The vampire tilted his head to one side in acknowledgment. “Sadly, yes. I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Oh, really, must you? I’d much rather you didn’t.”

“That’s what they all say.”

* * *

The ghost drifted. Floating between this world and death. It felt like being trapped in a coop, a cage for chickens, and she a poor fat hen kept to lay and lay and lay. What could she provide but the eggs of her mind? Nothing left. No more eggs.

“Bawk, bawk!” she clucked.

No one answered her.

It was better—this was better, she had to believe—than nothingness. Even the madness was better.

But sometimes she was aware of it, the reality of her coop, and the substantial world around it. There was something very wrong with that world. There were parts of it missing. There were people acting indifferent or incorrect. There were new feelings intruding that had no right to intrude. No right at all.

The ghost was certain, absolutely certain, that something must be done to stop it. But she was nothing more than a specter, and a mad one at that, drifting between undead and dead. What could she do? Who could she tell?

CHAPTER TWO

Wherein Alexia Will Not Be Flung

Lord Ambrose was an exceptionally well-formed gentleman. His perpetual expression was one of pensive hauteur exacerbated by aquiline features and brooding dark eyes. Alexia felt that he had much in common with a mahogany wardrobe that belonged to Mrs. Loontwill’s great-grandfather and now resided in embarrassed austerity among the frippery of her mother’s boudoir. That is to say, Lord Ambrose was immovable, impossible to live with, and mostly filled with frivolities incompatible with outward appearance.

Lady Maccon moved toward her gun, finding the spacious carriage difficult to navigate with her attention focused on the vampire in the doorway and her mobility hampered by the infant in her belly. “Terribly forward of the countess to send you, Lord Ambrose, to do the deed.”

Lord Ambrose made his way inside. “Ah, well, our more subtle attempts seem to be wasted on you, Lady Maccon.”

“Subtlety usually is.”

Lord Ambrose ignored her and continued with his explanation. “I am her praetoriani. When you want something done properly, sometimes you must send the best.” He lunged toward her, supernaturally fast. In his hands he held a garrote. Alexia would never have thought the most dignified of the Westminster Hive capable of wielding such a primitive assassin’s weapon.

Lady Maccon might be prone to waddling of late, but there was nothing wrong with the mobility of her upper extremities. She ducked to avoid the deadly wire, grabbed for Ethel, swung about, pulling the hammer back in the same movement, and fired.

At such close range, even she could hit a vampire full force in the shoulder, surprising him considerably.

He paused in his attack. “Well, my word! You can’t threaten me, you’re pregnant!”

Alexia pulled the hammer back again. “Take a seat, won’t you, Lord Ambrose? I believe I have something to discuss with you that might change your current approach. And I shall aim for a less-resilient part of your anatomy next.”