Not that the hat shop wasn’t popular. The titillation of the previous owner, a cross-dressing evil genius inventor of exotic tastes, had given over to the titillation of being served by a werewolf and his clavigers. Young ladies flocked to Chapeau de Poupe in record numbers. Mothers and chaperones allowed this because the danger inherent in a werewolf dandy was only slightly less than the danger inherent in a cross-dressing female scientist. At least the werewolf was an eligible bachelor.
Not that it was obvious, upon entering the shop, which one was the werewolf. To those with lesser noses, all the young gentlemen were cut from the same cloth – polite poodle-faking fops of the first order. Biffy worked hard to appear no more than one of them.
He did not look up as the strange werewolf entered his space. The shop was busy and he was at the very back, trying to convince a mother whose daughter had an aggressive nose that a small perch would detract from the protuberance rather than exaggerate. He was right, of course. Biffy was always right about hats.
However, the werewolf was right there. It wasn’t polite to look away from his clients, although every fiber of his fuzzy self was urging him to raise his hackles and defend his territory. Not only because this was his hat shop, but because his hat shop was a front for the London Pack’s safety dungeon. Biffy needed, with every part of his Alpha soul, to protect his pack’s security.
The strange werewolf held back, waiting quietly on him. He heard the murmur of voices as one of his clavigers engaged the gentleman, attempting to steer him towards their shop next door – the one that purveyed men’s headgear and accessories. The newcomer was polite, and so soft of voice that even Biffy’s supernatural hearing could not determine what was said. But he clearly intended to stay, and to wait.
Simon let him be. Simon was not one to press himself upon a customer when unwanted. Or perhaps Simon was perceptive enough to see that the gentleman was interested in Biffy, not hats.
Biffy sniffed again. His nose told him nothing new. Foreign smells, yes, but this was someone’s pack member, not a loner, which meant he was there as a representative or messenger in Biffy’s territory, not as a challenger. He permitted himself a tiny sigh of relief.
He finished with the young lady and the perch, or, more properly, with the young lady’s mother. She eventually came around to his gentle guidance, the trick being that the color of the hat was deemed a perfect complement to the girl’s complexion, which was very fine indeed (nose notwithstanding). Biffy watched them walk to the counter to settle the account. He thought that the girl might do much better this season than she would have before the purchase of the hat. Hats were like that – necessary, even vital, to one’s success on the marriage mart.
He spent a quiet moment rearranging the stock, ensuring the gap left by the perch would not be obvious. He collected his finer feelings, stamped civility and urbane sophistication over his werewolf instincts. Someone in my territory! He ensured his cuffs were peeking out perfectly from his jacket, and turned to meet the stranger.
The werewolf was standing behind a sea of hats. Madame Lefoux, the original owner, had chosen to dangle them all at the ends of long chains, so that they swayed softly at different lengths. A field through which shoppers could coo and drift. Biffy liked the design. It had a pleasing undersea quality, and so he kept it. The stranger stood on the other side of that field, peering through it at him.
He was a lean, undersized man, shrouded in a full cloak and a hat. Backlit by the gas wall sconces, it was difficult to see his face.
Biffy knew him instantly.
Yes, he smelled different. Yes, he had spoken too softly. But Biffy remembered that body and posture as if it were a childhood nursery rhyme – not word for word but the melody impressed upon his psyche in a way that would haunt him all his life.
Mine. My Beta.
He suddenly felt the tension he didn’t even know he’d been holding. Tension since he’d assumed control of the pack several months earlier. Tension around need, and vacancy, and absence. He felt it now because it left him all at once. His knees wobbled. Perhaps I’ve been holding it longer than two months. Perhaps I’ve been holding it twenty years.
Professor Randolph Lyall had spent his very long life cultivating anonymity. He specialized in being impeccably easy to forget. He always dressed exactly under the height of fashion. His manners were perfectly quiet and perfectly polite, his customs designed to fade into the background. He was the ideal Beta, always there to observe and provide support, never to steal the limelight.
But Biffy always noticed Professor Lyall. Had done so from the very start. He’d noticed the set of Lyall’s shoulders, and the curve of his neck, and the length of his eyelashes. Now, as Biffy moved towards Lyall, stalking, hunter-like, he noticed the way Lyall’s sandy hair was longer, queued back in the military fashion. He watched the way he adjusted his waistcoat under Biffy’s steady gaze. He remembered the way that waistcoat always contained precisely the right gadget for any occasion.
Biffy pushed the hats aside, careless of their movement. He was thinking too much about not running through them. He was concentrating too much on holding himself back. Heedless of watching claviger eyes and interested shoppers, Biffy closed the space between them.
Finally.
“You smell foreign,” he accused Lyall, coming to a stop at last. Exactly the correct distance for a reunion among friends. Biffy was overcome, but he was never that overcome.
Professor Lyall smiled at him. It was a real smile too, one that crinkled the corners of his sand-colored eyes. “Good evening, Lord Falmouth.”
“Professor.” Biffy nodded his head in greeting. “Why did your smell change so much?”
“It’s been a long time.”
“You said it wouldn’t feel so long to a werewolf.”
“I lied.”
“I know.” Biffy held himself perfectly still. Afraid that if he moved, he would embarrass them both. They were, after all, in the middle of a hat shop. His mind blurred over with all the things he wanted to say, all the questions he wanted to ask, all the moments he wanted filled all at once. Thus all he could actually give his Beta were banalities.
“Welcome home.”
Professor Lyall cocked his head, just slightly to the left, exactly as Biffy remembered. Did anyone else notice that he did that only when he was considering his words with extra care?
Biffy wanted to reach out and tuck a small bit of sandy hair behind Lyall’s ear. Although, this being Lyall, not a hair was out of place. He wanted to ask stupid questions about why, and how, it was longer. He wanted to run his fingers over that jaw line, now covered by a well-tended and entirely modern bit of facial scruff. Darker than the hair on Lyall’s head. Making him look even more foxlike. Biffy wanted to see if it was soft to the touch. He would need to glance around and see if they were under observation first. But he was afraid that if he looked away, Lyall would disappear in a puff of exotic-smelling smoke.
“It’s good to be back.”
“You’ve been in Egypt.”
“The smell?”
“And the hair.”
Lyall smiled. “You would comment on that. I see you’ve taken to keeping yours quite short on top.”
As if Biffy had an option. “Was it nice being mortal again, if only for...” He allowed himself a touch at the length of those straight dirty-blond locks, silky smooth. “…two months?”
“I had to visit some old friends.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“No?”
“It took you long enough either way. Twenty years.”
“So, what’s two more months of waiting?” Lyall suggested an end to Biffy’s reasoning, as if he had always known. As if he had not, in fact, been away at all.
Two more months was like two extra years. Like fumbling in the dark. Where were you? What took you so long? How could you leave me here to fend for myself?
Lyall was evaluating Biffy under his lashes, and then, with one of those impossibly subtle gestures full of incalculable meaning, he dropped his head back, lifting his chin to expose the length of his neck. Not so far as to be obvious, but almost. His voice went quieter and lower. “Alpha.”