CHAPTER THREE

A New Pack Member

He looks well enough. Lyall followed his Alpha’s long, elegant strides out of the hat shop and into a hailed cab.

The silence in the hackney was awkward but not uncomfortable.

“How are they handling it?”

“Better than we hoped.”

“And Channing?” The London Pack’s strongest and most difficult member was their Gamma, Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings. Lyall had hated leaving Biffy to cope with him alone. But he could be coped with.

“He challenged.”

“Of course he did.” It was in a Gamma’s nature to fight, to strike out, to react in anger to any change. It had its purpose within the pack. Providing, as much as a Beta did, its own kind of balance. But Channing was worse than most, more extreme.

“And I beat him back.”

“Of course you did.” Lyall was relieved to hear it but didn’t let it show. He had worried. Biffy wasn’t by nature a fighter. But he was Alpha, innately dominant, and blessed with Anubis Form. The ability to make new werewolves, which meant, regardless of his surface personality, no one should be able to challenge him for long. It’s only that Biffy didn’t come off as Alpha at first glance. Too delicate. Too pretty. Too civilized.

If we can find a way to meld these qualities, he will be everything we need henceforth.

Lyall’s worry had been all for Channing, for Biffy’s control. Channing was so much bigger, and so much angrier, he had thought there was a chance, just a chance...

“I’m glad you didn’t have to kill him.” He didn’t like Channing, but he was, in his way, Lyall’s brother if not friend.

“Me too.” A wealth of feeling in those words from his Alpha. As if Biffy understood his worry, and the odd exasperated affection of centuries.

How horrible it would have been, not for Channing to die (although that was reasonably bad, for Channing) but for Biffy to have to cope with loss at his moment of Alpha acquisition. Not to mention a pack that had neither Beta nor Gamma.

“And how has he been since then?”

“Absent. He’s now head of BUR and very much taken with the job. Did you know?”

Lyall inclined his head.

“Of course you knew.” Biffy sat, still and poised across from him, the flickering lights of the lanterns making his too-pretty features shift in and out of focus.

Lyall knew those features well, had traced them with his fingertips. Straight nose with a tiny bit of up-tilt at the end, pointed chin just square enough to be masculine, lower lip slightly fuller than the upper one but together making a mouth almost feminine in its perfection.

“It is a good place for him, given that he no longer has his military position to distract him. He has worked for the War Office before. And the Home Office, I believe. He can handle the bureaucracy.”

Biffy let out a slight breath.

Lyall could guess the source. “You came up with the idea to give him that job?”

Biffy nodded.

“Good instincts, Alpha.”

He watched Biffy’s shoulders relax slightly. “I had to fight for it. The Queen considers him a bit of a loose cannon, and it is by royal appointment. It could have gone horribly wrong.”

“But it didn’t. And a month in, he’s doing well. Or so I hear.”

Biffy’s smile was more shaky than confident.

We will have to work on that.

* * *

It was late by the time they reached the new pack house. Biffy was proud of the place. It was much bigger than the previous town house. It had a large garden, and Blackheath was right there, beyond. Perhaps not big enough to be a full running ground, but big enough to give the whole place a feel of freedom and open fields, even in London.

Biffy was a city boy himself, always had been, but werewolves needed a sense of space, and this house gave it to them. He’d purchased it thinking that he needed to satisfy the shifting needs of his pack. They needed a greater sense of freedom than inner London allowed, but also, he wanted to give the populace a sense of their settling down.

The previous Alpha, Lord Maccon, had been very... well... much. As had his wife. Very much to tend to and very much to accommodate. Werewolves were pack – they liked to take care of their own. There had been the Maccon daughter as well, a handful herself, for all that she lived the bulk of her time with Lord Akeldama. Prior to Biffy’s reign, the London Pack had withstood a time of upset and confusion. With Lord Maccon turning slowly mad under Alpha’s curse, a stinky vampire living so close, politics and excitement all around them, it had been decades of aberration and unsettlement.

Biffy might be a new Alpha – different and young – but he knew it was his role to provide stability. And now with Lyall home, he felt that their legs, weak and newborn and shaky, could perhaps grow into something strong and sure.

Some instinct had urged him to buy a bigger house as a result. He wasn’t certain if it was an Alpha’s hope that they might be adding new members to their pack. Or some weird instinct that suggested, now that the London Pack Alpha was a civilized gentleman with a marked preference for other gentlemen, some of his pack might consider marriage their duty.

