Blameless (The Parasol Protectorate)
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Quitting her husband's house and moving back in with her horrible family, Lady Maccon becomes the scandal of the London season.
Queen Victoria dismisses her from the Shadow Council, and the only person who can explain anything, Lord Akeldama, unexpectedly leaves town. To top it all off, Alexia is attacked by homicidal mechanical ladybugs, indicating, as only ladybugs can, the fact that all of London's vampires are now very much interested in seeing Alexia quite thoroughly dead.
While Lord Maccon elects to get progressively more inebriated and Professor Lyall desperately tries to hold the Woolsey werewolf pack together, Alexia flees England for Italy in search of the mysterious Templars. Only they know enough about the preternatural to explain her increasingly inconvenient condition, but they may be worse than the vampires -- and they're armed with pesto.
For more from Gail Carriger, check out:
The Custard Protocol
Finishing School (YA)
Etiquette & Espionage
Curtsies & Conspiracies
Waistcoats & Weaponry
Manners & Mutiny
your three minions are no more.” “Ah. Poor little things. They aren’t exactly battle-hardy.” They ascended a steep flight of stairs and then dashed down another long hallway, one that seemed to go backward above the one they’d just run up. “If you don’t find it impertinent of me to ask,” Alexia panted, “what are you doing here, monsieur?” The Frenchman answered between puffs. “Ah, I came with your luggage. Left a marker so Genevieve would know I was here. I didn’t want to miss all the fun.”
air. The wet, rich smell of flowing blood caused the noses of the other pack members to wrinkle with interest. Professor Lyall wasn’t one to play dirty, but things being as they were, he thought he might have to go in for an eyeball. Then he realized something was disturbing the crowd. The tight circle of bodies began rippling, and then two pack members were thrust violently aside and Lord Maccon entered the ring. He was naked, had been all day, but under the moonlight, he was once more looking
cross the border?” Alexia had no clear grasp on the distance from Nice to the Italian frontier. “Most likely.” Madame Lefoux, however, did. Floote sat back down, looking quite worried. They clattered through a small fishing town and out the other side, improved paving on the road allowing them a fresh burst of speed. “We will have to try to lose them in Monaco.” Madame Lefoux stood, leaned across the roof, and engaged in a protracted conversation with the driver. Rapid-fire French scattered
smiled, but she was, she hated to admit it, a little disappointed. She could not help noticing that there had been no mention of Lord Maccon, nor the Woolsey Pack, in Ivy’s letter. Either Ivy was being circumspect—which was about as likely as Floote suddenly dancing an Irish jig—or the London werewolves were staying well out of the social limelight. “You may find yourself the exclusive owner of a highly profitable hairmuff business instead.” Madame Lefoux flipped the newspaper clipping over and
perhaps they thought the battle was over a ball sport. Alexia seemed to recall hearing one matron complain that the Italians were very passionate in their support of balls. They could have used some assistance, for Alexia was no formally trained fighter, and Madame Lefoux, whether she was or not, was considerably hampered by her floofy dress. Quicker than Alexia would have thought possible, the drones had her disarmed, parasol rolling away across the stone floor of the gazebo. Madame Lefoux was