Lady Maccon continued. “Simply because the vampires are perennially trying to murder me doesn’t mean they are trying to murder the queen as well, now, does it? One would think their resources would be somewhat taxed, if nothing else. Besides, what could possibly be their motive? The queen is a progressive.” She was moved to defend her stance further. “I thought your lot was supposed to have long memories. Correct me if I’m wrong, Professor Lyall, but didn’t the last major threat to Queen Victoria’s life emanate from the Kingair Pack?”

“Really, Lady Maccon, couldn’t it wait until I’ve at least finished my first cup of tea?” The Beta looked put upon.

Alexia said nothing.

Professor Lyall put down his tea pointedly. “There was that overeager Pate fellow with the walking stick some twenty years ago or so. Completely mutilated Her Majesty’s favorite bonnet. Shocking behavior. And there was that disgruntled Irishman with the unloaded pistol before that.” He helped himself to a small serving of smoked kipper but paused before digging in. “And the reputed incident a few years back with John Brown.” The Beta considered his kipper as though it held all the answers. “Come to think on it, they’ve all been remarkably ineffective.”

Her husband snorted. “Notoriety mongers, the lot of them.”

Alexia puffed out her cheeks. “You know what I mean. Those were all isolated incidents. I mean planned cohesive plots backed by serious intent.”

The maid reappeared with more tea and an extra cup for Lord Maccon. Who sneered at it.

Professor Lyall’s face sobered. “Then, no, Kingair was the last.”

A delicate subject, indeed, as Kingair was Lord Maccon’s former pack, and they had betrayed him in order to attempt the ghastly deed. He had killed his Beta and moved to London to challenge for Woolsey as a result. Like politics, or personal dressing habits, this was not proper meal-time conversation.

Professor Lyall, a man of much delicacy, seemed to find the subject particularly uncomfortable. After all, Woolsey had ultimately benefited from the assassination attempt. Their previous Alpha was reputed to be a man of petty disposition and profound temper, and Lord Maccon was considered one of the better werewolf leaders. The best, if Alexia had anything to say on the subject. Which she did. Often.

The bell sounded in the front entranceway, and Professor Lyall glanced up gratefully. There came a rumble of voices as Floote answered the door. Alexia couldn’t make out who it was, but her husband and his Beta had werewolf hearing and their reactions—a slight smile from Lyall and a disgusted frown from Conall—gave her a pretty decent idea.

“Peaches!” Lord Akeldama wafted in on a wave of Bond Street’s best pomade and a lemon-scented eau de toilette. Alexia’s pregnancy had had a strange effect on her sense of smell, rendering it far more acute. She imagined she was getting some limited idea of how werewolves felt with their supernatural abilities in that arena.

The vampire, resplendent in a silver tailcoat and bright yellow waistcoat only one or two shades darker than his hair, paused in the doorway. “Isn’t this delightfully cozy? How perfectly splendid that I can simply pop next door and visit you all à la table!”