Quesnel appeared, looking stupefyingly gorgeous in a grey suit, purple cravat, and crisp white shirt. The ladies fell silent.
He fingered his cravat. “You see, I went with the theme.” He’d obviously heard Rue ask Prim to wear purple.
Rue wasn’t certain why she felt it necessary to run a scheme – perhaps it was simply in her nature to enjoy chaos. Plus any chance to perform was not to be missed.
Prim’s dress was far more Lady Akeldama-ish, so she would probably get the lion’s share of any attention in that regard. Those who had only heard of them were always easy victims. Prim’s gown was stylish and modern with a slit-front bodice over a fine Chantilly lace shirtwaist and a lavender and gold brocade jacket matched to the skirt. Everything was cut simply to showcase the beautiful pattern of the fabric – and Prim’s excellent figure. A wide sash emphasised Prim’s narrow waist, several inches smaller than Rue’s own. Yes, they looked alike in basics but, side by side, Rue was darker of complexion and substantially curvier. Prim lamented this frequently for it meant she could not borrow Rue’s dresses, thereby doubling the size of her own wardrobe.
In keeping with her mother’s wishes, Prim also wore a cream lace hat, perfectly matched to her dress, decorated with lavender ribbon and a bouquet of silk violets. Of course, the event was to take place after dark, and the sun was beginning to set in orange profusion over the Arabian Sea – thus hats were not strictly necessary. But custom dictated that a garden party meant hats, so hats they would wear. No doubt Aunt Ivy would learn of the breach if they didn’t, even thousands of leagues away.
Rue’s party elected to walk. The ladies utilised closed parasols as walking sticks. Fortunately, as they had absolutely no idea where they were going, Lieutenant Broadwattle was waiting for them on the shore.
Primrose took the lieutenant’s proffered arm with alacrity. Rue thought she saw the young officer cast her a wistful look. She dismissed it as highly unlikely – for no young man of sense preferred Rue over Prim – and accepted Quesnel’s all-too-casual offer. Percy slouched after them without any effort to participate in the social niceties of ambulation. Why had he bothered to come?
It turned out to be only a short way along the outside of the barracks to the impressive, almost church-like structure of the officers’ mess. As they walked, of all out-of-place things, the sound of bagpipes permeated the air. Rue had never visited the Scottish Highlands, but she suspected nothing could be more different than Bombay. Without explaining the noise, the lieutenant led them through the mess and out the other side into a beautiful walled garden boasting overarching trees, a square pond, copious graceful – if flimsy – chairs and tables, and the milling throng of Bombay’s resident elite.
Rue bounced in happily. Everything was so pretty and colourful. She and Prim were dressed to confuse. Tea espionage was afoot. This was going to be fun.
No one announced them but it was clear that the unvarying nature of society abroad made four newcomers a welcome curiosity. There was no doubt that they had been the talk of the party prior to their arrival. Rue felt rather like the pudding course of a fancy meal, viewed with desire by some, suspicion by others, and discomfort by those who had already partaken too freely. She adored it of course, delighting in engendering discomfort. It was, after all, her forte.
Lieutenant Broadwattle abandoned them at the stairs, presumably to alert the hostess.
Rue turned to her three companions and said with an air of celebration, “Let’s keep them as confused as possible, shall we?”
Quesnel looked game to play along.
Primrose nodded, an almost evil gleam to her dark eyes, before assuming an expression of pleasant enthusiasm. Percy rolled his eyes.
A large battleaxe of a woman bustled up to them, Lieutenant Broadwattle in her wake. “Ladies. Gentlemen. You are most welcome to our modest gathering. Most welcome, indeed. Such an honour. Now who is…?”
Lieutenant Broadwattle, doing his duty, said politely, “Lady Akeldama, Miss Tunstell, if I might introduce our lovely hostess, the ambassador’s wife, Mrs Godwit? Mrs Godwit, this is Lady Prudence Akeldama and the Honourable Primrose Tunstell.”
“Forgive me my dears, but which is which?”
Primrose stepped smoothly in before Lieutenant Broadwattle could elucidate. “Oh, Mrs Godwit, you’ll get accustomed to our little idiosyncrasies quite quickly. Allow me to introduce Professor Tunstell and Mr Lefoux.”
