Alexia congratulated her friends on yet another fine performance. And, since it looked like otherwise they might never leave, the group wended their way back to the hotel on foot, followed by a collective band of sycophants and admirers. They made quite the raucous crowd through the otherwise quiet streets of Alexandria.

It was only a few hours before dawn, but Alexia was not surprised to find, when she inquired after her key at the hotel, that Lord Maccon had not yet returned. Still angry, she supposed.

They were making their farewells for the evening, Mrs. Tunstell solicitous in her care for Lady Maccon’s low spirits, particularly in light of the buoyancy that admiration had given her own. The hotel was busy trying to eject the legion of Tunstell devotees, when a vision of horror came down the stairs and into the hotel reception area.

No one would have described poor Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk as attractive, even at the very best of times. The Tunstells’ nursemaid had not been selected for her looks but for her ability to tolerate twins plus Mrs. Tunstell, while not crumbling under a strain that would have felled lesser females. She was old enough to be mostly gray, but not so old that her limbs had been sapped of the strength needed to carry two infants at once. She wasn’t particularly tall, but she was sturdy, with the arms of a boxer and the general expression of a bulldog. Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk, Alexia supposed, had some species of hearty leather armchair somewhere in her ancestry. However, the Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk who came down those stairs that early morning was far from sturdy. In fact, she looked to have cracked at last. Her face was a picture of horror, her normally tidy pinafore was wrinkled, her cap was askew, and her graying hair fell loose about her shoulders. She clutched Percival to her breast. The baby boy was crying, his face as red as his hair.

Upon catching sight of Lady Maccon and the Tunstells’ party, she cried out, raising her free hand to her throat, and said, on great gulping sobs of terror, “They’re gone!”

Alexia broke free of the crowd and went up to her.

“The babies, the babies are gone.”

“What!” Alexia brushed past the distraught nursemaid and charged up the stairs to the nursery room.

The chamber was in an uproar, furniture overturned, probably by the distraught nursemaid in her panic. The Tunstells’ two bassinets were empty, as was Prudence’s little cot.

Alexia felt her stomach wrench up into the most tremendous knot and a cold, icy fear trickled through her whole body. She whirled away from the room, already calling out instructions, although the hallway was empty behind her. Her voice was hard and authoritative. Then she heard, from behind her, a querulous little voice say, “Mama?”

Prudence came crawling out from under the bed, dusty, tear-stained, but present.

Alexia ran to her, crouching down to wrap her in a tight embrace. “Prudence, my baby! Did you hide? What a good, brave girl.”

“Mama,” said Prudence seriously, “no.”

Alexia let her go slightly, grabbing on to her shoulders and speaking at her straight on. Grave brown eyes met grave brown eyes. “But where is Primrose? Did they take Primrose? Who took her, Prudence? Did you see?”

“No.”

“Bad men took the baby. Who were they?”

Prudence only tossed her dark curls, pouted, and burst into unhelpful tears. Partially a response to her mother’s frantic behavior, Alexia supposed, trying to calm herself.

“Dama!” the little girl wailed. She broke free of her mother’s grasp and ran to the door, turning back to look at her mother. “Dama. Home. Home Dama,” she insisted.

“No, dear, not yet.”

“Now!”

Alexia marched over to her daughter and scooped up the child’s struggling form. She strode back down the stairs into the hotel reception room, where all was still chaos.

Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk began to weep openly upon seeing Prudence clutched safely in Lady Maccon’s arms and dashed over to coo over the toddler.

“Prudence hid under the bed, but it does look as though they took Primrose,” announced Alexia baldly. “I am so very sorry, Ivy. Who knows why or what they want from a baby, but she is definitely gone.”

Mrs. Tunstell let out a high keening wail and fainted back into her husband’s arms. Tunstell looked as though he, too, might be in favor of fainting. His freckles stood out starkly against his white face and he stared at Alexia with desperate green eyes.

