He reached forward and pulled the bell rope on the door in front of him.
A handsome young footman opened it.
“Professor Lyall,” said Professor Lyall, “to see Lord Akeldama.”
The young man gave the werewolf a very long look. “Well, well. You will not mind, sir, if I ask you to wait on the stoop while I inform the master of your presence?”
Vampires were odd about invitations. Professor Lyall shook his head.
The footman disappeared, and a moment later, Lord Akeldama opened the door in his stead.
They had met before, of course, but Lyall had never yet had occasion to visit the vampire at home. The decoration was—he discerned as he peered into the glittering interior—very loud.
“Professor Lyall.” Lord Akeldama gave him an appraising look through a beautiful gold monocle. He was dressed for the theater, and one pinky pointed out as he lowered the viewing device. “And alone. To what do I owe this honor?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
Lord Akeldama looked the werewolf up and down once more; his blond eyebrows, darkened by artificial means, rose in surprise. “Why, Professor Lyall, how charming. I think you had best come inside.”
Without looking up at Madame Lefoux, Alexia asked, “Is there anything built into my parasol to counteract poison?”
The inventor shook her head. “The parasol was designed as an offensive device. Had I known we would need an apothecary’s kit, I would have added that feature.”
Lady Maccon crouched down over Tunstell’s supine form. “Run to the steward and see if he has an emetic on board, syrup of ipecac or white vitriol.”
“At once,” said the inventor, and dashed off.
Lady Maccon envied Madame Lefoux the masculine attire. Her own skirts were getting caught about her legs as she tried to tend to the afflicted claviger. His face was paper white, freckles stark against it, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead dampening his red hair.
“Oh no, he is suffering so. Will he recover soon?” Miss Hisselpenny had defied Alexia’s order and tracked them down to the observation deck. She, too, crouched over Tunstell, her skirts spilling about her like a great over-iced meringue. She patted uselessly at one of Tunstell’s hands, which were clenched over his stomach.
Alexia ignored her. “Tunstell, you must try to purge yourself.” She made her voice as authoritative as possible, disguising her worry and fear with gruffness.
“Alexia!” Miss Hisselpenny was appalled. “Imagine suggesting such a thing. How undignified! Poor Mr. Tunstell.”
“He must eject the contents of his stomach before the toxin enters his system any further.”
“Do not be a ninnyhammer, Alexia,” replied Ivy with a forced laugh. “It is just a bit of food poisoning.”
Tunstell groaned but did not move.
“Ivy, and I mean this with the kindest and best of intentions, bugger off.”
Miss Hisselpenny gasped and stood up, scandalized. But at least she was out of the way.
Alexia helped Tunstell to turn over so he was on his knees. She pointed a finger over the side of the dirigible autocratically. She made her voice as low and as tough as possible. “Tunstell, this is your Alpha speaking. Do as I tell you. You must regurgitate now.” Never in all her time had Alexia supposed she would someday be ordering someone to throw up their supper.
But the command in her voice seemed to get through to the claviger. Tunstell stuck his head under the rail and over the side of the dirigible and tried to retch.
“I can’t,” he said finally.
“You must try harder.”
“Regurgitation is an involuntary action. You cannot simply order me to do it,” replied Tunstell in a small voice.
“I most certainly can. Besides which, you are an actor.”
Tunstell grimaced. “I’ve never had cause to vomit onstage.”
“Well, if you do this, you shall know how if you need to in the future.”
Tunstell tried again. Nothing.
Madame Lefoux returned clutching a bottle of ipecac.
Alexia made Tunstell take a large gulp.
“Ivy, run and fetch a glass of water,” she ordered her friend, mostly to get her out of the way.
In moments, the emetic took effect. As unsavory as the supper had been to eat, it was even less pleasant going the other direction. Lady Maccon tried not to look or listen.
By the time Ivy returned with a goblet of water, the worst was over.
Alexia made Tunstell drink the entirety of the glass. They waited a full quarter of an hour more while his color returned, and he was finally able to attain an upright position.
Ivy was in a flutter over the whole incident, agitating about the recovering man with such vigor that Madame Lefoux was driven to desperate measures. She extracted a small flask from her waistcoat pocket.
“Have a little nip of this, my dear. Calm your nerves.” She handed it to Ivy.
Ivy nipped, blinked a couple times, nipped again, and then graduated from frantic to loopy. “Why, that burns all the way down!”
“Let’s get Tunstell to his room.” Alexia hoisted the redhead to his feet.
With Ivy walking backward before them and weaving side to side like an iced tea cake with delusions of shepherding, Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux managed to get Tunstell to his rooms and onto bed.
By the time all the excitement had ended, Lady Maccon found she had lost her appetite entirely. Nevertheless, appearances must be kept up, so she returned to the dining cabin with Ivy and Madame Lefoux. She was in a mental quandary: why on earth, or in aether for that matter, would someone try to kill Tunstell?
Ivy walked into one or two walls on their way back.
“What did you give her?” Alexia hissed to the inventor.
“Just a bit of cognac.” Madame Lefoux’s dimples flashed.
“Very effective stuff.”
The rest of the meal passed without incident, if one ignored Ivy’s evident inebriation, which occasioned two spills and one bout of hysterical giggling. Alexia was about to rise and excuse herself when Madame Lefoux, who had been silent throughout most of the postpurge meal, spoke to her.
“Do you think you might take a little turn with me about the ship before bed, Lady Maccon? I should like a private word,” she asked politely, dimples safely stored away.
Not entirely surprised, Alexia acquiesced, and the two left Felicity to sort out after-dinner activities on her own.
As soon as they were alone, the inventor got straight to the point. “I do not think the poison was meant for Tunstell.”
“No?”
“No. I believe it was meant for you, secreted in the first dish that you turned away and Tunstell consumed in your stead.”
“Ah, yes, I recall. You may be right.”
“What a strange temperament you have, Lady Maccon, to accept near-death so easily as that.” Madame Lefoux tilted her head to one side.
“Well, the whole episode does make far more sense that way.”
“It does?”
“Why, yes. I cannot imagine Tunstell has many enemies, but people are always trying to exterminate me.” Lady Maccon was relieved and strangely comfortable with this revelation, as though things were not right with the universe unless someone was actively trying to kill her.
“Do you have a suspect?” the inventor wanted to know.
“Aside from you?” Lady Maccon shot back.
“Ah.”
The Frenchwoman turned away, but not before Alexia spotted a little tinge of hurt in her eyes. Either she was a good actress or she was not guilty.
“I am sorry to offend,” said Lady Maccon, not sorry in the least. She followed the inventor over to the rail, leaning on it next to her. The two women stared out into the evening aether.
“I am not upset that you think me capable of poison, Lady Maccon. I am offended you should think I would be so ham-handed with it. Had I wished you dead, I have had ample opportunity and access to numerous techniques far less clumsy than the one employed this evening.” She pulled a gold watch out of the pocket of her vest and pressed a little catch on the back. A small injection needle sprang out of the bottom.