Percy’s bow was almost too perfunctory to be polite.
Quesnel stepped forward, knowing his duty. The Frenchman twinkled at their hostess in a most agreeable manner, entirely distracting that good lady from the question of confusingly similar brunettes in purple dresses. “How do you do, Mrs Godwit?”
“A pleasure, a pleasure. Mr Lefoux, was it?”
“Indeed, dear lady.”
Prim said, all gossip and good cheer, “I must say, the weather since we arrived! Is it always so hot this time of year here in India?”
“Oh, my dear young lady, I assure you this is mild, demulcent even, compared to the true summer suffering of this heathen land. You are lucky – or should I say, propitious? You have timed your visit very well indeed – the monsoon season has only recently ended. Such rains as we have been having already this month, a pabulum, a tempering of our customary languish––”
Rue stopped listening. The ambassador’s wife was clearly a woman who enjoyed the sound of her own voice. She dropped flowery vocabulary about her like an incontinent hen might deposit eggs. This would not have been so horrible except that the voice in question was unpleasantly nasal. The banality of the subject matter only added insult to injury. Mrs Godwit was clearly a bore. But a powerful bore. Which meant Rue happily consigned her to Prim’s tender mercies.
Quesnel, one mock desperate look in Rue’s direction, was dragged along by Primrose.
Percy, unable to tolerate blathering, drifted towards a table of comestibles. It was laid with tea and coffee, ginger wine, and hard-iced milk with soda to quench the thirst. Percy was helping himself to a small plate of buttered scones and prunes soaked in rum when he was swarmed by a gaggle of giggling young ladies. Presumably these represented the eligible among the officers’ and ambassadors’ daughters. Percy, as usual, had drawn them to him like jam to toast.
Rue was left alone with Lieutenant Broadwattle. She noted a few other officers were present, wives in tow, but none seemed particularly scruffy or wolfish. “I’m assuming the werewolves will be joining us later, when it is fully dark?”
The lieutenant nodded, his attention on Prim’s graceful form. He offered Rue his arm and they drifted after the others. Mrs Godwit was still detailing the weather.
Prim guided the conversation towards more lucrative territory. “My dear Mrs Godwit, I have heard much of Brigadier Featherstonehaugh. Will he and his wife be attending this evening’s festivities?”
Mrs Godwit played along obligingly. “Oh, dear child, you haven’t heard?” Her expression held all the joy of a hedgehog faced with a bowl of bread and milk. Rue suspected this meant that the topic could only be tragic.
“Oh, my dear Mrs Godwit, he is not ill, is he?”
“Far worse! Oh, my dear, do brace yourself. This is an untamed country, wild even. And so very dangerous. It is not the brigadier but his wife. Mrs Featherstonehaugh – young Mrs Featherstonehaugh – has been kidnapped! By native dissidents. Possibly those wretched Marathas. You know some of their women… Oh, it’s too much, too much for young ears.”
Primrose pressed her to continue.
“Some Maratha women do not wear skirts.”
Even Rue was shocked by that statement.
“You mean…?” gasped Prim, eyes wide.
“Oh no, dear. Not that. But sort of trousers instead. They ride along with their men into battle. It hardly bears thinking about, so ungenteel. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Young Mrs Featherstonehaugh, only a few days ago now – kidnapped! Along with some recently collected taxes. Although, of cou
rse, one cannot even contemplate the loss of the money when compared to what that poor girl must be suffering.”
Rue wanted to ask if they would force Mrs Featherstonehaugh to go skirtless, but didn’t want to interfere with the flow Primrose was coaxing forth.
Prim patted Mrs Godwit’s arm. “So sad.”
Mrs Godwit needed no more encouragement. “Of course, the dear brigadier is most distraught. Overwrought and despairing. All his attention of late has been occupied with investigating his wife’s disappearance. Poor lamb. So of course, he is unable to attend. The werewolves, I understand, will be looking in to tender their respects to you, our honoured visitors, before heading out to continue tracking. But the chances of recovering the unfortunate girl seem slim.”
Prim gasped.
