimsy, I’ve always been one for both sausage and fish. As the saying goes. But at breakfast – kippers. Perhaps the previous Rumpet had told the new one of his eccentricity. Or perhaps there was such a thing as a collective butler memory for such niceties. Regardless, a generous helping of kippers had been placed before Lyall’s seat along with a most excellent pot of tea.
Not for the first time, Lyall marveled at the fine line between butler and Beta.
Lyall sipped his tea reverently. My, but I missed good British brew.
The subdued silence didn’t last, because the requisite mounds of sausages, slabs of ham, boiled eggs, rump steak pie, and rolled tongue soon distracted the pack from prior chastisement and encouraged conversation in the way that hearty food often does, after an initial pause to inhale first.
The dialogue focused mainly on their newest additions, as might be expected. Lyall decided to let the pack hash things out for a bit before encouraging his Alpha to lay down the letter of the law.
Biffy seemed to agree with this approach. The Alpha sat back and sipped his own tea while the pack got ever more excited around him.
Lyall worried Biffy wasn’t eating enough. He offered him the platter of kippers.
Biffy gave him a funny look.
Adelphus started them off in a roundabout way by clearing his throat and announcing, “I believe we must acquire a Christmas tree. You know, of the kind that Queen Victoria always insists upon. As the Germans have it.”
“Why on earth?” Biffy wanted to know.
“It’s what people with children do,” Adelphus told his boiled egg firmly, not quite able to look Biffy in the eye.
“Oh, is it indeed?” Biffy was not going to make this easy on them.
“Of course it is. Makes the place more homey.” Hemming grinned.
“And smell nice.” Quinn was hopeful.
“Oh! We could put evergreen boughs all down the banisters. Saw that done at a ball once, very festive.” Hemming’s blue eyes started to shine with enthusiasm.
“Indeed? I don’t recall any of you so keen to decorate when it was curtains and carpets.” Biffy arched his eyebrows. But Lyall could tell that the Alpha was being playful, not critical.
As if Biffy will ever brook interference from this pack on the matter of interior decorating. The choice of purple curtains alone shows he did not consult with them. Very daring, given our already contentious vampire relations.
“Should we mull cider?” asked Rafe. “Or maybe have Cook mull cider? Should I ask Rumpet? Rumpet would know. Rumpet!”
“Wassail?” suggested Ulric.
“Do humans still brew wassail?” Zev frowned.
“Aren’t cider and wassail the same thing?” That was Phelan, under his breath in genuine confusion, looking at Lyall. The moniker “Professor” meant most of the pack turned to the Beta in times of verbal or cultural confusion, despite the fact that his particular area of expertise was in the procreative habits of Ovis aries. Not, as Phelan seemed to currently believe, the finer niceties of hot, fruity seasonal beverages.
“Is brewing even the right word? I thought wassail was… sort of… steeped.” Quinn stabbed a sausage thoughtfully.
“Like tea?” Adelphus sipped his.
“Sirs?” Rumpet slid into the room.
“Rumpet, please see if you can lay on some wassail, or maybe hot cider,” instructed Rafe. “Or possibly that wine they do with the spices. What’s it called?”
“Sir?” Rumpet looked in confusion at Biffy.
Biffy shook his head a little and rolled his eyes.