Page 91 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

“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.”