Primrose let out a whoosh. “And Tash – Miss Sekhmet?”
“She’s perfectly topping. Been down, changed forms, and back up to take control of the interrogation. We have two prisoners.”
“Rue, you never?”
At that juncture, Footnote made his appearance. Footnote was Percy’s cat, as much as any cat belonged to any person. He mostly lived in the library, although he, ostensibly, had the run of the ship. Since Tasherit had boarded, he ceded most of the territory to her. They coexisted in a barely civil arrangement, with Footnote hissing up a storm whenever he happened to run across her and Tasherit threatening to eat him on a regular basis. In fact, she seemed the only thing able to ruffle the black and white tom’s superior calm. At this moment, for example, he appeared to have slept through the battle. His impressive white whiskers arrowed forward as though sensing the oncoming yawn before it happened, pink mouth wide. He then stretched and wandered over to sit on Rue’s foot.
“I did. I took my first prisoners. It’s very exciting, not that I know correct prisoner acquisition etiquette.” She bent over to scratch Footnote’s head. “What does one do with prisoners?”
“Torture,” said Percy with confidence.
“Yes, but what kind of torture?” Footnote lifted his chin commandingly so she scratched his neck.
Percy, true to his nature, had a ready answer to that. Same answer he always had. “I must have a book here somewhere on the subject. Excruciation, maybe. Would you like me to look?” He seemed to have lost the bulk of his distemper during the course of the attack.
“Oh, no thank you, Percy. What a nice gesture. But I think I can come up with something vile on my own.” Footnote wandered over to Primrose to acquire a new set of scratches.
“Torture?” Primrose’s tone was thoughtful. “Cold tea?”
“German poetry.” Percy reached to a shelf and offered up an unpleasantly fat leather-bound volume.
Rue was arrested. “There’s such a thing as German poetry?”
Primrose nodded seriously. “Yes. Save yourself.”
Percy, in silent agreement, put the volume back.
Rue laughed. “Regardless, it’s safe to come out now, if you care to.”
THREE
In Which German Poetry Is Entirely Irrelevant
They never did get around to the German poetry, or any other form of interrogation that evening. Someone, likely from the All England Croquet, Lawn Tennis, and Airborne Polo Club Annual Fiscal Reserves Ball below, had reported the invasion to the authorities. Shortly before dawn, the constabulary hailed them, along with a member of BUR, which meant supernaturals were involved. These authorities demanded they hand over their prisoners. The Spotted Custard, a law-abiding ship, floated down and allowed the silvers to board.
“It’s not fair really.” Rue crossed her arms and glared, trying to be as fierce as her unfortunately friendly visage would allow. “They’re my prisoners. What business is it of yours?”
The bobby was not intimated one bit. He seemed to be trying not to smile, the chump. He flipped out a long writ of some irrepressibly official-looking variety and explained that these men were wanted on several counts of breaking and entering by various clubs, libraries, hive houses, and ministries of record all over London. Apparently, they were part of some kind of crime necklace, or ring, or what have you, which made Rue even more certain that they were after Quesnel’s fancy tank.
“Besides, miss, even if they did board your ship without permission, you can’t simply keep free citizens imprisoned on a dirigible.”
“I can’t?”
“Not done, miss. Not done at all.”
“Oh, very well.”
Rue reluctantly handed over the two men.
The BUR operative was not one she knew from Paw’s offices. He regarded the scratches all over the one man suspiciously but otherwise performed his duties with admirable aplomb. The Staking Constabulary disappeared once the prisoners were produced, and the crew of the Custard was left none the wiser as to the purpose of the attack.
They floated back up as high as they could while remaining moored to the croquet green, and Rue took to her bed, feeling rather the worse for a confusing night.
Rue awoke – it felt like five minutes after falling asleep, although the sun was high enough for it to have been five hours – to the dulcet sounds of Percy yelling.