Quesnel murmured appropriately aghast niceties.
Rue turned to Lieutenant Broadwattle. “Is this true?”
The lieutenant replied, “To the best of my knowledge. But I am only a lowly lieutenant and not on friendly terms with the brigadier.”
Rue was concerned for the Featherstonehaughs’ plight, of course, but having not met any of the players, she failed to be emotionally involved. Her attention drifted and she scanned the party, looking to identify Miss Sekhmet’s contact.
Lieutenant Broadwattle said, “Oh dear, I do believe most people believe Miss Tunstell is you. I suspect it is her continued conversation with Mrs Godwit, not to mention the elegance of her dress.” The gentleman caught himself at that. “Not that your gown isn’t pretty…” He trailed off, uncomfortable. “Should I make an announcement to the contrary? I mean, about you being you.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself on my behalf.” Rue was waiting to see if anyone, taken in by the scam, was desperately trying to get Primrose alone to pass on a message. But the cycles of social interaction seemed perfectly ordinary for a garden party, even one in Bombay. “Have there been any ransom demands?”
The lieutenant looked confused.
Rue elaborated: “For the brigadier’s missing wife?”
“Not that we’ve been told.”
“Odd.”
“Not very – this is India, Lady Akeldama. They do things differently here.”
“Yes, but that differentially? Why else would they want her?”
The young man looked grossly embarrassed.
Rue hastened to elaborate. “You think she was an accidental bonus and the taxes were the intended target?”
“Why else would natives want an Englishwoman? I’m not privy to the details but I believe the werewolves were blamed. It was supposed to be a cushy job, transporting the taxes and bringing the brigadier’s wife back from the hills. Yet the pack botched it. They are rather in disgrace. I’m surprised Mrs Godwit invited them.”
Rue said only, “Ah, I see.” She was thinking, however, that Kingair had a reputation for botching up their assignments. Troublesome, her father had called his former pack whenever Rue asked about her Scottish relations. He’d thought it best that Rue not meet them.
“Lady Akeldama, could I beg your indulgence for a moment of private conversation?”
Rue only then registered that, as they talked, Lieutenant Broadwattle was steering her away from the party towards the far end of the pond and the privacy of several bushes there.
“Lieutenant Broadwattle, we have only just met!” To arrive at a garden party and immediately disappear in the company of an eligible man – she was as near to causing a serious scandal as she had ever got in her whole life. And it was Prim’s good name at stake – since everyone thought Prim was Rue, it must follow that they also thought Rue was Prim. She could just imagine Aunt Ivy’s face should reports of her daughter’s behaviour reach London.
She drew back, intending to return to the party.
“But, Lady Akeldama, I have some very important information to impart. From Lord Akeldama.”
Rue gasped. Lieutenant Broadwattle was Dama’s contact?
She lowered her voice. “About tea?”
“I have been trying to get you alone since you arrived, but first those blasted customs officials – local spies for the Rakshasas of course – and now this party. No one here can be trusted,” Lieutenant Broadwattle whispered darkly. “Especially not with tea.”
Rue looked around. Everyone seemed to be respectably upper crust: the hats were in order, the hair was curled, the uniforms were crisp, even in the heat. “If you say so, lieutenant.”
He bent over as though murmuring romantic nothings. “I do apologise, but we must give them reason to believe that my interest is genuine. I cannot be suspected – things have already gone pear-shaped.”
Rue reluctantly agreed. “Quickly, then.”
“I have been instructed to tell you that I have a message but you will need the honeysuckle.”
“What? Oh. Yes, I see.” He most likely had a cypher for Aunt Ivy’s book and a message of encouragement from Dama.
Lieutenant Broadwattle angled himself so as to shield Rue with his body from the curious eyes of party attendees. He handed her a slip of paper. Rue glance at it briefly – it was notations on a grid, which she recognised as a received aetherographic transmission. Unfortunately, there were no letters but instead it featured only a series of numbers and spaces.
Rue knew a code when she saw one. This was some kind of message. “No cypher?”