“I don’t know where my husband is,” replied Alexia, guessing at the nature of the plea in those eyes. “Of all the times for him to be off in a huff!”

The Tunstells were well loved by their troupe, so this misfortune threw all the other actors into sympathetic paroxysms of distress. The ladies fainted or had hysterics, whichever better suited their natures. Some of the gentlemen did the same. One ran out into the night with a fake sword, determined to track down the dastardly culprits. Mr. Tumtrinkle began stuffing his face with those little honey pastries and blubbering into his mustache. Percival was busy screaming his head off, only pausing to spit up all over anyone who came near.

Lady Maccon really could have used her husband’s booming voice at that juncture. However, knowing the onus fell on her, and relieved her own daughter was accounted for, she took charge. Alexia was quite worried for Primrose’s safety, but she was also clear on two fronts. Either the baby had been kidnapped in order to extract a ransom, in which case they could expect contact relatively soon, or they had the wrong baby, in which case they could expect her return momentarily. After all, why would anyone want the daughter of an actress? No matter how popular said actress was in Egypt.

Alexia cast a desperate look about for the only other person who might still have as level a head as she under such circumstances, but Madame Lefoux was nowhere to be found. She inquired of the hotel clerk, interposing herself in front of the poor man as he attempted to control the bedlam in his reception chamber.

“My good man”—Lady Maccon pulled him away from one of the hysterical actresses—“have you seen Madame Lefoux? One of our fellow travelers, the Frenchwoman inventor who dresses as a man. She might be useful at this juncture.”

“No, madam.” The man bowed hurriedly. “She’s gone, madam.”

“What do you mean gone?” Alexia did not like this turn of events. Now two ladies were missing! Well, Primrose was barely half a lady and Madame Lefoux dressed as a man, so Alexia supposed together they made up only one whole lady, but—Alexia shook herself out of spiraling thoughts and returned to the clerk.

“Left the hotel, madam, not one hour ago. Moving rather quickly, I must say.”

Lady Maccon turned back to the pandemonium, a little floored. Gone, Genevieve, but why? Had she perhaps sent the kidnappers? Or was she on their trail? Or could it be that she was the kidnapper herself? No, not Genevieve. The Frenchwoman might build a massive octopus and terrorize a city, but that had been because someone kidnapped her own child. She would hardly put another mother through such an ordeal. I suppose it could be coincidence?

Still puzzling over the matter, Alexia stopped dead in the center of the room and took stock of her situation. “You—fetch smelling salts, and you—get cold compresses and wet towels. Everyone else—do be quiet!”

In very short order, she had the staff trotting to her bidding. She ordered them not to touch the nursery, as the offenders could have left clues behind. She had them set up the still-hysterical nursemaid in a new room, one with very secure windows and better locks. She left her there with Prudence, Percy, Ivy, Mr. Tumtrinkle, and several other actors now restored to sense and ready to do battle. She gave Mr. Tumtrinkle her gun, as he assured her he had pointed many a prop firearm at many a hero in his day and shooting a real one could hardly be much different. Alexia assured him that she would be back as soon as possible and to please make certain he ascertained the truth of any enemy attack before shooting Ethel at anyone, particularly a hero.

She sent Tunstell to alert the local constabulary, the other actors and actresses back to their rooms, and the now-rather-worried-looking collective of Tunstell Troupe admirers off about their business. She had to use gesticulations, shushing sounds, and, eventually, a broom in order to accomplish this last.

The sky was beginning to pink and things were finally calm at Hotel des Voyageurs, when a dark shadow loomed in the doorway and Lord Maccon, wearing only a cloak and a sour expression, entered the room.

Alexia hurried up to him. “I know you are still angry with me, and you have a perfect right to be. It was beastly of me to keep the information from you, but we have a far more serious problem that needs your attention now.”

The frown deepened. “Go on.”

