Lord Akeldama shook his head in distress. “You have my deepest sympathies.”

Alexia knew this for the sham that it was. Lord Akeldama liked to pretend he attended only the best parties and fraternized with only the right kind of people. His drones were certainly drawn from the highest society had to offer. But Biffy, in his day, had unexpectedly turned up in more unsavory locales than a housekeeper would ever frequent, and Lord Akeldama would never make his drones go anywhere in London he had not vetted first himself.

The dewan kept the conversation on course. “But, Muhjah, that’s hundreds of houses, not to mention shops, private clubs, and other places of interest.”

Lady Maccon considered Madame Lefoux’s underground contrivance chamber, just outside the radius of inquiry. “In addition, it does not take into account cellars or attics built with subterfuge in mind. And it assumes strangers will tell me if someone within their household has recently died. Nevertheless, can you think of a better approach?”

Neither Lord Akeldama nor the dewan could.

The infant-inconvenience kicked out in apparent punctuation to this statement. Lady Maccon made an oof noise, glared down at her stomach, then cleared her throat when the others looked at her inquiringly.

“Do we inform the queen in the meantime?” Now that they had some kind of plan, the dewan seemed to feel that pacing about was no longer necessary. He came to sit at the table.

Lord Akeldama took a stand at that. He always took a stand over control of information. “Not just yet, I think, fluffy. Not until we have more concrete evidence. All we have now are the mutterings of a mad ghost.”

Lady Maccon, a mite suspicious of his motives, nevertheless had to agree with his point. “Very well, I’ll investigate those residences that look to be nighttime inclined, as soon as we have finished here. I’ll sleep tomorrow morning and continue in the afternoon with the daylight households.”

Lord Akeldama winced and then took a deep breath. “This may be distressing to hear, my flower, but I’m afraid it simply must be said. I am loathe to advocate such an onerous thing, but as you are searching for someone beneath you, you might want to dress down accordingly.”

Lady Maccon winced, thinking of Felicity and her knitwear. “Are you suggesting that I pretend to be a servant?”

“I am so very sorry, dumpling, but you might have greater success with subterfuge.” The vampire’s eyes welled with tears at the necessity of having to recommend such a horror.

Alexia took a deep breath to firm her resolve. “Oh, the actions I must undertake for my country.”

So it was that Lady Maccon, dressed in some menial rags of ill design and shapeless cut, accompanied by Biffy in the guise of husband, became far more familiar with her new neighborhood than she had previously imagined possible. Biffy looked more uncomfortable in his baggy, lower-class Sunday best than Alexia had ever seen him in evening garb, no matter how tight the breeches or how high the collar. Nevertheless, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the role of out-of-work butler with pregnant housekeeper wife. At each new door, they asked politely after places recently vacated. At each they were treated with a modicum of compassion by the respective butlers—partly due to Alexia’s condition but mostly due to the excellent references they were able to provide from one Lady Maccon of Woolsey Castle.