“I don’t know,” pressed Alexia, although his talk was clearly not directed at her. “Why don’t you tell me what you were going to tell him?”

Major Channing started and managed to look both guilty and angry at the same time. Everyone’s attention was on him.

“Yes,” came Lyall’s soft voice, “why don’t you?” There was steel there, behind the studied indifference.

“Oh, it is nothing much. Only that, while we were on the boat and for the entirety of the journey over the Mediterranean and through the straits, none of us could change into wolf form. Six regiments with four packs, and we all grew beards. Basically, we were mortal the whole time. Once we left the ship and traveled some ways toward Woolsey, we suddenly became our old supernatural selves once more.”

“That is very interesting given recent occurrences, and you didn’t manage to tell my husband?”

“He never had time for me.” Channing seemed angrier than she was.

“You took that as a slight and did not make him listen? That is not only stupid but could prove dangerous.” Now Alexia was getting angry. “Is someone a little jealous?”

Major Channing slammed his palm down on the table, rattling the dishes. “We have only just arrived back after six years abroad, and our illustrious Alpha takes off, leaving his pack to go and see to the business of another!” The major practically spat the words out in his self-righteousness.

“Yup,” said Hemming from nearby, “definitely jealous.”

Major Channing pointed a threatening finger at him. He had wide, elegant hands, but they were callused and rough, making Alexia wonder what backcountry he had fought to tame in the years before he became a werewolf. “Take greater caution with your words, runt. I outrank you.”

Hemming tilted his head, exposing his throat in acknowledgment of the threat’s validity, and then proceeded to finish his supper and keep his opinions to himself.

Tunstell and the rest of the clavigers watched the conversation with wide-eyed interest. Having the entire pack home was a novel experience for them. The Coldsteam Guards had been stationed in India long enough for most of the Woolsey clavigers to have never met the full pack.

Lady Maccon decided she had had enough of Major Channing for one evening. With this new information, it was even more urgent she head into town, and so she rose from her chair and called for the carriage.

“Back into London again this evening, my lady?” wondered Floote, appearing in the hallway with her mantle and hat.

“Unfortunately, yes.” His lady was looking perturbed.

“Will you be needing the dispatch case?”

“Not tonight, Floote. I am not going as muhjah. Best to remain as innocuous-looking as possible.”

Floote’s silence was eloquent, as so many of Floote’s silences were. What his beloved mistress made up for in brains she lacked in subtlety; she was about as innocuous as one of Ivy Hisselpenny’s hats.

Alexia rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, well, I take your point, but there is something I am missing about last night’s incident. And now we know that whatever it was came into town with the regiments. I simply must see if I can catch Lord Akeldama. What BUR did not uncover, his boys will have.”

Floote looked slightly perturbed by this. One eyelid fluttered almost imperceptibly. Alexia would never have noticed had she not labored under twenty-six years of acquaintance with the man. What it meant was that he did not entirely approve of her fraternization with the most outlandish of London’s vampire roves.

“Do not alarm yourself, Floote. I shall take prodigious care. Pity I do not have a legitimate excuse for going into town tonight, though. People will remark upon my break from the normal schedule.”

A timid feminine voice said, “My lady, I may be able to assist with that.”

Alexia looked up with a smile. Female voices were rare about Woolsey Castle, but this was one of the few commonly heard ones. As ghosts went, Formerly Merriway was an amenable one, and Alexia had grown fond of her over the last few months. Even if she was timid.

“Good evening, Formerly Merriway. How are you tonight?”

“Still holding myself together, mistress,” replied the ghost, appearing as nothing more than a shimmery grayish mist in the brightness of the gas-lit hallway. The front hall was at the farthest end of her tether, so it was difficult for her to solidify. It also meant her body must be located somewhere in the upper portion of Woolsey Castle, probably walled in somewhere, a fact Alexia preferred not to think about and hoped fervently never to smell.

“I have a personal message to deliver to you, my lady.”

“From my impossible husband?” It was a safe guess, as Lord Maccon was the only one who would employ a ghost rather than some sensible means of communication, like perhaps waking up his own wife and talking to her before he left for once.

The ghostly form swayed a bit up and down, Formerly Merriway’s version of a nod. “From his lordship, yes.”

“Well?” barked Alexia.

Formerly Merriway skittered back slightly. Despite copious promises from Alexia that she was not going to wander about the castle looking to lay hands on Merriway’s corpse, the ghost could not get over her fear of the preternatural. She persisted in seeing imminent exorcism behind every threatening attitude Alexia took, which, given Alexia’s character, made for a constant state of nervousness.

Alexia sighed and modified her tone. “What was his message to me, Formerly Merriway, please?” She used the hall mirror to pin on her hat, careful not to upset Angelique’s hairdo. It perched far to the back of the head in an entirely useless manner, but as the sun was not out, Alexia supposed she did not have to mind the lack of shade.

“You are to go hat shopping,” said Formerly Merriway, quite unexpectedly.

Alexia wrinkled her forehead and pulled on her gloves. “I am, am I?”

Formerly Merriway gave her bobbing nod once again. “He recommends a newly opened establishment on Regent Street called Chapeau de Poupe. He emphasized that you should visit it without delay.”

Lord Maccon rarely took an interest in his own attire. Lady Maccon could hardly believe he would suddenly take an interest in hers.

She said only, “Ah, well, I was just thinking how I did not like this hat. Not that I really require a new one.”

“Well, I certainly know someone who does,” said Floote with unexpected feeling from just behind her shoulder.

“Yes, Floote, I am sorry you had to see those grapes yesterday,” Alexia apologized. Poor Floote had very delicate sensibilities.

“Suffering comes unto us all,” quoth Floote sagely. Then he handed over a blue and white lace parasol and saw her down the steps and into the waiting carriage.

