Timeless pp-5, page 15
part #5 of Parasol Protectorate Series
Biffy could feel himself blushing. Never before had he received a compliment from Professor Lyall, not even a fashion-related one.
“Och, how sweet.” Lady Kingair’s lip curled. “But perhaps the compliments could wait until you have explained yourself, Beta.”
Lyall finished his repast and collapsed against an overturned stack of metal slates. Biffy pressed his back slightly against his Beta’s legs, taking comfort from the contact, and leaned up on one elbow to look at Lady Kingair. The Alpha propped herself into a full seated position, using a massive box of ammunition. She looked tired, but still angry. They all stared at one another.
Finally Professor Lyall said, “I’ll admit I did not see it from your perspective, my lady. And for that I extend my sincerest apologizes. But you have no idea what he was like. No idea.”
Sidheag Maccon looked much like her great-great-great-grandfather as she popped the last bite into her mouth and gave the Beta an austere look. When she finished chewing, she said magnanimously, “I ken he went mad. I ken he was violent. I dinna think that’s an excuse.”
“He killed Alessandro.”
“Aye? Well, Templar training will only get a man so far. And after, what? You planned for years to get your revenge. At my expense. At poor old Gramps’s expense. He was happy in Scotland. What werewolf wants to come to England when he has the rolling green of the Lowland to run? You stole him against his will. Against our will.”
The Beta fished about for a scrap of paper and cleaned his hands of blood as though with a handkerchief. “I provided the temptation. Your pack need not have followed it.”
“Na good enough, Randolph Lyall. Na good enough.”
Professor Lyall took a deep breath as though to fortify himself. Biffy felt a soft touch on his shoulder, and he craned his neck about to find the Beta leaning toward him. “You needn’t have come, pup, although I’m glad you did. But I do wish you didn’t have to hear what comes next.”
But Biffy did hear, every messy, degrading, disgusting detail as Professor Lyall told Lady Kingair exactly what life had been like under the Alpha Lord Woolsey. Servicing him as Beta near the end had been humiliating—for five and a half long years. Lyall’s face was deadpan as he relayed the details, as those who are tortured or raped will become when they retell the pattern of abuse. Biffy began crying quietly and wishing, indeed, that he did not have to hear it.
Lady Kingair lost much of her anger in the telling, but her sympathies were not entirely swayed. She could understand that Lyall had found himself in a situation with no possible way out except the one he took. But she could still not forgive that her pack had suffered the consequences of his choice.
“Oh, aye, and is that to be my lot as well? Tae be going all over abusive and deranged? Will poor old Gramps face the same fate?”
“Not all Alphas go bad the way Lord Woolsey went bad. He already had the tendencies. It’s simply that when he was sane, he acted with the consent of his partners. Take comfort, my lady—most Alphas die before the opportunity arises.”
“Oh, aye, much obliged I’m sure. Verra comforting, that is. What now, Professor?”
“Well, in an odd way, I am glad it is known. But Lord Maccon will never forgive me or trust me again. I take it you wrote him the details?”
“Oh, aye.”
“Poor Lady Maccon. She didn’t want to keep my secret. Now she will have to handle Conall finding out.”
“You telling me you’re prepared to make reparations?” Lady Kingair looked less angry and more contemplative, examining Professor Lyall through half-lidded eyes.
Biffy, wary of that look, leaned in against his Beta. Relishing the intimacy, feeling oddly proprietary.
Professor Lyall squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “Of course.”
“And you ken what I will want of you?”
The Beta nodded, looking resigned.
Lady Kingair took a deep breath and looked down her nose at the slight, sandy-haired gentleman. And Professor Lyall was still a gentleman, Biffy realized, even without a stitch of clothing, lying on the floor of a stockroom.
“I’m thinking Kingair’s needing a Beta right about now.”
“No!” Biffy couldn’t help the exclamation. He reeled away from Lyall, turning so that he faced him fully.
Professor Lyall only nodded.
“And you, for all yon manipulations, are one of the best. Possibly because of them.”