They had abstained for decades. Lady Maccon was a lot to look after, and not the type of female to brook other ladies in her domain. However, werewolves were allowed to marry under British law. Even encouraged to do so, where widows with children were concerned. Werewolves, being undead, could not (of course) have children of their own. But the pack structure was considered an excellent welfare resource for a worthy gentlewoman who was too long a spinster or too old a widow. Such marriages were thought good for the pack, bringing (as society deemed it) the taming forces of womanhood to an otherwise worryingly masculine environment.

Biffy had a feeling, now that things had shaken out for his own pack, that his wolves might start courting. Their new Alpha would bring no new wife of his own – he was not inclined. It seemed likely that some of them might hunt wives for themselves. This both thrilled and worried Biffy. But made it absolutely necessary to invest in a very large house.

Not that I’d mind women or even children around the place. I miss Alexia. Of course, Biffy missed Lord Maccon for the responsibility that had not been Biffy’s while the man still ruled. But he missed Lady Maccon for the sheer joy of a woman’s company. He might prefer men in his bed, but one could have too much of a good thing in one’s life. And his pack was very masculine, sometimes overwhelmingly so.

Such thoughts kept him mostly silent throughout the drive home.

“There it is,” he said, pointing out the house to Lyall, a little anxious, hoping his Beta approved of the place.

It was almost a mansion, set apart and practically within the heath. This gave it excellent, and defensible, positioning and a good aspect. Biffy had purchased it off the crown and at a reduced rate, partly because, the queen claimed, while Falmouth title came with lands in Cornwall, it did not come with a house in town, and he did need something appropriate to his position.

It was a well-balanced Georgian building, whitewashed stone with a low roof. No columns or Greek stylings, it had many small windows with charming lemon-colored shutters (Biffy took no chances with sunlight) and a few larger bay windows with arches on the first level. It was pleasant, the type of house built for solid country gentry with nothing to prove – unpretentious, but warm and welcoming.

Biffy was tradesman enough (after decades in the hat business) not to protest a good deal when it was thrust upon him.

Most of the pack was likely out. It was a few hours until morning, and they would be about their various places of business, checking in with the regiments or guards, attending social matters at their club, or otherwise occupied. The moon being nearer new than full, Biffy wasn’t concerned. He hoped that the squabbling had been left over the breakfast table and that the house was now peaceful.

He was looking forward to a nice cup of tea and good gossip with his Beta before a warm fire.

He led Lyall through the wrought-iron gate in the garden’s stone wall, and up the path to the front door somewhat proudly. Lyall perked up, seeming less tired as he took in his new home with bright hazel eyes.

“Welcome to Falmouth House, Professor Lyall.” Biffy pushed open the big door to find... total and utter chaos.

* * *

Lyall was gobsmacked. There was no politer way of putting it. And not by their new residence, although it was bigger than Woolsey Castle, much more welcoming, and impeccably decorated. He expected no less from his new Alpha.

No, he had never before heard his pack in such a confused state. The multitude of voices, all familiar and all at once, mixed in with the screams of some creature apparently in the throes of slow dismemberment.

“Well.” Biffy was clearly mortified. “This is embarrassing. I did so want to impress you.”

“The house is lovely, Alpha. But perhaps we should ascertain the nature of the disturbance?” Lyall put down his small traveling case in the grand entranceway and followed the noise into what appeared to be the drawing room, and the eye of the storm.

Biffy trailed behind him.

Of the pack, Adelphus, Quinn, Phelan, Hemming, Rafe, Ulric, and Zev were all home. Channing was likely still at work. Riehard was also missing. Probably on assignment. I’ll have to get his thoughts on the past few months as soon as he returns. Riehard was a kindred spirit, very observant, preferring the background to center stage, and mostly even-tempered.

Lyall took in his seven pack mates, assorted clavigers, and household staff in one quick sweep. Biffy came in after and stood staring with his mouth open.

The pack was flapping about in a discombobulated manner like a flock of starving pigeons that had just been thrown a scattering of highly desirable bread scraps. Since most of them were on the larger end of the masculine spectrum, this was a lot of flapping for even the impressive drawing room to contain.

Hemming stood at the center of the cyclone and seemed to be emitting a very high-pitched, extremely loud wailing sound.

Ah, not Hemming but something Hemming is holding. Is that...

“Hemming,” Biffy barked from slightly too close to Lyall. Lyall shivered. “Is that an infant you have clutched to your breast?”

