Gail Carriger - Heartless

“Who do they think they are, arriving like that?” wondered one elderly gentleman.

Vampires enjoyed investing in the latest inventions, and they did have trade concerns, most notably with the East India Company, but they were traditionalists at heart. So, too, were their guests. For no matter how modish the private pleasure dirigible might be in principle, no one approved of it disturbing their own dignified arrival with its puffed-up sense of novelty. Dignity aside, the dirigible was going to land whether they liked it or not, and consequently, space was eventually made. The gondola bumped down in front of the hive house’s wrought-iron fence.

Lady Maccon was left in a quandary. She now had to get out over the side of the passenger basket. She could conceive of no possible way her exit would be any less humiliating than her entry. She did not want to go through such a process again, let alone in front of such august bodies as those now glaring at her. But she could swear she heard the crashing sound of the octomaton, and she really had no time to spare for anyone’s decorum, even her own.

“Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps, Viscount, if you would be so kind?” She puffed out her cheeks and prepared herself for mortification.

“Of course, my lady.” The ever-eager Boots stepped over to assist her. Tizzy, it must be admitted, moved with less alacrity. As they prepared to boost her (there really was no other way of putting it) over the edge of the gondola (at which juncture she foresaw landing on her much-abused bustle yet again), a savior appeared.

No doubt alerted by the disapproving cries and exacerbation of activity in the street, Miss Mabel Dair emerged from the hive house, dramatically silhouetted against the crowded, well-lit interior. She paused, center stage, on the front stoop. She wore an evening gown the color of old gold with a low square neckline, trimmed with loops of black lace and pink silk roses. There were fresh roses in her hair and her bustle was full—the more risqué trends out of Paris with the smaller bustle and form-fitting bodice were not for her. No, here, under her mistress’s guarded eye, even an actress like Miss Dair dressed demurely.

Lady Alexia Maccon, at the side of a dirigible passenger basket, looked as though she was in imminent danger of not playing by the rules.

Miss Dair yelled from the step, using her stage voice to cut through the noise of the crowded street. “Why, Lady Maccon, how delightful. We did not expect you. Especially not in so elaborate a transport.”

“Good evening, Miss Dair. It is rather smart, isn’t it? Unfortunately, I seem to be having difficulty getting out.”

Miss Dair bit her lower lip, hiding a smile. “Let me fetch some help.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, Miss Dair, but I am in a wee bit of a hurry.”

“Of course you are, Lady Maccon.” The actress turned back into the house, signaling with a sharp gesticulation of a satin-gloved hand. Mere moments later, she turned and traipsed down the steps followed by a veritable herd of dignified-looking footmen, all of whom took to the lifting and depositing of Lady Maccon as they would any household task, with gravely serious faces and not one flicker of amusement.

Once Alexia had attained her freedom, Boots touched his hat brim with one gray-gloved hand. “A very good evening to you, Lady Maccon.”

“You won’t be joining me?”

Boots exchanged a telling look with Mabel Dair. “Not at this particular party, my lady. We would make things”—he paused delicately—“prickly.”

Lady Maccon nodded her understanding and gave the matter no further thought. There are some places where, despite their universal skills at being ubiquitous, even Lord Akeldama’s drones could not go.

Mabel Dair offered Lady Maccon her arm. Alexia took it gratefully, although she firmed her grip on her parasol with her free hand. She was, after all, entering a hive house, and despite the strictures of polite society, vampires had never looked upon her, and her soullessness, with any degree of acceptance. On every prior occasion but one, Lady Maccon had visited this hive with her husband. Tonight she was going in alone. Miss Mabel Dair may have her arm, but Alexia knew very well that the actress did not have her back.

Together the two women entered the party.

The house itself had not changed from when Alexia visited it that first time. Inside, it was far more luxurious than its exterior suggested, although all displays of prosperity were tasteful, without a hint of vulgarity. Persian carpets still lay thick and soft, in coordinating shades of deep red, their patterns subtle, but they were difficult to see as so many top boots and evening slippers trod over them. Striking paintings still hung on the walls, masterworks ranging from contemporary abstract pieces to one relaxed, porcelain-skinned lady that could only be by Titian. But Alexia only knew they were there because she had seen them before; this time as she wended her way through the throng, coiffured comb-outs and flowered headdresses obscured her view. The lavish mahogany furniture was actually being sat upon, and the many stone statues of Roman senators and Egyptian gods had become nothing more than stony members of the milling throng.

“My goodness me,” yelled Alexia at her escort over the loud chatter. “This is quite the crush.”

The actress nodded enthusiastically. “The countess is supposed to make a very important announcement this evening. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, accepted her invitation.”

“Announcement, what kind of . . . ?”

But Miss Dair’s attention was back to pushing their way through the throng.

One or two people recognized Alexia—heads tilted in her direction, faces perplexed. “Lady Maccon?” came the confused acknowledgment of her presence, accompanied by small nods. She could hear the gossipmongers whirling away like so many steam engines gearing up to explode. What was the wife of an Alpha werewolf doing there? And so far along in her pregnancy. And alone! On full moon!

As they pressed on, Alexia became aware of a presence shadowing them through the crowd. Just as a tall, thin man accosted Miss Dair from the front, a person behind them cleared his throat.

Lady Maccon turned to find herself face-to-face with a nondescript gentleman, so nondescript in countenance as to be challenging to describe. His hair was just this side of brown, and his eyes just that side of blue, combined with an arrangement of other features neither striking nor interesting. He wore unremarkable but stylish clothing, all of which suggested a level of premeditated obscurity that reminded her irresistibly of Professor Lyall.

“Your Grace,” she said warily in greeting.

The Duke of Hematol did not smile, but that might have been because he did not wish to show her his fangs just yet. “Lady Maccon, what an unexpected pleasure.”

Alexia glanced at Miss Dair, who was engaging in a hushed and rather forceful conversation with Dr. Caedes, another member of Countess Nadasdy’s inner circle. He was a tall, thin vampire who Alexia always thought looked like a parasol without its fabric cover, all points and sharp angles. He unfolded rather than walked. He did not look pleased.

The duke was more subtle and better able to hide his feelings over Lady Maccon’s unanticipated presence. Alexia wondered where Lord Ambrose, the last member of this little band, was stashed. Probably near the countess, as he acted as her praetoriani. At a party as crowded as this, the queen would want her pet bodyguard as close as possible.

“We did not expect you on this particular night, Lady Maccon. We had assumed you would be assisting your husband with his”—a calculated pause—“disability.”