Professor Lyall nodded again.
“Oh, no,” Biffy cried. “You can’t abandon us! What will we do without you?”
Professor Lyall only looked at him with a little smile. “Oh, now, Biffy, I think you will do very well.”
“Me!” squeaked Biffy.
“Of course. You have the makings of an excellent Beta.”
“But I… I…,” Biffy stuttered.
Lady Kingair nodded. “That’ll do nicely. Now dinna worry, pup, we won’t keep him for all time—only until we find someone better.”
“There is no one better,” said Biffy with absolute confidence.
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Haverbink stuck his head in without being summoned.
“Didn’t I order you to stay away?” asked Professor Lyall placidly.
“Yes, sir, but it was so quiet I wanted to make certain you were all still alive.”
“As you see. And?”
“And a massive gilt carriage has just pulled up out front. Lord Akeldama sent it with his compliments.” Haverbink produced a mauve-colored scrap of paper. Lilac scent wafted into the room. “Said you would need a nice dark ride back home to get some sleep, and what were you fluffy darlings all doing still out and about?”
“How could he have known to send such a thing? He himself should already be comatose.” Lyall blinked in mild confusion and looked to Biffy for an explanation.
“He would have left orders with his drones.”
“Nosy vampire neighbors,” sniffed Lady Kingair.
Afterward, Biffy could only just recall that ride back home, stumbling into the house and up the stairs, he and Professor Lyall leaning against one another in exhaustion. But he remembered perfectly the Beta’s face, a single sharp look when they reached the door to his chamber, almost frightened. It was a look Biffy recognized. He had neither the strength nor the interest in allowing loneliness to pillage anyone else’s peace of mind.
So he made the offer. “Would you like company, Professor?”
Professor Lyall looked at him, hazel eyes desperate. “I wouldn’t… that is… I couldn’t… that is… I’m not all that… capable.” He gave a weak little flap of a gesture indicating his still-wounded state, his fatigue, and his disheveled appearance all in one.
Biffy gave a little puff of a chuckle. He had never seen the urbane professor discombobulated before. Had he known, he might have flirted more in the past. “Just company, sir. I should never presume even if we were both in perfect health.” Besides, my hair must look atrocious. Imagine being able to attract anyone in such a state, let alone someone of Lyall’s standing.
The corner of his Beta’s mouth twitched, and he withdrew behind a veil of dispassionate hazel eyes. “Pity, pup? After you heard what Lord Woolsey did to me? It was a long time ago.”
Biffy had no doubt Professor Lyall was as proud, in his way, as any other man of good breeding and refined tastes. He tilted his head, showing his neck submissively. “No, sir. Never that. Respect, I suppose. To survive such things and still be sane.”
“Betas are made to maintain order. We are the butlers of the supernatural world.” An analogy no doubt sparked by the advent of Floote, who glided down the hallway toward them, looking as concerned as it is possible for a man to look who, so far as Biffy could tell, never displayed any emotion at all.
“You are well, gentlemen?”
“Yes, thank you, Floote.”
“There is nothing I can get for you?”
“No, thank you, Floote.”
“Investigation?” The butler arched an eyebrow at their fatigued and roughened state.
“No, Floote, a matter of pack protocol.”
“Ah.”
“Carry on, Floote.”
“Very good, sir.” Floote drifted away.
Biffy turned to make his way to his own sleeping chamber, assured now that his overtures had been rejected. He was forestalled by a hand on his arm.
Lyall had lovely hands, fine and strong, the hands of an artist who practiced a craft, a carpenter, perhaps, or a baker. Biffy had a sudden fanciful image of Lyall with a smudge of flour on his face, going comfortably into old age with a fine wife and brood of mild-mannered children.
The sandy head tilted in silent invitation. Professor Lyall opened the door to his bedroom. Biffy hesitated only a moment before following him inside.
By the time the sun set that evening, they were both fully recovered from the ordeal, having slept the day away without incident. Fully recovered and curled together naked in Lyall’s small bed.