“Hot water,” Adelphus was insisting. “Don’t human offspring always need hot water? Should I ask Cook to put the kettle to boil? He’s making a great deal of noise. Perhaps two kettles?”

“And clean linens? Or bandages, do we need bandages?” That was Quinn, his quizzical brow even more quizzical than usual, his dark hair spiked up as if he’d been running his hands through it.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Hemming isn’t in the act of giving birth! We need milk. Or is he old enough for mushy food? What do you think?” Phelan at his most aristocratic. His deep voice rumbled through the chaos.

“Are there teeth? Isn’t age determined by the presence or absence of teeth?” Rafe this time, bouncing about, looking scruffy and worried.

“I think that’s in horses, not humans,” corrected Phelan.

“I think mushy food. Peas or potatoes or porridge or something?” Quinn again.

“Do all mushy foods start with p according to you?” wondered Ulric mildly from one side of the room.

“Why is he crying so much? Hemming, rock him back and forth.” Rafe looked over Hemming’s shoulder.

“No, no, don’t do that. Swaddle him and hold him tightly. He needs reassurance, poor little mite. Abandoned like that.” Zev, dark eyes wide with fear.

“Should I sing?” Hemming this time. “Aren’t you supposed to sing to nippers?”

“No!” several voices at once. Werewolves gained many things upon achieving immortality, but a sense of pitch wasn’t one of them.

Ulric stayed in the background, looking concerned but not involved. He could get that way in a crisis, withdrawn and reserved, but this was even more than customary. Lyall paused, examining his countenance for hidden meaning. Is he pulling away from the pack?

Ulric registered his presence, and a wide smile slashed across his impossibly handsome face.

Lyall tilted his head at his old friend.

Through all the chatter, the clavigers rushed about, gathering great piles of throws and blankets, putting them on and then off the bundle in Hemming’s arms. Occasionally, by accident or design, one would fall over Hemming’s head. Staff dashed off, following some causally thrown-out order, then came running back in with whatever had been requested. The tables were now piled with linen bandages, bowls of porridge, pitchers of hot water, a basket of dried flowers, assorted bottles of medicinals, a pair of large woolly slippers, and, for some unaccountable reason, a set of curling tongs. Who in my pack uses curling tongs? Biffy imagined it was Channing and amused himself greatly.

The werewolves circled about Hemming and his bundle. Fingers were shoved at the bundle. Food was shoved at the bundle. The bundle wiggled and screamed ever louder.

“I have never heard anything yell so much,” said Ulric, wandering over to them. “Not even Lord Maccon. How can such a tiny thing make so much noise?”

Lyall looked at Biffy, measured. What will you do, Alpha?

Biffy narrowed his eyes at Lyall for one second and then cut through the hubbub to where Hemming stood.

He was no imposing presence, although the man had near-perfect posture, and a near perfect posterior, which was imposing enough as far as Lyall was concerned. But his movements were so beautiful and his appearance so impeccable, he managed to be intimidating for all he was the smallest in the room. Apart from me, of course.

Hemming was entirely the opposite of his Alpha, a large, bumbling, salt-of-the-earth breed of chap. Big, blond, and rangy but with almost delicate features. The others referred to him, when Hemming wasn’t listening, as sensitive. He had wistful, watery blue eyes – which were currently wide and panicked – and subtle but thick sideburns. He was the kind of man to be depicted in art as mucking out stalls and pitching hay. He likely had been, since he’d once modeled for various well-known painters who specialized in rural depictions of manor houses and handsome farmers and ducks and the like. I wonder if he still does. Saddled with a baby, he looked utterly overwhelmed. Although Lyall knew exactly how it had landed in his arms. Hemming was widely thought of by the entire pack as the gentlest among them.

“Oh, heaven forfend! What do I do? Why won’t he stop crying?” Hemming tried bouncing the tiny thing. The screaming persisted.

Biffy marched up to him.

Hemming’s desperate gaze landed on his Alpha and, to Lyall’s delight, instantly turned to one of profound relief. “Oh, thank the fates. Here.”

The squalling bundle was thrust into Biffy’s arms.

It wasn’t that Lyall didn’t like children. It’s simply that they were, by and large, quite messy. Lyall abhorred a mess. This one proved to live up to his assessment.

Biffy took the little creature and cradled it up against his shoulder, and began patting its back. This action caused the child to stop screaming.

It seems my new Alpha has untold depths. Or perhaps it’s only that as the youngest werewolf amongst us, he has more recent experience with the procreative habits of mortals.

