The Beta’s eyes crinkled up, wincing as though he might cry. Then he swallowed, nodded, and placed the book inside his waistcoat pocket.

Alexia took a deep breath. “So, back to the crisis at hand. I suppose neither of you is currently planning to kill Queen Victoria, even in jest?”

Two almost simultaneous head shakes met that question.

“Are you telling me I’ve been on the wrong track all this time?”

The werewolves looked at each other, neither of them willing to risk her wrath.

Alexia sighed and extracted the sheaf of paper Madame Lefoux had given her from her reticule. “So this is entirely useless? No connection between the last attempt and this one. Pure coincidence that the poisoner you were going to use, Professor, happened to die in service to the OBO. And that she possibly then became a ghost who delivered a warning to me.”

“Looks like it must be, my lady.”

“I don’t like coincidences.”

“Now that, my lady, I can’t help you with.”

Alexia sighed and stood, using her parasol as a crutch. “Back to the beginning, I suppose. Nothing for it. I shall have to return these papers to Madame Lefoux.” The child inside her kicked mightily at the very idea. “Perhaps tomorrow night. Bed first.”

“A very sensible idea, my lady.”

“None of that from you, Professor, thank you very much. I’m still miffed. I understand why you did it, but I am miffed.” Alexia began making her way painstakingly to the door, prepared to climb upstairs and across the balcony bridge into her closet boudoir.

Neither werewolf tried to help her. She was clearly not in the mood to be coddled. Lyall did touch her arm as she passed. The action turned him mortal for a moment. Alexia had never had an opportunity to see him mortal before. He looked much the same as he did when immortal—perhaps there were more lines about his mouth and at the corners of his eyes—but he was still a pale vulpine man with sandy hair—utterly unremarkable.

“Are you going to tell Conall?”

Alexia turned around slowly and leveled a decided glare in his direction. It told him, in no uncertain terms, exactly how she felt about this state of affairs. “No, no, I’m not. Damn you.”

And then, with as much dignity as was possible given her condition, she waddled from the room, like some unbalanced galleon under full sail.

Only to run into Felicity in the hallway. It was like trundling full tilt into a pillar of molasses, the conversation likely to be sticky and the individual attractive only to creepy-crawlies. Alexia was never prepared to run into her sister, but on such a night as this when the chit should be fast asleep, it really was beyond.

Felicity, for her part, was bleary-eyed and wearing nothing but a highly ornamented nightgown, the excess material of which she clutched, with artful trembling hands, to her breast. Her hair was a tousle of golden curls that cascaded over one shoulder, a ridiculous pink bed cap perched precariously atop her head. The nightgown, too, was pink, a foulard with printed magenta flowers, replete with ruching, frillings, a quantity of lace trim, and a particularly large ruff about the neck. Alexia thought Felicity looked like a big pink Christmas tree.