Biffy learned, through careful kisses and soft caress, that Lyall was not at all disturbed by messy hair. In fact, his Beta’s hands were almost reverent, stroking through his curls. Biffy hoped that with his own touch he could convey his disregard for Lyall’s past actions and suffering, determined that none of what they did together should be about shame. Most of it, Biffy guessed, was about companionship. There might have been a tiny little seed of love. Just the beginnings, but a tender, equality of love, of a kind Biffy had never before experienced.
Professor Lyall was as different from Lord Akeldama as was possible. But there was something in that very difference that Biffy found restful. The contrast in characters made it feel like less of a betrayal. For two years, Biffy had held on to his hope and his infatuation with the vampire. It was time to let go. However, he didn’t feel that Lyall was edging Lord Akeldama out. Lyall wasn’t the type to compete. Instead he was carving himself a new place. Biffy might just be able to make the room. Lyall was, after all, not very big, for a werewolf. Of course, he worried about Felicity’s story of Alessandro Tarabotti, about whether Lyall was capable of loving him back, but it was early yet and Biffy allowed himself to revel in the simple joy that can only be found in allaying another’s loneliness.
When Lyall lay flush against him, nuzzling up into his neck, Biffy thought they fit well together. Not matched colors so much as coordinated, with Lyall a neutral cream satin, perhaps, and Biffy a royal blue. Biffy said nothing concerning any such romantic flights of fancy. Instead he asked a more practical question.
“You truly intend to become Kingair’s Beta, even after all you sacrificed for this pack?”
“I must make amends.” Lyall did not stop his nuzzling.
“So far away from London?” So far from me?
“It won’t be forever. But I’ll have to stay away, at least until Lord Maccon retires.”
Biffy was floored. He stopped smoothing the hair at Lyall’s temple. “Retires? Retires from being Alpha?” As though it were a position in a tradesman’s firm? “You think that is something he’s likely to do?”
Lyall smiled. Biffy could feel the movement of his cheek against his chest. “Ah, Biffy, you think Lord Maccon is any less aware of the fate of Alphas who get too old than we are?”
Biffy’s hand went involuntarily to his throat in shock. For there could be only one possible implication from such a statement. Lord Maccon intended to kill himself before he went mad. “Poor Lady Maccon!” he whispered.
“Now, now, not to worry. I shouldn’t think it’ll be all that soon. Decades or more. You must really learn to think like an immortal, my sweet Biffy.”
“Will you come back here after?”
“I will try.”
“So we must wait until Lord Maccon dies? How macabre.”
“Much of immortality, you will find, is in surviving the deaths of others. And the waiting has not started yet. We have some time before our Alphas return.” He began kissing Biffy softly on the neck.
“By all means, let us not waste time.”
Which was how Biffy missed his last window to send a message by dirigible post, warning Lady Maccon of Lady Kingair’s letter to Lord Maccon. Which was why he used rather more colorful language than he ought upon realizing that he had mucked the timing up quite royally and would not have an opportunity to contact his mistress again until after she landed in Alexandria.
Timing, he realized, could work hard against one, even when one had, theoretically, all the time in the world.
CHAPTER TEN
Wherein Our Intrepid Travelers Ride Donkeys
It was Sunday tea aboard ship and the Tunstells had been persuaded to perform their rendition of Macbeth to rousing applause and much comedic effect in the dining hall when the port of Alexandria was sighted. Ten days of familiarity will make strangers traveling together more friendly with one another than an entire season of town socialization. Alexia was not certain how she felt about such familiarity—it led to homegrown theatricals while at table, but the other passengers were enjoying themselves.
Ivy was dressed in a corseted medieval gown and lamenting her blood-covered hands—beet juice from a most excellent stewed vegetable tureen—and wearing a blond wig of epic proportions and ratty state. She was giving the tragedy her all, in a rather misguided and decidedly impressionistic take on the famous knife scene. Tunstell lay prone over a potted plant stage right—also known as the kitchen entrance. Mr. Tumtrinkle, sporting a substantial fake mustache and a waistcoat so tight it was near to popping over his well-padded circumference, was tiptoeing across the stage wielding another potted plant, Macduff with Birnam Wood, and carrying a baguette sword.