Then the infant emitted an entirely ungentlemanly burp and spilled what appeared to be most of its dinner down the back of Biffy’s beautiful burgundy gabardine evening jacket.

The Alpha’s face! Lyall swallowed his smile with difficulty.

Biffy jerked the offensive creature away from said jacket. The baby instantly began screaming again, perhaps not quite so loudly. Biffy thrust it back into Hemming’s arms.

“Oh, my goodness, Alpha, I am so sorry! I know how you feel about your jackets. James! Quickly!” Adelphus, properly horrified, waved frantically at one of the clavigers.

“My lord!” A good-looking young blunt rushed Biffy. “Let me take that for you.”

This is, no doubt, James. Lyall assessed the lad. All the clavigers would be new to him. There were only a few home at the moment, wringing their hands and trying to be useful. Unless the traditions of pack had drastically altered, which Lyall doubted, most of the clavigers were off duty at this time of night. Thank goodness for small mercies. As half of them are usually actors, their presence would only have added to the general drama of a baby among the werewolves.

Lyall watched as James attempted to help Biffy remove his coat. Impressive that he still manages to wear them so tight. This unfortunately revealed the fact that some of the regurgitated fluids also decorated Biffy’s silver cravat, brocade burgundy and silver waistcoat, and white shirt as well.

See what I mean? Babies, messy.

Clearly desperate to be useful, James then began stripping Biffy of every piece of clothing.

Lyall was not at all averse to this turn of events.

Meanwhile, the chaos around them continued. Exacerbated, perhaps, by the Alpha being covered in spit-up. Now all the werewolves were worried for the safety of their new charge. Alphas had tempers.

Lyall stayed quiet and calm, waiting to see if Beta interference would be necessary. He was trying to get a read on the currents of his new-yet-old pack. Some things most certainly would have changed over the last twenty years.

And some things definitely had not.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it!” That would be Rafe, of course. Rafe looked like a bruiser but was in fact a big-hearted softy, prone to accommodating strays. Their previous house had come with a family of alley cats adjacent, who’d discovered early on that Rafe was one for accidentally leaving the hunt’s rabbit liver out for them rather than eating it himself.

Rafe was currently trying to pet the baby’s head. No doubt wondering if the child liked liver. And if he should go hunt him something fresh.

Lyall sensed his Alpha’s frustration rise.

Biffy batted off his claviger. “Do stop attempting to get me naked, James. I know you’ve been trying for months, but now is not the time.”

Lyall certainly hoped that was a joke.

“But sir, the stains will set!”

“And so I can buy new garments. At the moment, the state of my dress seems the least of our problems. Take the coat away and tend to it, do.”

Lyall was only a little sad to see the lad leave – Biffy was still in his shirt, after all.

* * *

Biffy, with an exasperated sigh, took the child back.

The infant quieted, perhaps simply because Biffy was not harrowed by his presence. Children could sense distress, he always thought. Biffy hoisted the little chap to his shoulder, patting him again. Hoping there would be no additional dietary return engagements, but not really minding now that he was only wearing a shirt.

It is a marker of my acceptance of my own werewolf state that I am not self-conscious about wearing so little in front of so many in my own drawing room.

The baby stopped screaming and the pack settled into awed relief – the quiet after the storm.

“Alpha, how’d you do that?”

Biffy sighed. “I’ve eleven siblings. Or I did, you know, before. Only three of them were older than me. I’ve more than enough experience with babies. Now, Adelphus, this boy here is very young. We will need a wet nurse. You and Quinn go inquire at the church – the local pastor might know of some able-bodied local lady.”

He continued issuing orders, feeling rather proudly in charge. It was nice, for a change, to know more about something than the rest of his pack. Most of them were at least sixty years older than he, many of them three or four times that; it was a rare privilege to be commanding by reason of capability, not simply Alpha nature. This must be how Lyall feels.

“Hemming, where did the child originate?” Biffy directed his stare at the original holder of the goods.

“He was left on our doorstep, Alpha. Simply, you know, there. Wriggling.”

Biffy called Adelphus and Quinn back before they could leave. “Also see if the pastor has any idea who the infant’s mother might be. Go by the workhouse as well. I take it there is one nearby?”

“Yes, Alpha,” said Adelphus smartly.

“I know where it is, Alpha,” said Rafe.

“Good, then Rafe, you go to the workhouse while Quinn and Adelphus go to the church. If they’re asleep at the rectory, rouse them. They know we’re in the neighborhood and should be expecting the occasional nighttime call. I went by and had tea after we first arrived.” Biffy made a face. “That said, I advise against drinking the tea, if he offers. It’s perishingly weak.”

