Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second Read Free Page A

doesn’t wake up to find hundreds of soldiers camping on one’s lawn.”
    “Well, Woolsey has always done things a little differently. Having the biggest pack in England, we’re the only ones who split
     the pack for military service, so we keep the Coldsteam Guards together for a few weeks when we get home. Builds solidarity.”
     Tunstell gestured expansively once more, his fine white hands weaving about in the air, and nodded enthusiastically.
    “And does this solidarity have to occur on Woolsey’s front lawn?”
Tap tap tap
went the parasol. The Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR) was experimenting with new weaponry of late. At the disbanding of
     the Hypocras Club several months previous, a small compressed steam unit had been discovered. It apparently heated continually
     until it burst. Lord Maccon had shown it to his wife. It made a ticking noise just prior to explosion, rather like that of
     Alexia’s parasol at this precise moment. Tunstell was unaware of this correlation or he might have proceeded with greater
     caution. On the other hand, being Tunstell, he might not.
    “Yes, isn’t it jolly?” crowed Tunstell.
    “But why?”
Tap tap tap.
    “It is where we have always camped,” said a new voice, apparently belonging to someone equally unfamiliar with the ticking,
     exploding steam device.
    Lady Maccon whirled to glare at the man who dared to interrupt her midrant. The gentleman in question was both tall and broad,
     although not quite to her husband’s scale. Lord Maccon was Scottish-big; this gentleman was only English-big—there was a distinct
     difference. Also, unlike the earl, who periodically bumped into things as though his form were larger than his perception
     of it, this man seemed entirely comfortable with his size. He wore full officer formals and knew he looked good in them. His
     boots were spit-shined, his blond hair coiffed high, and he boasted an accent that very carefully was no accent at all. Alexia
     knew the type: education, money, and blue blood.
    She gritted her teeth. “Oh, it is, is it? Well, not anymore.” She turned back to Tunstell. “We are hosting a dinner party
     the evening after next. Have them remove those tents immediately.”
    “Unacceptable,” said the large blond gentleman, moving closer. Alexia began to believe that he was no gentleman, despite his
     accent and immaculate appearance. She also noticed that he had the most cutting blue eyes, icy and intense.
    Tunstell, a look of worry behind his cheery grin, seemed unable to decide whom to obey.
    Alexia ignored the newcomer. “If they must camp here, move them around to the back.”
    Tunstell turned to do her bidding but was stopped by the stranger, who put a large white-gloved hand on his shoulder.
    “But this is preposterous.” The man’s perfect teeth snapped at Lady Maccon. “The regiment has always taken up residence in
     the forecourt. It is far more convenient than the grounds.”
    “Now,” said Alexia to Tunstell, still ignoring the intruder. Imagine talking to her in such a tone of voice, and they hadn’t
     yet been introduced.
    Tunstell, less cheerful than she had ever seen him, was looking back and forth between her and the stranger. Any moment now,
     he might place his hand upon his head and enact a swoon of confusion.
    “Stay precisely where you are, Tunstell,” instructed the stranger.
    “Who the devil are you?” Alexia asked, the man’s cavalier interference irritating her into using actual profanity.
    “Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings.”
    Alexia gawked. No wonder he was so very full of himself. One would have to be, laboring all one’s life under a name like that.
    “Well, Major Channing, I shall ask you not to interfere with the running of the household. It is
my
domain.”
    “Ah, you are the new housekeeper? I was not informed that Lady Maccon had made any such drastic changes.”
    Alexia was not surprised by this assumption. She was very well aware of