She had just persuaded a blushing claviger to help her dress when Floote appeared in the doorway clutching several pieces of paper and looking thoughtful. So thoughtful that he did not, initially, attempt to prevent her from her planned departure.

“Madam, the most interesting series of aetherograms have just come in through the transmitter. I believe they are intended for you.”

Alexia looked up with interest. “You believe?”

“They are directed to the Ruffled Parasol. I doubt someone would actually attempt to communicate with an accessory.”

“Indeed.”

“From someone calling himself Puff Bonnet.”

“Herself. Yes, go on.”

“From Scotland.”

“Yes, yes, Floote, what does she say?”

Floote cleared his throat and began to read. “ ‘To Ruffled Parasol. Vital information regarding super-secret subject of confabulation.’ ” He moved on to the next bit of paper. “ ‘Past persons of Scottishness in contact with mastermind of supernatural persuasion in London, aka Agent Doom.’ ” Floote moved on to the third bit of paper. “ ‘Lady K says Agent Doom assisted depraved Plan of Action. May have all been his idea.’ ” Moving on to the last one, he read out, “ ‘Summer permits Scots to expose more knee than lady of refinement should have to withstand. Hairmuffs much admired. Yours etc., Puff Bonnet.’ ”

Lady Maccon put out her hand for Ivy’s correspondence. “Fascinating. Floote, send a message back thanking her and telling her she can return to London. Would you, please? And call up the carriage. My husband is at BUR tonight? I must consult with him immediately on the subject.”

“But, madam!”

“It’s no good, Floote. The fate of the nation may be at stake.”

Floote, who knew well when he had no chance of winning an argument, turned to do as ordered.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Death by Teapot

Why, Lady Maccon, I understood you to be confined to the countryside for two more days at the very least.” Professor Lyall was the first to notice Alexia as she let herself into BUR’s head office. The building was situated just off of Fleet Street and was a mite grimy and bureaucratic for Alexia’s taste. Lyall and her husband shared a large front office, crammed with two desks, a changing closet, a settee, four chairs, multiple hat stands, and a wardrobe full of clothing for visiting werewolves. Since the Bureau was always untangling some significant supernatural crisis or another and didn’t seem to employ a decent cleaning staff, it was also crammed with paperwork, metal aethographic slates, dirty teacups, and, for some strange reason, a large number of stuffed ducks.

Lord Maccon looked up from a pile of antiquated parchment rolls. His tawny eyes were narrowed. “She bloody well was. What are you doing here, wife?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” protested Alexia, trying not to look as though she were leaning on her parasol for assistance in walking. Although, truth be told, she was grateful for its support, as her waddle had evolved into a lurching hobble.