The intrusion resolved itself into the form of two of Lord Akeldama’s boys, Boots and a young viscount by the name of Trizdale. They were overwrought and disheveled—conditions highly out of character for any of Lord Akeldama’s drones. One sleeve of Boots’s favorite green jacket was torn, and Tizzy’s boots actually looked to be scuffed in places. Scuffed, indeed!

“My goodness me, gentlemen, has there been an incident?”

“Oh, my lady, I can hardly bear to say it. But we are being assaulted!”

“Oh, my.” Lady Maccon signaled them to come closer. “Don’t stand there gawping—help me to rise. What can I do?”

“Well, my lady, we are under attack from a werewolf!”

Alexia paled considerably. “In a vampire’s abode? Deary me! What is this world coming to?”

Boots said, “That’s just the thing, my lady. We thought it best to fetch you. The creature is on a bender.”

Lady Maccon grabbed up her parasol and her reticule. “Of course, of course. I’ll come directly. Lend me your arm, please, Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps.”

As quickly as possible, the two young dandies helped Alexia to waddle out the front door and along the path past the lilac bushes into Lord Akeldama’s house.

The arched and frescoed hallway was packed with concerned-looking young men, several of them worse off than Boots and Tizzy. Two were even missing their cravats. A truly startling thing to see. They were milling about and talking in obvious trepidation, at a loss but eager to do something.

“Gentlemen!” Lady Maccon’s shrill feminine voice cut through the masculine hubbub. She raised her parasol on high as though about to conduct a concert. “Where is the beast?”

“Please, mum, it’s our master.”

Alexia paused in perplexity and lowered her parasol slightly. Lord Akeldama was a vampire, but no one would ever refer to him as a beast.

The dandies continued in a chorus of explanations and objections.

“He’s gone and locked himself in the drawing room.”

“With that monster.”

“I should never wish to question our lord’s choices, but really!”

“So ill-kempt. I’m convinced its fur had split ends.”

“Said he could handle it.”

“For our own good, he said. Not to let anyone in.”

“I’m not anyone.” Lady Maccon pushed her way through the throng of perfectly tailored jackets and high white collars, as one of those particularly chubby terriers might clear a path through a pack of poodles.

The young men gave way until she was faced with the gilt door, painted with white and lavender swirls, that led into Lord Akeldama’s infamous drawing room. She took a deep breath and knocked loudly with the handle of her parasol.

“Lord Akeldama? It’s Lady Maccon. May I enter?”

From behind the door came the sound of scuffling and possibly Lord Akeldama’s voice. But no one actually bid her entrance.

She knocked again. Even under the most dire of circumstances, one didn’t simply go bursting into a man’s private drawing room without sufficient provocation.

A particularly loud crash was all the response she got.