“Yes, Alpha!” The three turned to leave. The clavigers scattered ahead of them in search of hats and coats.

Only then did they catch sight of Lyall, standing in his diffident way, slightly to the back of the room.

Lyall’s eyes crinkled in a suppressed smile as the (there was no better way of putting it) ecstatic squeals of the first three caused the rest of the pack to swivel around and stare at him.

Quinn, Adelphus, and Rafe descended upon him.

“Professor! You’re home!” That was Quinn.

“Randolph, how delightful. It’s been too long. Far too long!” Adelphus looked genuinely pleased, a rarity from he who liked to pretend ennui at the state of the universe.

Rafe pounced upon their returned pack mate and gave him a hug. Rafe was like that.

Hemming instantly followed.

For the moment, Biffy was left in sole possession of the child. His own heart warmed at his pack’s evident delight. Their Beta was back. My Beta is back. They are so free and happy with him.

Lyall looked quietly pleased by the attention. “Well, gentlemen, while I am happy to be home and delighted to see you all again, did your Alpha not just issue direct orders?” A gentle rebuke.

The drawing room was instantly less crowded as Adelphus, Quinn, and Rafe slapped top hats to their heads, twirled great coats about their massive shoulders, and dashed out into the cold December night.

Biffy nodded to his Beta, pleased to be acknowledged so directly. Then he resumed issuing orders, aware now that, with Lyall’s silent observation, the rest of the pack would obey instantly. He was unsure if he was happy with this swift change in attitude. It would be a sad kind of Alpha that required his Beta to chivvy his pack into the simplest tasks.

Biffy sent staff off about the house to retrieve warm milk (not ideal but better than nothing for now) and Zev to find a hatbox of appropriate size and shape to make up a temporary bassinet. They had a surfeit of hatboxes, given Biffy’s occupation.

The baby began to settle, thank heavens.

Biffy felt it safe to sit down as the little boy fell asleep, profoundly exhausted by his emotional display, no doubt.

Well, he should be – imagine making such a fuss amongst strangers.

Hemming came to sit next to him. “He’s much cuter when he’s not screaming.”

“They usually are.”

Phelan came around the back of the settee to look down as well. He loomed rather too much but couldn’t help it, poor fellow. Bit of a loomer, was Phelan. “What shall we call him? I mean, presumably he belongs to somebody and I’m sure they gave him some kind of name, but we should have a moniker in the interim.”

“Why? Won’t baby do?” Ulric seemed to deem it safe to come away from the corner he’d been keeping warm and the hat stand he’d been keeping company. He held himself, however, about as stiffly as the hat stand, as though the sleeping infant might suddenly lurch in his direction.

“How about Ulric the Second?” suggested Hemming, with a grin.

Zev had returned with a good-sized hat box and now had an arm around Lyall and was whispering something into the Beta’s ear. Biffy wasn’t sure how he felt about that kind of intimacy.

It seemed to be nothing significant to Lyall, as the Beta merely ruffled his friend’s hair and said, “I’m sure it’s fine. Stop worrying.”

Zev ducked his head. “I’m glad you’re home, Professor.”

“I’m glad to be home.” Lyall came over, stood a little apart from them all, and crinkled his eyes at them affectionately. “How about Robin? It being, you know, that time of year?”

“Robin?” said Biffy, stupidly.

“Like the bird.”

“I like it!” Hemming grinned. “What do you think, Robin?”

The baby cooed.

“There, see, he likes it, too.”

“There goes my legacy,” said Ulric, smiling for a change.

“Now, what do we do with Robin next?” Zev seemed worried. He liked plans. Biffy gave a little wince – poor Zev. It was hard to keep to any kind of plan with a baby around.

“Sing at it? One of the clavigers could sing? James has a rather fine tenor,” suggested Phelan. Biffy wondered, not for the first time, if Phelan missed his own talent in that arena. Well before Biffy was born, Phelan had been one of England’s most renowned basso profundos. Fortunately, giving it all up for immortality did not seem to have left him bitter, only arrogant.

Lyall glided closer to join them all clustered about the sleeping infant. “I think he’s fine where he is.”

His hazel eyes – still slightly crinkled in pleasure – were not on the child.

Biffy was not entirely sure a Beta should look with eyes like that at his Alpha. But he couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed the affectionate regard.

He lifted the little one up and nested him more securely in the crook of his arm.