The diners were riveted. Particularly by the antics of the waitstaff, who had to dodge through the climactic fight scene carrying scones and jam.
It was no wonder, then, that Alexandria snuck up on all of them. The first thing that signified the momentous event was a slowing in their speed and a loud tooting noise. The captain hurriedly excused himself, tea unfinished, and the Tunstells stopped their antics and stood about dumbly.
The proximity bells clanged out and everyone made busy finishing their conversation and foodstuffs without the appearance of excitement or hurry, although clearly under the influence of both.
“Have we arrived?” Alexia asked her husband. “I do believe we have.”
Conall, for whom high tea was an exercise in futility, there being little protein on offer and too many small fiddly sandwiches expressly designed to thwart a man of his ilk, stood without prompting. “Well, come along, my dear, to the upper deck!”
Alexia took up Prudence, who was ostensibly the excuse for awakening early and attending the tea. The toddler had yet to experience such an occasion as Sunday tea in a public assembly on a steamer, and Alexia had thought she might enjoy the treat. Prudence had indeed, although her good behavior might be better attributed to the performance than the comestibles. Prudence found the Tunstells’ rendition of Macbeth more fascinating than anyone else, possibly because the antics were right about her education level or possibly because life with Lord Akeldama had given her to expect a certain degree of extravagant theatricality.
Prudence was particularly taken with the idea that Mr. Tumtrinkle now answered to the name Macduff, possibly because she could say Macduff but not Tumtrinkle. She was also hypnotized by his mustache, a fact made clear as they climbed out onto the promenade and the actor stood behind them. Prudence somehow ended up leaning over her mother’s shoulder, misappropriating the mustache and wearing it rather proudly on her own tiny, fat face.
“Oh, really!” was her mother’s comment, but she did not try to remove it.
Madame Lefoux came up next to them and gave Prudence a green-eyed look of approval. “Child after my own heart.”
“Don’t you start,” said Alexia, possibly to both of them. “Prudence, darling, look: Egypt!” She pointed before them as the rays of the slowly setting sun caught the beige buildings of the last great Mediterranean port. The first thing to appear was the famous lighthouse, rising above the level of a colorless line of coast. Although, to Alexia’s mind, it seemed a little smaller than one would hope.
“No,” said Prudence, but she looked.
The steamer chugged to a halt, disappointing everyone.
“We have to wait to take a pilot on board,” explained, of all people, Ivy Tunstell.
“We do?” Alexia looked down at her friend, mystified. Ivy had come to stand next to them still garbed in her medieval dress and long blond wig.
Ivy nodded sagely. “The channel into the harbor is narrow, shallow, and rocky. Baedeker says so.”
“Well, then, it must be true.” They spotted a small tug chugging through the water toward them. A sprightly, dark-skinned fellow in very ill-fitting and baggy clothing was allowed aboard. He saluted the watching passengers in a casual manner and then disappeared toward the captain’s lookout.
Moments later, the steamer puffed back up into rumbling action and began making its way sedately into the port of Alexandria.
Lady Maccon was pleased to say the city quite lived up to her expectations. While Ivy prattled on about Pompey’s Pillar, the Cape of Figs, the Arsenal, and various other guidebook sights of note, Alexia simply absorbed the quality of the place: the subdued tranquility of exotic buildings, broken only occasionally by the white marble turrets of mosques or the sharp knitting-needle austerity of an obelisk. She thought she could make out ruins in the background. It was mostly sand colored, lit up orange by the sun—a city carved out of the desert indeed, utterly alien in every way. The thing it most resembled was a sculpture made of shortbread.
Ivy excused herself, remarking that they, too, ought to go below, or at least in out of the sea air. “Too much sea air can detrimentally affect the mental stability, or so I’ve read.”
“Why, Mrs. Tunstell, you must have traveled by boat before,” said Lord Maccon.
