Biffy had a feeling, now that things had shaken out for his own pack, that his wolves might start courting. Their new Alpha would bring no new wife of his own – he was not inclined. It seemed likely that some of them might hunt wives for themselves. This both thrilled and worried Biffy. But made it absolutely necessary to invest in a very large house.
Not that I’d mind women or even children around the place. I miss Alexia. Of course, Biffy missed Lord Maccon for the responsibility that had not been Biffy’s while the man still ruled. But he missed Lady Maccon for the sheer joy of a woman’s company. He might prefer men in his bed, but one could have too much of a good thing in one’s life. And his pack was very masculine, sometimes overwhelmingly so.
Such thoughts kept him mostly silent throughout the drive home.
“There it is,” he said, pointing out the house to Lyall, a little anxious, hoping his Beta approved of the place.
It was almost a mansion, set apart and practically within the heath. This gave it excellent, and defensible, positioning and a good aspect. Biffy had purchased it off the crown and at a reduced rate, partly because, the queen claimed, while Falmouth title came with lands in Cornwall, it did not come with a house in town, and he did need something appropriate to his position.
It was a well-balanced Georgian building, whitewashed stone with a low roof. No columns or Greek stylings, it had many small windows with charming lemon-colored shutters (Biffy took no chances with sunlight) and a few larger bay windows with arches on the first level. It was pleasant, the type of house built for solid country gentry with nothing to prove – unpretentious, but warm and welcoming.
Biffy was tradesman enough (after decades in the hat business) not to protest a good deal when it was thrust upon him.
Most of the pack was likely out. It was a few hours until morning, and they would be about their various places of business, checking in with the regiments or guards, attending social matters at their club, or otherwise occupied. The moon being nearer new than full, Biffy wasn’t concerned. He hoped that the squabbling had been left over the breakfast table and that the house was now peaceful.
He was looking forward to a nice cup of tea and good gossip with his Beta before a warm fire.
He led Lyall through the wrought-iron gate in the garden’s stone wall, and up the path to the front door somewhat proudly. Lyall perked up, seeming less tired as he took in his new home with bright hazel eyes.
“Welcome to Falmouth House, Professor Lyall.” Biffy pushed open the big door to find... total and utter chaos.
*
Lyall was gobsmacked. There was no politer way of putting it. And not by their new residence, although it was bigger than Woolsey Castle, much more welcoming, and impeccably decorated. He expected no less from his new Alpha.
No, he had never before heard his pack in such a confused state. The multitude of voices, all familiar and all at once, mixed in with the screams of some creature apparently in the throes of slow dismemberment.
“Well.” Biffy was clearly mortified. “This is embarrassing. I did so want to impress you.”
“The house is lovely, Alpha. But perhaps we should ascertain the nature of the disturbance?” Lyall put down his small traveling case in the grand entranceway and followed the noise into what appeared to be the drawing room, and the eye of the storm.
Biffy trailed behind him.
Of the pack, Adelphus, Quinn, Phelan, Hemming, Rafe, Ulric, and Zev were all home. Channing was likely still at work. Riehard was also missing. Probably on assignment. I’ll have to get his thoughts on the past few months as soon as he returns. Riehard was a kindred spirit, very observant, preferring the background to center stage, and mostly even-tempered.
Lyall took in his seven pack mates, assorted clavigers, and household staff in one quick sweep. Biffy came in after and stood staring with his mouth open.
The pack was flapping about in a discombobulated manner like a flock of starving pigeons that had just been thrown a scattering of highly desirable bread scraps. Since most of them were on the larger end of the masculine spectrum, this was a lot of flapping for even the impressive drawing room to contain.
Hemming stood at the center of the cyclone and seemed to be emitting a very high-pitched, extremely loud wailing sound.
Ah, not Hemming but something Hemming is holding. Is that...
“Hemming,” Biffy barked from slightly too close to Lyall. Lyall shivered. “Is that an infant you have clutched to your breast?”
“Hot water,” Adelphus was insisting. “Don’t human offspring always need hot water? Should I ask Cook to put the kettle to boil? He’s making a great deal of noise. Perhaps two kettles?”
“And clean linens? Or bandages, do we need bandages?” That was Quinn, his quizzical brow even more quizzical than usual, his dark hair spiked up as if he’d been running his hands through it.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Hemming isn’t in the act of giving birth! We need milk. Or is he old enough for mushy food? What do you think?” Phelan at his most aristocratic. His deep voice rumbled through the chaos.
“Are there teeth? Isn’t age determined by the presence or absence of teeth?” Rafe this time, bouncing about, looking scruffy and worried.
“I think that’s in horses, not humans,” corrected Phelan.
“I think mushy food. Peas or potatoes or porridge or something?” Quinn again.
“Do all mushy foods start with p according to you?” wondered Ulric mildly from one side of the room.
“Why is he crying so much? Hemming, rock him back and forth.” Rafe looked over Hemming’s shoulder.
“No, no, don’t do that. Swaddle him and hold him tightly. He needs reassurance, poor little mite. Abandoned like that.” Zev, dark eyes wide with fear.
“Should I sing?” Hemming this time. “Aren’t you supposed to sing to nippers?”
“No!” several voices at once. Werewolves gained many things upon achieving immortality, but a sense of pitch wasn’t one of them.
Ulric stayed in the background, looking concerned but not involved. He could get that way in a crisis, withdrawn and reserved, but this was even more than customary. Lyall paused, examining his countenance for hidden meaning. Is he pulling away from the pack?
Ulric registered his presence, and a wide smile slashed across his impossibly handsome face.
Lyall tilted his head at his old friend.
Through all the chatter, the clavigers rushed about, gathering great piles of throws and blankets, putting them on and then off the bundle in Hemming’s arms. Occasionally, by accident or design, one would fall over Hemming’s head. Staff dashed off, following some causally thrown-out order, then came running back in with whatever had been requested. The tables were now piled with linen bandages, bowls of porridge, pitchers of hot water, a basket of dried flowers, assorted bottles of medicinals, a pair of large woolly slippers, and, for some unaccountable reason, a set of curling tongs. Who in my pack uses curling tongs? Biffy imagined it was Channing and amused himself greatly.
The werewolves circled about Hemming and his bundle. Fingers were shoved at the bundle. Food was shoved at the bundle. The bundle wiggled and screamed ever louder.
“I have never heard anything yell so much,” said Ulric, wandering over to them. “Not even Lord Maccon. How can such a tiny thing make so much noise?”
Lyall looked at Biffy, measured. What will you do, Alpha?
Biffy narrowed his eyes at Lyall for one second and then cut through the hubbub to where Hemming stood.