“Very well,” grumbled the earl. “I’ll go after the local roves. There’s always a chance it could be one of them. And you—you stay right here and keep off that foot.”

“That is about as likely as a vampire going sunbathing. I am going to call upon Lord Akeldama. As potentate, he must be consulted on this matter. The dewan as well, I suppose. Could you send a man to inquire if Lord Slaughter could attend me this evening?”

Figuring that Lord Akeldama would at least ensure that his wife remain seated for some length of time in pursuit of gossip if for no other reason, the earl made no further protest. He cursed without much rancor and acquiesced to her request, sending Special Agent Haverbink off to alert the dewan. Lord Maccon did, however, insist upon seeing her to Lord Akeldama’s abode himself before pursuing his own investigations.

“Alexia, my poppadom, what are you doing in London this fine evening? Aren’t you supposed to be abed reveling in the romanticism of a weakened condition?”

Lady Maccon was, for once, not in the humor to entertain Lord Akeldama’s flowery ways. “Yes, but something highly untoward has occurred.”

“My dear, how perfectly splendid! Do sit and tell old Uncle Akeldama all about it! Tea?”

“Of course. Oh, and I should warn you, I have invited the dewan over. This is a matter for the Commonwealth.”

“Well, if you insist. But, my dearest flower, how ghastly to consider that such a mustache must shadow the clean-shaven grandeur of my domicile.” Lord Akeldama was rumored to insist that all his drones go without the dreaded lip skirt. The vampire had once had the vapors upon encountering an unexpected mustache around a corner of his hallway. Muttonchops were permitted in moderation, and only because they were currently all the rage among the most fashionable of London’s gentlemen-about-town. Even so, they must be as well tended as the topiary of Hampton Court.

With a sigh, Alexia settled herself into one of Lord Akeldama’s magnificent wingback chairs. The ever-considerate Boots rushed over with a pouf on which to rest her throbbing ankle.

Lord Akeldama noticed him and thus the fact that they were not alone. “Ah, Boots, my lovely boy, clear the room, would you, please? Oh, and bring me my harmonic auditory resonance disruptor. It’s on my dressing table next to the French verbena hand cream. There’s a dear.”

Boots, resplendent in his favorite forest-green velvet frock coat, nodded and vanished from the room. He reappeared shortly thereafter pushing in a laden tea trolley upon which lay the expected assortment of delicacies and a small spiky device.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No, thank you, Boots.”

Boots turned his attention eagerly onto Lady Maccon. “My lady?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps.”

Remarkably, her use of his proper name seemed to cause the young dandy some embarrassment, for he blushed and backed hurriedly out of the room, leaving them alone save for a plethora of gold-tasseled throw pillows and the fat calico cat purring placidly in a corner.