standards.
Everyone else was already seated at the supper table. In this particular case, “everyone else” included the pack, both residents
and returnees, half the clavigers, and the insufferable Major Channing—about thirty or so. “Everyone else” did not, however,
appear to include the master of the house. Lord Maccon made for a tangibly large absence, even in such a crowd.
Sans husband, Lady Maccon plonked herself down next to Professor Lyall. She gave him a little half-smile as a partial greeting.
The Beta had not yet commenced his meal, preferring to begin with a hot cup of tea and the evening paper.
Startled by her sudden appearance, the rest of the table scrambled to stand politely as she joined them. Alexia waved them
back to their seats, and they returned with much clattering. Only Professor Lyall managed a smooth stand, slight bow, and
reseat with the consummate grace of a dancer. And all that without losing his place in his newspaper.
Lady Maccon quickly served herself some haricot of veal and several apple fritters and began eating so the others about the
table could stop fussing and continue with their own meals. Really, sometimes it was simply too vexatious to be a lady living
with two dozen gentlemen. Not to mention the hundreds now encamped on the Woolsey grounds.
After only a moment to allow her husband’s Beta to acclimatize to her presence, Lady Maccon struck. “Very well, Professor
Lyall, I shall bite: where has he gone now?”
The urbane werewolf said only, “Brussels sprouts?”
Lady Maccon declined in horror. She enjoyed most foods, but brussels sprouts were nothing more than underdeveloped cabbages.
Professor Lyall said, crinkling his paper, “
Shersky and Droop
are offering the most interesting new gadget for sale, just here. It is a particularly advanced form of teakettle, designed
for air travel, to be mounted on the sides of dirigibles. It harnesses the wind via this small whirligig contraption that
generates enough energy to boil water.” He pointed out the advertisement to Alexia, who was distracted despite herself.
“Really? How fascinating. And so very useful for those more frequent dirigible travelers. I wonder if…” She trailed off and
gave him a suspicious look. “Professor Lyall, you are trying to persuade me away from the point. Where has my husband gone?”
The Beta put down the now-useless newspaper and dished himself a fine piece of fried sole from a silver platter. “Lord Maccon
left at the crack of dusk.”
“That was not what I asked.”
On the far side of Lyall, Major Channing chuckled softly into his soup.
Alexia glared at him and then turned a sharp look onto the defenseless Tunstell, seated at the other side of the table among
the clavigers. If Lyall would not talk, perhaps Tunstell would. The redhead met her glare with wide eyes and quickly stuffed
his face with a large mouthful of veal, trying to look as if he knew absolutely nothing.
“At least tell me if he was dressed properly?”
Tunstell chewed slowly. Very slowly.
Lady Maccon turned back to Professor Lyall, who was calmly slicing into his sole. Lyall was one of the few werewolves she
had met who actively preferred fish to meat.
“Did he head off to Claret’s?” she asked, thinking the earl might have business at his club before work.
Professor Lyall shook his head.
“I see. Are we to play at guessing games, then?”
The Beta sighed softly through his nose and finished his bite of sole. He put down his knife and fork with great precision
on the side of his plate and then dabbed, unnecessarily, at his mouth with the corner of his serviette.
Lady Maccon waited patiently, nibbling at her own dinner. After Professor Lyall had put the damask serviette back into his
lap and shoved his spectacles up his nose, she said, “Well?”
“He had a message this morning. I’m not privy to the particulars. He then swore a blue streak and set off