The young man looked genuinely shocked. “My dear lady, I am only the redundancy agent. Newly minted, I am not privy…”
“Yes, yes, you are not privy to any secrets.” Rue tucked the slip of paper down the bodice of her dress, much to the young man’s embarrassment. “Now that Miss Tunstell’s reputation is in tatters, shall we rejoin the party? I believe we have given them enough gossip for one evening.”
“Indeed. Possibly even more than the kidnapping. At least that was respectable. This is good for my reputation, however.” The young officer smiled at her and Rue wondered if he really was one of Dama’s boys, as it were, and needed to establish notoriety as a lady’s man. Or if he were simply referring to barracks bragging rights.
A thought occurred to her as they strode back, arms linked. “What happened to his previous agent?”
“Lord Akeldama didn’t give you the name of your contact?” Lieutenant Broadwattle was surprised.
“He did not.” Rue was beginning to regret her decision to sneak off in the wee hours of daylight without saying goodbye to Dama. Clearly, she had missed more than fond farewells. “I departed precipitously, for fashion reasons.”
“His first agent was Mrs Featherstonehaugh.”
“Oh dear,” said Rue dropping his arm.
As soon as they joined the throng about the refreshment table, Quesnel and Prim abandoned Mrs Godwit and attached themselves, one on each side of Rue.
“Rue,” hissed Primrose. “What are you about? My reputation!”
Quesnel added, “Yes, her reputation. Not to mention you’re flirting shamelessly with that sorry excuse for an officer.”
“Oh, stop it, both of you. He’s Dama’s not-so-specialist tea contact.”
“What?” said both accusers as one.
“Keep your voices down. We’ll discuss it later.”
Quesnel would not let the matter drop. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
This inexplicably annoyed Rue. “Mr Lefoux, I always enjoy myself at a garden party. And now, I believe the regimental werewolves have arrived.”
The werewolves made a grand entrance. They could hardly do otherwise. The pack was a standard size, looking to be eight or so members, but above-standard on an individual level. Each man was built on the brick wall end of the spectrum of human shape. They were also scruffy, boisterous, and wearing exotic formal wear. This involved a plaid skirt-like object instead of trousers. Luckily, Rue had been warned of this garment on more than one occasion.
All arguments and accusations forgotten, Prim edged closer to Rue and snapped open her fan, the better to whisper behind i
t. “Oh my goodness, are those kilts? I’ve never seen them outside the history books. They are an appealing fashion statement, aren’t they?”
Rue could not help but agree – after all, how often did one get to admire a gentleman’s knees in polite society? “Practical,” she said. “I suppose they allow for a certain breeziness in this heat.”
Primrose was clearly on the road to becoming a great admirer of the apparel. “Don’t they just? Do you think they wear, uh, bloomers underneath?”
“I should think, as werewolves, they’d have my problem with bloomers.”
“Tails?”
“Tails.”
Prim’s fan fluttered excitably at the unspoken conclusion – nothing at all under kilts. “My, but they do grow them large and handsome in the north now, don’t they?” Prim’s interest in Lieutenant Broadwattle was entirely forgotten in the face of this new invasion.
Rue had thought never to encounter a man as big as her father, but now she realised he was merely representative of the breed. She felt almost dainty. The rest of the assembled garden party seemed to be doing their best to ignore the newcomers, quite a feat given their size. Mrs Godwit had said something about the pack being in disgrace, the loss of Mrs Featherstonehaugh and the taxes placed in their paws.
The kilted masculinity rippled at a disturbance from the back, and an unlikely individual pushed her way roughly through the sea of plaid. There stood, feet braced, an ill-dressed older woman to whom the pack instantly deferred. She was also quite tall and tough as old boots, her expression uncompromising and her stance one of controlled power. Her long greying hair was plaited like a schoolgirl’s, showing off strong features and a face that no one would ever call pretty.
Without waiting for an introduction, the lady marched across the lawn straight at Prim and Rue – who were still hiding behind Prim’s fan.
Primrose hastily closed the fan and tried not to stare at this odd female.
Rue, on the other hand, regarded her with open interest. She knew of Lady Kingair. Who didn’t? The only female werewolf to have been made in generations. Bitten into immortality by Rue’s own father. But to meet the legend in person? To encounter the stuff of nightmares – it was thrilling.
Prudence Page 17