Even as pipped as he’d been yesterday, and he was quite pipped, Percy rarely yelled. But somehow Rue knew it was him. She recognised the other voice, too. Both were loud enough to waft down to Rue’s cabin from the poop deck directly overhead. The second voice was cooler, more calculating, lilting in a slightly French manner, as it tended to when overcome with emotion. He always lost some of his cloak of proper Britishness, did Quesnel, in times of stress.
I guess he’s back, then. Rue stared up at the ceiling and tried to decide how she felt about this. It’s nice that he’s safe but I’m still irritated with him. And so is Percy, which is not so different from normal. She attempted to think of the right greeting for her erstwhile lover. It should be an irreverent quip, something casual and unruffled; she wouldn’t want to look like she cared.
The crest of rising and falling tones above her suggested that the argument was likely to continue. It was, she realised, also occurring in public, in front of the decklings and the repair crew. If we are really lucky, we will also have an audience of respectable croquet players witnessing my navigator and chief engineer’s verbal fisticuffs.
Rue bopped out of bed and – knowing it was shameful – spent an inordinate amount of time on her toilette. She even laced on a corset as tight as she was able without a maid, over a silk combination and petticoats, merely because of how small it made her waist look. Quesnel’s presence provoked her into looking her best, anticipating the revenge of showing him a modicum of what he could no longer have.
Not until he adequately explained himself at least.
Rue’s best day dress was white with black dots and black lace trim. It was a simple cut with decidedly old-fashioned sleeves, tight from shoulder to wrist, and a low square neckline over a muslin tuck. The muslin was filmy enough to show hints of her generous cleavage, which was about as much as one could show for daytime without being labelled a strumpet. Rue wasn’t above using her assets for nefarious purposes.
She elected not to turn up her hair. It was one of her best features – thick and wavy like her mother’s but with a few reddish honey tones in the full sun. She felt justified in leaving it down having been recently awoken from repose. This being her airship, and her home, she was in her right to appear in a relaxed state. Although, loose hair was pushing matters.
She might have taken a little too long. For when she paused at the top of the stairs to pinch some colour into her cheeks, the voices on deck had fallen silent.
She pushed open the hatch and climbed out, to find Percy with a tremendous frown on his face slumped over the helm consulting a greaser about repairs.
Quesnel was striding down the gangplank. Quesnel striding made for a lovely sight, but it was hardly fair of him to leave when she had put so much effort into looking good enough for him to regret having left before! It would not do to holler at him; that would ruin the dignity of her position. So Rue clattered down the gangplank after him. She moved as fast as her tightly laced stays would allow, instantly regretting having worn them.
She grabbed his arm just as he jumped to the ground.
Quesnel whirled to face her, hand up as if to strike, and she wondered if he thought her Percy. Had the animosity between them became so bad he would hit the man? Percy was a frightful bother, nobody denied that, but to strike another gentleman invited social retribution. Or was Quesnel on edge because he knew criminals were after his new kit in the boiler room?
Quesnel’s violet eyes widened; then the lines on his face smoothed and he smiled.
“Chérie! How lovely.”
“Leaving again so soon, Mr Lefoux? Is th
is to become a custom?”
“Most certainly not. How could I even contemplate abandoning such loveliness!”
“And yet you had no difficulty back in India.”
“Duty and friendship called me away. Although, I must say, that dress would have made the move nigh on impossible. Is it new?” Quesnel Lefoux was one of the biggest flirts in London. He was also an inventor. Which confused people no end. Generally the academic set took after Percy, being prickly and not adept at grappling with the mundane intellect of the masses. Not Quesnel. Quesnel had a well-earned reputation with the ladies and a certain casual breeziness of manner he was only permitted because he was French and a commoner.
That said, he was certainly not the most agreeable man Rue knew. Lord Akeldama and at least four of his drones outpaced her blond engineer easily. Having been raised by such collective expert charmers, Rue would have been very wary of Quesnel if he were the most agreeable man she knew. She liked that his flirting had an honest bent to it. Quesnel flirted because he genuinely appreciated women, and Rue in particular. Rue had to give him credit for excellent taste.
