Chapter Thirty-One
THIRTY-ONE
Doyle joins Bishop, Ann, and me in the coach, while Julius rides a horse and Jesse leads the other two horses back. No one says what Bruno and his companion are supposed to do. The answer is obviously “walk.”
Americans have several reputations in the British Isles. Bruno matched one—rough-mannered and crude. Doyle matches another—very friendly and gregarious, happily chatting away as if he’s known Bishop for years.
Doyle mentioned recognizing Bishop. They’ve never met, but apparently Doyle saw him in London when he’d first arrived and another wolf had pointed Bishop out.
That was back when Doyle had considered joining the Albions.
He’d been told that wasn’t likely to happen.
Silas had just admitted Bishop and his boys, and those doors had swung shut behind them.
The other wolf suggested that Doyle and Jesse’s best option would be to not even apply for membership, lest they be run out of the country on the heels of that inevitable refusal. So they’d headed for Wales.
That story gets us to the house, which is …
not Trevelyan. I’m biased, I know. Others looked at Trevelyan and saw an ugly sprawling stone monstrosity.
I’d been smitten, perhaps because I adore gothic novels.
The house the Cambrian Pack currently inhabits—rents, according to Doyle—is …
Well, it’s what I might expect one could rent in the countryside to hold more than a dozen men.
It’s a farmhouse that looks as if it’s been expanded over the years by people who only cared about making it larger.
“It’s cheap,” Doyle says cheerfully when we see it. “That’s my main concern. No one’s going to care if my wolves are rough tenants, and it lets me save money for a proper house. My priority is getting us an estate so we can claim Pack status.”
Becoming an official Pack is a little more complicated, but Bishop doesn’t point that out.
I can tell Doyle’s welcome is more puppy-dog friendly than he’s comfortable with—in comparison, he really does look like a stuck-up English prat—but it’s a far sight better than Hamish’s condescending welcome, and so Bishop will do nothing to dampen Doyle’s enthusiasm.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Bishop says. “The resurrection of the Cambrian Pack would be very welcome.”
“That’s the impression I got. Well, about you, anyway. The old man wasn’t going to allow it, but now that you’re Alpha…”
“I have different views, which I look forward to discussing with you. We also need to discuss what’s happened with the Albion Pack.”
“Something happened? All right then. Let’s get you all inside. I’ll need to clear a few bedchambers, but the girls should be able to handle that.” He looks sharply at me and Ann. “Not you ladies. Our girls. We have a sitting room you can use while the menfolk talk business.”
“My wife is an Alpha’s daughter,” Bishop says. “She’s also my mate, and as such, she partakes in all business discussions. Her cousin here, Ann, was Silas’s niece and will also partake, as an honorary member of the Albion Pack.”
Ann looks over, as if surprised. Doyle seems even more surprised, but only slaps his thigh and says, “Well, all right. That means we can all go straight to my sitting room and talk.”
When I first arrived at Trevelyan, the Albion wolves had been jammed into the front entry, jostling for a look at Silas’s daughter.
Bishop had to lead me through on his arm, and there’d been a couple of brief confrontations.
Here, the wolves do the same, having seen the coach coming.
They’re crowded into the entry and spilling out the front door.
Doyle hops out of the coach and yells, “Get back, you fucking mutts, unless you want to go clean the latrines,” and he says it so cheerfully you’d think he was joking. But every wolf takes a few strides backward, and when we enter, while they’re still staring—and sniffing—no one says a word.
I also remember my impression of the wolves at Trevelyan.
Some had been nicely dressed, but most reminded me of workingmen, some not even fully clothed.
In retrospect, though, despite their rough attire and rough talk, they’d been too well groomed for men who actually performed hard physical labor.
These wolves look and smell like laborers.
It’s the smell that hits me the hardest. Soap is never cheap, and a place like this might not have indoor plumbing, so I don’t blame the men. Still, the smell reminds me of when Lenora would take me along to a brothel in Whitechapel, and we’d pass the open doorway to a doss-house.
I like to think I’m not a snob, but I struggle against reacting to that stink.
Bishop, Julius, and even Rufus do the same.
Ann seems less affected, not having a werewolf’s sense of smell, but she still holds in her skirts as if to be sure they don’t brush against the walls—because it’s not just the men in need of washing.
The condition of the floors and walls makes me shudder, and I remember what Ann said, that the Cambrian women aren’t chosen for their housekeeping skills.
It’s not that the men and the house are filthy.
I’d just been accustomed to Trevelyan, where the level of affluence means there was no excuse for not keeping clean, and the higher-status wolves set the tone.
My father was a vain man who definitely washed up daily, and others—particularly Bishop and Julius and Oliver—are fastidious.
Doyle and Jesse are certainly clean enough, along with some wolves who obviously wash up as often as they have soap and clean water.
This isn’t the financially comfortable Albion or Caledonian Pack.
It’s a new one, finding both its path and its income, and figuring out—eventually, I’m sure—that if you’re going to bring in women best suited to sex, you’re going to need to cover cleaning duties yourselves.
