The driver, finally discerning that something was not quite right with his passenger, drew up the carriage, jumped down from the box, and came around to the door, just in time to get bonked on the head with a discarded ladybug.
“All right there, Lady Maccon?” he asked, giving her a pained look and rubbing his forehead.
“Don’t just stand there waffling!” instructed her ladyship, as though she wasn’t bumping about the interior of the carriage, pausing only to throw enormous red bugs out of its windows. “Drive on, you cretin! Drive on!”
Best get myself into a public place, thought Alexia, until I’m certain I’m out of danger. And I need a moment to calm my nerves.
The driver turned to do her bidding, only to be forestalled by a “Wait! I’ve changed my mind. Take me to the nearest teahouse.”
The man returned to his post with an expression that spoke volumes on his feelings over how low the aristocracy had fallen. He clicked the horses into a trot and pulled the carriage back out into London traffic.
Showing worthy forethought, Alexia felt, under such trying circumstances, she trapped one of the bugs in a large pink hatbox, drawing the cords tight. In her agitation, she accidentally dumped the box’s previous occupant (a rather nice velvet riding topper with burgundy ribbon) out the window. Her precautionary measures were undertaken none too soon, for the disruption field wore off and the hatbox began to shake violently. The bug wasn’t sophisticated enough to escape, but it would keep skittering about inside its new prison.
Just to be certain, Lady Maccon stuck her head out the window to look behind and see if the other ladybugs continued their pursuit. They were trundling in confused circles in the middle of the street. So was her velvet hat, burgundy ribbons trailing behind. It must have landed on top of one of the bugs. With a sigh of relief, Alexia sat back, placing one hand firmly on top of the hatbox.
The Lottapiggle Tea Shop on Cavendish Square was a popular watering hole among ladies of quality, and midmorning was a popular time to be seen there. Alexia alighted at the curb, instructed the driver to meet her at Chapeau de Poupe in two hours’ time, and then dashed inside. The streets were not yet busy, so she would have to wait out the quietest part of the day until the real shopping began.
The inside of Lottapiggle was, however, quite as crowded as Alexia might want. No one would dare attack her further there. Unfortunately, while she had momentarily forgotten her ruined reputation, no one else in London had, and ladybugs weren’t the only kinds of ladies with vicious tendencies.
Lady Maccon was allowed in, seated, and served, but the twitching hats and excited chattering of the women assembled abruptly ceased upon sight of her. The hats craned about eagerly, and the chattering evolved into whispered commentary and very pointed looks. One or two matrons, accompanied by impressionable young daughters, stood and left in a rustle of deeply offended dignity. Most, however, were far too curious to see Lady Maccon and were quite giddy at being in her disgraced presence. They basked in the delectable shock of the latest and greatest scandal calmly sipping tea and eating dry toast among them!
Of course, such marked attention might be attributed to the fact that said lady was carrying with her a ticking, quivering hatbox, which she proceeded to place carefully on the seat next to her and then tie to the seat back with the strap of her reticule for security. As though the hatbox might try to escape. At that, all expressions indicated that the tea-swilling ladies felt Lady Maccon had lost her sense along with her reputation.
Alexia ignored them all and took a moment to put her finer feelings back in order and soothe her ladybug-addled nerves with the necessary application of a hot beverage. Feeling more the thing, she made several forthright decisions that resulted in her requesting pen and paper from the hostess. She dashed off three quick notes and then settled in to wait out the lazy part of the morning. Several hours passed thus agreeably, with nothing but an occasional lurch from the hatbox to disturb her reverie.
Upon entering Chapeau de Poupe, Professor Lyall thought that the proprietress was looking a little tired and substantially older than when he’d seen her last. This was peculiar, as on all their previous encounters, the lady inventor had possessed that indefatigably French air of agelessness. Of the kind, of course, that did not come from actually being ageless. She was dressed in her usual odd attire—that is to say, masculine clothing. Most of them considered this shockingly inappropriate, but some were coming to expect such eccentricities from artists, authors, and now milliners. That said, Madame Lefoux may have been dressed as a man, but that did not stop her from being stylish about it, employing perfect tailoring and pleasing subtle grays and blues. Professor Lyall approved.