“Don’t you dare change the subject. Where have you been?” She lowered her voice. “I was promised ravishment. Do I look ravished to you?”
Quesnel positively baulked. Rue was being too blunt.
Pleased, she let him stew in embarrassed silence.
He opened his mouth a few times. It was a very nice mouth, good for kissing, but currently he did slightly resemble a kipper.
“You were saying?” Rue prodded.
“What are you doing here?” blurted Quesnel.
“Mr Lefoux, this is actually my airship, if you’ll recall? Although that fact seems to have escaped your notice.”
Quesnel collected himself. “I understood you to be staying with your parents while you were in town. Putting our arrangement, as it were, temporarily on hold. Don’t you have to be with them right now?”
Rue narrowed her eyes. Avoiding me, is he? “Oh, did you think that? And how long have you been in town yourself, Mr Lefoux?”
He looked guilty. “A little while.” Which meant he could have been around for days and been purposefully avoiding her. He may even have brought the tank to the Custard himself!
“Lovely.” Rue pulled her shoulders back and applied her décolletage. “While I must say that this wasn’t the education I asked for, I suppose you are giving me a good one. Nice to know where I stand.”
“You stand very well.”
Rue narrowed her eyes.
Quesnel’s sweet boyish face fell. “Oh, now, Rue, it’s not you I was avoiding. It’s—”
“Percy?”
“—more complicated than that. Besides, I could hardly come calling while you’re enfolded in an overabundance of parental concern.”
“So now you’re ashamed of me? Marvellous.” Rue was feeling legitimately hurt. She had thought she and Quesnel had an understanding. But lo there he stood looking tanned and fit, his blond hair flopping over his forehead in that extremely annoying way that made her want to push it back and she didn’t understand anything.
“Of course not, chérie! I’m terrified of your parents. I highly doubt they would approve of any lessons likely to take place between you and I.” He gave her a winning smile.
Rue would wager good money that Quesnel and his mother, Madame Lefoux, were the only two people in London not terrified of her parents. Why did he feel he must lie? She had thought that their friendship was at least based on honesty. She wouldn’t have been so frank with him about matters of the boudoir, otherwise.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s an accurate statement, Mr Lefoux.” Quesnel didn’t fill her pause with protestations, so Rue continued. “Fine, well, I guess that ended before it started.”
Quesnel instantly protested. “Chérie—”
Rue rolled right over him and his moronic little pet names that she liked so much. “Never mind, let’s get on to more important matters. What are you stashing in my boiler room? What does it do? And who is trying to steal it?”
Quesnel blinked. “Just something I picked up. It might come in useful.”
“Oh yes? A Lefoux original design?”
“How did you—?”
“Give me some credit, Mr Lefoux. I’m not ignorant of the styles of different inventors. That carapace has your family signature all over it.”
“I shall let my mother know we are becoming predictable.”
“Did I authorise you to install new machinery in my boiler room? No, don’t answer that. I know I did not. It doesn’t match the aesthetic of the teakettles, quite apart from everything else.”
“What if I crocheted a tea-cosy to go over the carapace?”
Rue’s ire was briefly arrested. “You crochet?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Although that would be my largest endeavour.”
Although Rue conceded that a tea-cosy cover would indeed go much better with the rest of engineering, she wasn’t giving him any quarter. “If you won’t tell me what that tank contraption does, you’re going to have to make a case for keeping it.”
Quesnel blinked at her. It was wildly unfair to have wasted such pretty violet eyes on a man.
Rue crossed her arms. This plumped up her breasts, straining the muslin of the neckline.
The violet eyes fairly goggled.
I do love this dress, thought Rue. At least it’s proving he’s not completely indifferent. “Go on, persuade me.”
“I don’t know what to say, mon petite chou, except that I really do think we may need it. It’s for the preservation of specimens.”
“You think we’ll be collecting samples in the near future, do you?”
“Of a kind.”