I need to see not squalor, but opportunity. To imagine how the Albion Pack could help here. Bishop’s leadership skills. Julius’s medical expertise. Felix’s financial genius. Ann’s domestic organization and even my own training in that realm.
We all have a great deal to offer this fledgling Pack, and the trick is to make sure it doesn’t come off as condescending or patronizing.
Doyle leads us down a corridor. As he walks, he shouts for coffee and tea, and I suppose he just presumes someone will get that.
Again, I’m reminded of Trevelyan, where—like at my town house with Lenora—each major room has a pull-rope that, when tugged, tells the domestic staff that something is needed.
Yes, by this point, I’m not just feeling like a snob; I’m feeling like the worst stereotype of an upper-crust Englishwoman.
Doyle ushers us into a perfectly serviceable sitting room.
Better than serviceable, actually. It is decently appointed and clean, with the windows thrown open to let in the spring air.
Jesse shuts the door behind us. I haven’t heard the man say a single word, but I’ve felt his gaze on us.
Taking our measure while his Alpha plays genteel host.
As in any good partnership, Doyle and Jesse complement one another, although I’ll admit Jesse makes me uneasy. He’s making no effort to disguise the fact that he’s assessing us, and I can only hope I didn’t betray any distaste in the front hall.
We settle in, and Julius asks what Doyle has in mind for a permanent residence, and that gets them all talking and planning, and I relax.
Doyle is obviously eager for advice, which is exactly the opening Bishop needs.
Bishop might be younger, but he has more experience, and they discuss how big a property would be required and whether it would be better to find something or build new.
“I like the idea of building,” Doyle says. “Buy the right sort of land and construct exactly the right sort of home. That’s what the Albions did, right?”
Bishop nods. “A Pack has very specific needs, and our estate fulfills them—with a large house and acres of forest and field. You have plenty of young wolves who could assist in the construction, if finances are a concern.”
“Oh, they won’t be. We aren’t exactly splurging on this place, as you can see. Jesse is my money man, and he keeps our belts cinched tight. We have the funds to buy land and start construction.”
Bishop is about to answer when the door opens and two young women enter carrying trays. Both look younger than me, and they tumble in, giggling like girls. Then stop and stare as they set down their trays.
“Well, aren’t you a handsome one,” the light-haired one says, sashaying over to Julius, who only smiles politely.
She’s very pretty—they both are—and while I can tease Julius about brothels, I suspect his taste runs to the higher-end ones that cater to supernaturals.
Both these girls are dressed for street corners, with low-cut gowns and more face paint than I’ve seen outside a circus.
That’s no insult to them. Rouged lips and cheeks would have paid their bills on the street, and they’re obviously appreciated here.
“I like this one,” the dark-haired girl says, stopping in front of Bishop and plunking down onto his lap.
Bishop’s expression is truly priceless. A split-second flash of horror before he pushes to his feet so fast that the girl falls to the floor.
“What’s that for?” she squawks as she straightens and adjusts her dress. “I was just being friendly.”
“He’s with his wife,” Doyle says, sounding half amused and half pained. “She’s sitting beside him.”
The girl gives me a once-over and sniffs. Then she leans over Bishop, giving him a full view of her cleavage, and stage-whispers, “Come see me later.”
I can practically hear Bishop’s teeth grinding. His mouth opens to say something, but my hand on his arm stops him. By now, Julius has shooed away the light-haired girl, who has spotted Rufus, tucked farther back, and is advancing on him.
“Girls,” Doyle says. “These are our guests. If they wish to enjoy your company, they will say so. You won’t bother them. Especially not Mr. Bishop, who is with his wife.” He looks over at Ann, who is taking in the scene with quiet amusement. “Are you with either of these two fellows?”
“I am not,” she says. “Your lady friends are free to entertain them.”
“Not necessary,” Julius says quickly. “Though I do appreciate the, er, offer.”
“Same,” Rufus rumbles. “Appreciated, ladies, but we’re here on business.”
“Business is hard work,” the light-haired one says. “You’ll need a rest, and I know exactly—”
“Enough,” Jesse growls. “Off with you. Now.”
Once they’re gone, Doyle sighs. “I could use your advice on that as well. When I was first trying to woo young wolves, I found they really appreciated having ladies in the house.”
“Shockingly,” Julius murmurs.
Doyle grins. “Yep, it’s a real incentive, especially to the fellows who join from the Caledonians and have never lived with women.
Hamish is very particular about how his wolves see to their…
” He glances at Ann and me. “Their, um, needs. It’s a reward, and if they don’t earn it, they don’t get it.
So having women here really helps, but I made the mistake of letting them choose the gals and…
” He throws up his hands. “What can I say. They’re hot-blooded werewolves.
All they care about is that the ladies are young and pretty and raring to go, as you could see. ”
Ann rises and heads to the tea tray, and I realize we’re expected to pour. I join her. Just as Bishop can’t complain about the girls touching him, I can’t complain about being expected to serve tea. We’re on our best behavior.
“Anyway,” Doyle says. “Ignore the gals. If they give you trouble, come to me. We can talk about how to make better hiring choices later. First, let’s have our coffee, and you can tell me what happened with Silas.”