Read Changeless: The Parasol Protectorate: Book the Second for Free Online

declare, if it isn’t Lord Maccon. How
do
you do? Fancy, aren’t we a tad underdressed for an evening’s stroll?” The voice was mildly familiar and laced with amusement.
    “Biffy,” said the earl on a growl.
    “And how is your lovely wife?” Biffy was a drone of reputation, and his vampire master, Lord Akeldama, was a dear friend of
     Alexia’s. Much to Lord Maccon’s annoyance. So, come to think of it, was Biffy. Last time the drone had visited Woolsey Castle
     with a message from his master, he and Alexia had spent hours discussing the latest hairstyles out of Paris. His wife had
     a penchant for gentlemen of the frivolous persuasion. Conall paused to deduce what that said about his own character.
    “Hang my lovely wife,” he answered. “Get into that tavern there and wrestle me up a coat of some kind, would you?”
    Biffy arched an eyebrow at him. “You know, I would offer you my coat, but it’s a swallowtail, hardly useful, and would never
     fit that colossal frame of yours anyway.” He gave the earl a long, appraising look. “Well, well, isn’t my master going to
     be all of a crumble for not having seen this?”
    “Your impossible patron has seen me naked already.”
    Biffy tapped his bottom lip with a fingertip and looked intrigued.
    “Oh for goodness’ sake, you were there,” said Lord Maccon, annoyed.
    Biffy only smiled.
    “A cloak.” A pause, then the added grumble of, “Please!”
    Biffy vanished and returned with alacrity, bearing an oilskin greatcoat of ill design and briny smell but that was at least
     large enough to cover the earl’s indignities.
    The Alpha shrugged it on and then glared at the still-smiling drone. “I smell like parboiled seaweed.”
    “Navy’s in town.”
    “So, what do you know of this madness?” Biffy might be a pink, and his vampire master even more so, but Lord Akeldama was
     also London’s main busybody, and he ran his ring of impeccably clad informants so efficiently it put anything the government
     could muster to shame.
    “Eight regiments came into port yesterday: the Black Scotts, Northumberland, the Coldsteam Guards—”Biffy was pointedly obtuse.
    Lord Maccon interrupted him. “Not that—the mass exorcism.”
    “Mmm,
that
. That is why I was waiting for you.”
    “Of course you were,” sighed Lord Maccon.
    Biffy stopped smiling. “Shall we walk, my lord?” He took up position next to the werewolf, who was no werewolf at all anymore,
     and they strode together toward Fleet Street. The earl’s bare feet made no noise on the cobbles.
    “What!” The amazed exclamation emanated from not one, but two sources: Alexia
and
the heretofore forgotten Tunstell. The claviger had sat down behind the corner of the stoop to nurse the results of Major
     Channing’s discipline.
    Upon hearing Miss Hisselpenny’s news, however, the gangly actor reappeared. He was sporting a large red mark about the right
     eye, which was destined to darken in a most colorful manner, and was pinching his nose to stanch the flow of blood. Both Alexia’s
     handkerchief and his own cravat appeared much the worse for the experience.
    “Engaged, Miss Hisselpenny?” In addition to his disheveled aspect, Tunstell was looking quite tragic, in a Shakespearean comedy
     kind of way. From behind the handkerchief, his eyes were wide in distress. Tunstell had been mighty taken with Miss Hisselpenny
     ever since they danced together at Lord and Lady Maccon’s wedding, but they had not been allowed to mingle socially since.
     Miss Hisselpenny was a lady of consequence, and Tunstell was but a lowly claviger and an actor to boot. Alexia had not comprehended
     the extent of his attachment. Or perhaps the attachment meant more now that it was no longer possible.
    “To whom?” Lady Maccon asked the obvious question.
    Ivy ignored her and dashed to Tunstell’s side.
    “You are injured!” she gasped, bunches of grapes and silk strawberries bobbing about. She pulled out her own minuscule