At least she’d rung some information out of him. “What makes you believe, Mr Lefoux, that you are still part of my crew?”
Quesnel frowned. “Now, chérie, I didn’t take you for one of those kinds of girls.”
“What kind?”
“Spiteful in response to rejection.”
Rue bit down on a gasp of pain. How dare he! “So it was rejection. Thank you for making your position clear. You could have said before you went to Egypt that you’d rather not be the one in charge of my education. I’m not desperate!”
“Of course you’re not! You’re stunning, exasperating, and occasionally overwhelming. And quite enthusiastic in twisting my meaning. When did I reject you? I thought this was you turning me out onto the streets. Did you not just roust me?”
“Mr Lefoux, you signed on to my crew knowing that it was for one mission. I assumed, given your disappearance and lack of communication since India, that our business arrangement had terminated. You must understand, under those circumstances, that you secretly installing a specimen tank in my hold comes as somewhat of a surprise!”
Rue’s voice had steadily risen. However, it was only on that last line that she realised they had an audience. A croquet match was paused in play to watch a lady of the realm yell roundly at her apparent paramour. At which juncture “specimen tank in my hold” took on an entirely euphemistic meaning. Rue’s face burned.
Quesnel stayed calm. “Oh, no, my darling girl, certainly not! I’ve no intention of abandoning my position as long as you wish me to stay. I love The Spotted Custard. She’s a marvellous ship. Besides, if you’re assuming I’m leaving, why not the Tunstells as well? They only agreed to one trip, but they aren’t going anywhere.”
He gestured behind her to where Percy, Primrose, and several decklings stood watching the show, rather as if they were Wimbledon spectators.
Rue was getting flustered. She wasn’t certain what they were talking about any more: Quesnel’s position under her as chief engineer… or some other amorphous position the details of which – who was under whom – had yet to be determined.
He took her hand. Just like Quesnel to play to an audience. He knew she now couldn’t do anything dramatic, like slap him. “I’m sorry I had to leave unexpected
ly. I’m sorry about the tank in the hold but I assure you it’s necessary and explainable. Just not right now. Later? Tonight even, in private? Please, Rue, trust me.”
His hand was warm and strong – and shaking a little bit. His eyes were big compelling pansies of promise and Rue found it all exceedingly annoying. How dare he actually be upset about this, and how dare she worry about his feelings when her own were at risk. And she was in the right!
“I’m sure you can, but right now I’ll settle for what you and Percy were arguing about.”
Quesnel’s winning smile faded.
Rue pursed her lips. “I will get the whole story from the decklings, you realise? You were arguing in public, loudly.”
Quesnel sighed. “I might, just possibly, have published a paper with the Royal Society about the discovery of the weremonkeys.”
“First?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Without including Percy as co-author?”
“I shared with Mrs Featherstonehaugh. But, no, not with Professor Tunstell.”
“No wonder he’s angry with you. That’s incalculably rude.”
“I did think he had already published with the Board of Associated Supernatural Studies or I would have included him. Without a doubt I would.”
“Whose name was first?” Rue raised a hand. “No, don’t answer that. I do not want to get involved. Academics!”
Percy was livid because Quesnel had scooped his discovery. And it wasn’t even Quesnel’s field. He was an inventor. He was supposed to report on new things he had created not found. Frankly, the entirety of the Rights of Discovery and Reportage should have gone to Mrs Featherstonehaugh. Although it was difficult for a lady to be taken seriously in these matters. Nevertheless, if Quesnel was going to co-author any paper on weremonkeys, he ought to have included Percy.
“For a smart man, Mr Lefoux, you can be an insensitive blighter.” Rue was not one for crass language unless the occasion warranted it.
Quesnel was taken aback.
Rue prodded him in the chest with two fingers. “You know what your character flaw is, Mr Lefoux?” The way she said his name made it sound like an insult. “You are not meant to be taken seriously, and yet you will go about seriously mucking about in everyone else’s lives.”
Imprudence Page 5
