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quite how old. “
La,
darling,” he always said, “a vampire, like a lady,
never
reveals his true age.” But he had described to her in detail the dark days before the supernatural was revealed to daylight
folk. Before the hives and packs made themselves known on the British Isle. Before that prestigious revolution in philosophy
and science that their emergence triggered, known to some as the Renaissance but to vampires as the Age of Enlightenment.
Supernatural folk called the time before the Dark Ages, for obvious reasons. For them it had been an age spent skulking through
the night. Several bottles of champagne were usually required to get Lord Akeldama to talk of it at all. Still, it meant,
by Alexia’s calculations, that he was at least over four hundred years old.
    She looked more closely at her friend. Was that fear?
    His face was honestly serious, and he said, “My dove,
I
do not know what is transpiring here.
Me,
ignorant! Please take the gravest of care in this matter.”
    Miss Tarabotti now knew the real source of her friend’s trepidation. Lord Akeldama had no idea what was going on. For years,
he had held the trump card in every major London political situation. He was accustomed to having possession of all pertinent
facts before anybody else. Yet at this moment, he was as mystified as she.
    â€œ
Promise me,
” he said earnestly, “you will see what information you can extract from Lord Maccon on this matter
before
you go into that hive.”
    Alexia smiled. “To better your understanding?”
    He shook his blond head. “No, sweetheart, to better
yours
.”

CHAPTER THREE

Our Heroine Heeds Some Good Advice
    B ollocks,” said Lord Maccon upon seeing who stood before him. “Miss Tarabotti. What did I do to merit a visit from you first
thing in the morning? I have not even had my second cup of tea yet.” He loomed at the entrance to his office.
    Alexia ignored his unfortunate choice of greeting and swept past him into the room. The act of sweeping, and the fact that
the doorway was quite narrow while Alexia’s bosoms (even corseted) were not, brought her into intimate contact with the earl.
Alexia was embarrassed to note she tingled a little bit, clearly a reaction to the repulsive state of the man’s office.
    There were papers everywhere, piled in corners and spread out over what might have been a desk—it was difficult to tell underneath
all the muddle. There were also rolls of etched metal and stacks of tubes she suspected contained more of the same. Alexia
wondered why he needed metal record-keeping; from the sheer quantity, she suspected it must be a cogent one. She counted at
least six used cups and saucers and a platter covered in the remains of a large joint of raw meat. Miss Tarabotti had been
in Lord Maccon’s office once or twice before. It had always appeared a tad masculine for her taste but never so unsightly
as this.
    â€œGood gracious me!” she said, shaking off the tingles. Then she asked the obvious question. “Where is Professor Lyall, then?”
    Lord Maccon scrubbed his face with his hand, reached desperately for a nearby teapot, and drained it through the spout.
    Miss Tarabotti looked away from the horrible sight.
Who was it that had said “only just civilized”?
She closed her eyes and considered, realizing it must have been she. She fluttered one hand to her throat. “Please, Lord
Maccon, use one of the cups. My delicate sensibilities.”
    The earl actually snorted. “My dear Miss Tarabotti, if you possessed any such things, you certainly have never shown them
to me.” But he did put down the teapot.
    Alexia looked more closely at Lord Maccon. He did not seem entirely well. Her heart moved with a funny little flipping motion
in her chest. His mahogany-colored hair was standing up at the front, as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly.
Everything about his