“To the Hisselpenny town residence,” he instructed the driver, “posthaste.”

“Oh, Floote.” Lady Maccon stuck her head out the window as the carriage wheeled off down the drive. “Cancel tomorrow’s dinner party, would you? Since my husband has chosen to absent himself, there is simply no point.”

Floote tipped his head at the retreating carriage in acknowledgment and went to see to the details.

Alexia felt justified in turning up on Ivy’s doorstep without announcement, as Ivy had done that very thing to her the evening before.

Miss Ivy Hisselpenny was sitting listlessly in the front parlor of the Hisselpennys’ modest town address, receiving visitors. She was delighted to see Alexia, however unexpected. The whole Hisselpenny household was generally elated to receive Lady Maccon; never had they thought Ivy’s odd little relationship with bluestocking spinster Alexia Tarabotti would flower into such a social coup de grace.

Lady Maccon swept in to find Mrs. Hisslepenny and her clacking knitting needles, keeping wordless vigil to her daughter’s endless chatter.

“Oh, Alexia! Tremendous.”

“And a good evening to you too, Ivy. How are you tonight?”

This was rather an imprudent question to ask Miss Hisselpenny, as Miss Hisselpenny was prone to telling one the answer—in excruciating detail.

“Would you believe? The announcement of my engagement to Captain Featherstonehaugh was in the Times this morning, and practically no one has called all day! I have received only twenty-four visitors, and when Bernice got engaged last month, she had twenty-seven! Shabby, I call it, perfectly shabby. Although, I suppose you would make it twenty-five, dearest Alexia.”

“Ivy,” said Alexia without further shilly-shallying, “why bother to lay about here awaiting insult? You clearly require some diversion. And I am in just the humor to provide it. For I do believe you are in dire need of a new hat. You and I should go shopping for one.”

“Right this very instant?”

“Yes, immediately. I hear there is a divine new shop just opened on Regent Street. Shall we give it our patronage?”

“Oh.” Ivy’s cheeks pinkened in delight. “The Chapeau de Poupe? It is supposed to be very daring, indeed. Some ladies of my acquaintance have even referred to it as fast.” A little gasp at that word emitted from Ivy’s perennially quiet mama, but that good lady did not offer any comment to companion her inhalation, so Ivy continued. “You know, only the most forward ladies frequent that establishment. The actress Mabel Dair is supposed to stop in regularly. And the proprietress is said to be quite the scandal herself.”

Everything about her friend’s outraged tone told Alexia that Ivy was dying to visit Chapeau de Poupe.

“Well, it sounds like just the place to find something a little more unusual for the winter season, and as a newly engaged lady, you do realize you simply must have a new hat.”

“Must I?”

“Trust me, my dearest Ivy, you most definitely must.”

“Well, Ivy dear,” said Mrs. Hisselpenny in a soft voice, setting down her knitting and looking up. “You should go and change. It would not do to keep Lady Maccon waiting on such a generous offer.”

Ivy, pressed most firmly into doing something she wished to do more than anything else in the world, trotted upstairs with only a few more token protests.

“You will try to help her, won’t you, Lady Maccon?” Mrs. Hisselpenny’s eyes were quite desperate over her once-again clicking needles.

Alexia thought she understood the question. “You are also worried about this sudden engagement?”

“Oh no, Captain Featherstonehaugh is quite a suitable match. No, I was referring to Ivy’s headwear preferences.”

Alexia swallowed down a smile, keeping her face perfectly serious. “Of course. I shall do my very best, for queen and country.”

The Hisselpennys’ manservant appeared with a welcome tea tray. Lady Maccon sipped a freshly brewed cup in profound relief. All in all, it had been quite the trying evening thus far. With Ivy and hats in her future, it was only likely to get worse. Tea was a medicinal necessity at this juncture. Thank goodness Mrs. Hisselpenny had thought to provide.

Lady Maccon resorted to painfully pleasant discussion of the weather for a quarter of an hour. None too soon, Ivy reappeared in a walking dress of orange taffeta ruffled to within an inch of its life, and a champagne brocade overjacket, paired with a particularly noteworthy flowerpot hat. The hat was, not unexpectedly, decorated with a herd of silk mums and here and there a tiny feather bee on the end of a piece of wire.

Alexia forbore to look at the hat, thanked Mrs. Hisselpenny for the tea, and hustled Ivy into the Woolsey carriage. Around them, London’s night society was coming to life, gas lights being lit, elegantly dressed couples hailing cabs, here and there a reeling group of rowdy young blunts. Alexia directed her driver to proceed on to Regent Street, and they arrived in short order at Chapeau de Poupe.

At first Alexia was at a loss as to why her husband wanted her to visit Chapeau de Poupe. So she did what any young lady of good breeding would do. She shopped.

“Are you certain you wish to go hat shopping with me, Alexia?” asked Ivy as they pushed in through the wrought-iron door. “Your taste in hats is not mine.”

“I should most profoundly hope not,” replied Lady Maccon with real feeling, looking at the flower-covered monstrosity atop her friend’s sweet round little face and glossy black curls.

The shop proved to be as reported. It was exceptionally modern in appearance, all light airy muslin drapes, with soft peach and sage striped walls and bronze furniture with clean lines and matched cushions.

“Ahooo,” said Ivy, looking about with wide eyes. “Isn’t this simply too French?”

There were a few hats on tables and on wall hooks, but most were hanging from little gold chains suspended from the ceiling. They fell to different heights so that one had to brush through the hats to get around the shop, and they swayed slightly, like some alien vegetation. And such hats—caps of embroidered batiste with Mechlin lace, Italian straw shepherdesses, faille capotes, velvet toques that put Ivy’s flowerpot to shame, and outrageous pifferaro bonnets—dangled everywhere.