“Primrose appears to have been baby-napped. She was taken from her room several hours ago while the Tunstells were engaged in a performance. I was with them. Madame Lefoux has also vanished. Apparently, the nursemaid was asleep and when she awoke, she found both Primrose and Prudence had disappeared.”

“Prudence is gone, too?!” Lord Maccon roared.

The clerk, dozing fitfully behind his desk, snapped to attention with the expression of a man near to his breaking point.

Alexia put a hand on her husband’s arm. “No, dear, do calm down. It turned out ours had taken refuge under a bed.”

“That’s my girl!”

“Yes, very sensible of her, although she seems to be having some difficulty describing the kidnappers to us.”

“Well, she is only two.”

“Yes, but as she really must learn coherent phrasing and syntax eventually, now would be an excellent time to complete the process. And she has let forth a complete sentence lately. I was hoping… never mind that now. The fact is, Primrose is gone and so is Genevieve.”

“You believe Madame Lefoux took the baby?” The earl was frowning and chewing on his bottom lip in that darling way Alexia loved so much.

“No, I don’t. But I think Madame Lefoux may be chasing the kidnappers. She was around the hotel at the time, and the clerk said she left in a great hurry. Perhaps she spotted something out her window. Her room is near the nursery.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“I’ve sent Tunstell to the local authorities. I haven’t let anyone into the room. I thought you might be able to smell something.”

Lord Maccon nodded crisply, almost a salute. “I’m still angry with you, wife. But I can’t help but admire your efficiency in a crisis.”

“Thank you. Shall we go check the scents?”

“Lead on.”

Unfortunately, up the stairs and in the nursery, the earl smelled nothing of significance. He did say he thought he caught a whiff of Madame Lefoux and that it was possible she had grappled with the assailants or perhaps simply stuck her head in to see what had happened. It was also possible that it was a lingering remnant from the previous evening. He said he smelled a trace of the Egyptian streets about the place, but nothing more than that. Whoever had taken Primrose had hired ruffians to do it. He traipsed back out into the hallway, still sniffing.

“Ah,” he said, “there is Madame Lefoux again—machine oil and vanilla. And here.” He began walking back down the steps. “You know, wife, I do believe I have a fresh trail. I’m going after her.” He dropped his cloak, revealing an impressive bare chest matted with hair, and shifted form. Luckily the lobby was deserted but for the extremely harried clerk who watched, openmouthed, as his esteemed guest, a real British earl, changed into a wolf right there in front of him.

The poor man’s eyes rolled up into his head and he followed in the path of many a young lady that evening and fainted dead away behind the desk.

Alexia watched him fall, too dazed to make any effort to help him, and then turned back to her husband, now a wolf, carefully picking up his discarded cloak with his mouth.

“Conall, really, the sun is almost up. Do you think you’ll have time…?”

But he was already gone, dashing out the door, nose lowered before him like a scent hound after a fox.

Lord Conall Maccon returned well after sunup. Alexia was coping with an utterly distraught Mrs. Tunstell. She had finally convinced Ivy to take a dram of poppy to quiet her nerves. At which point both Ivy and her nerves became rather floppy and confused.

Ivy managed to raise her head from where it bent low over Percy, asleep in her lap, when Lord Maccon tapped quietly at the door.

Mr. Tumtrinkle, seated facing the door with Alexia’s gun in his lap, started violently and fired Ethel at the earl. Lord Maccon, slower than usual after a long evening’s run and a good few hours dashing about as a human under the scorching heat of an Egyptian sun, ducked too late, but the bullet missed him.

Alexia tsked at the actor and put out her hand for the return of her pistol. The man handed it over, apologized profusely to Lord Maccon, and resumed his chair in embarrassed silence. Lady Maccon noted, however, that he did take one of the rapiers, tipped for use in stage fights and thus rather useless, and placed it to hand. Alexia supposed he could ferociously poke someone if he tried hard enough.