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household was simply trying to survive. The toddler couldn’t be less interested in the importance of scientific discoveries, for all her mother tried to explain them. It was, Alexia felt, a troubling character flaw.
    With one last glare to ensure Prudence remained at least mostly submerged, Alexia made good her escape, dragging her husband behind her. Conall held his amusement in check until they were inside the carriage and on their way toward the West End. Then he let out the most tremendous guffaw.
    Alexia couldn’t help it—she also started to chuckle. “Poor Lord Akeldama.”
    Conall wiped his streaming eyes. “Oh, he loves it. Hasn’t had this much excitement in a hundred years or more.”
    “Are you certain they will manage without me?”
    “We will be back in only a few hours. How bad can it get?”
    “Don’t tempt fate, my love.”
    “Better worry about our own survival.”
    “Why, what could you possibly mean?” Alexia straightened and looked out the carriage window suspiciously. True, it had been several years since someone tried to kill her in a conveyance, but it had happened with startling regularity for a period of time, and she had never gotten over her suspicion of carriages as a result.
    “No, no, my dear. I meant to imply the play to which I am being dragged.”
    “Oh, I like that. As if I could drag you anywhere. You’re twice my size.”
    Conall gave her the look of a man who knows when to hold his tongue.
    “Ivy has assured me that this is a brilliant rendition of a truly moving story and that the troupe is in top form after their continental tour.
The Death Rains of Swansea
, I believe it is called. It’s one of Tunstell’s own pieces, very artistic and performed in the new sentimental interpretive style.”
    “Wife, you are taking me unto certain doom.” He put his hand to his head and fell back against the cushioned wall of the cab in a fair imitation of theatricality.
    “Oh, hush your nonsense. It will be perfectly fine.”
    Her husband’s expression hinted strongly at a preference for, perhaps, death or at least battle, rather than endure the next few hours.
    The Maccons arrived, displaying the type of elegance expected from members of the ton. Lady Alexia Maccon was resplendent, some might even have said handsome, in her new French gown. Lord Maccon looked like an earl for once, his hair
almost
under control and his evening dress
almost
impeccable. It was generally thought that the move to London had resulted in quite an improvement in the appearance and manners of the former Woolsey Pack. Some blamed living so close to Lord Akeldama, others the taming effect of an urban environment, and several stalwart holdouts thought it might be Lady Maccon’s fault. In truth, it was probably all three, but it was the ironfist of Lord Akeldama’s drones that truly enacted the change—or should one say, iron curling tongs? One of Lord Maccon’s pack merely had to enter their purview with hair askew and handfuls of clucking pinks descended upon him like so many mallard ducks upon a hapless piece of untidy bread.
    Alexia led her husband firmly to their private box. The whites of his eyes were showing in fear.
    The Death Rains of Swansea
featured a lovelorn werewolf enamored of a vampire queen and a dastardly villain with evil intent trying to tear them apart. The stage vampires were depicted with particularly striking fake fangs and a messy sort of red paint smeared about their chins. The werewolves sported proper dress except for large shaggy ears tied about their heads with pink tulle bows—Ivy’s influence, no doubt.
    Ivy Tunstell, Alexia’s dear friend, played the vampire queen. She did so with much sweeping about the stage and fainting, her own fangs larger than anyone else’s, which made it so difficult for her to articulate that many of her speeches were reduced to mere spitting hisses. She wore a hat that was part bonnet, part crown, driving home the queen theme, in colors of