Imprudence (6 page)

Rue had never seen the like. He seemed to catch the breeze and sail about, directing himself with a tilt this way and a tilt that way, like a bat. It looked pretty darn fun and Rue instantly wanted a whole bunch of them for her crew. Parachutes were one thing, but this was much more mobile.

“Nifty,” said Spoo. “Can we get us some of those, Lady Captain?”

“I was pondering along similar lines. I've not seen such a contraption before. Have you, Spoo?”

“No, I ain't.”

“Well, then, new gadget, pretty advanced at that.” Which made Rue think of Quesnel's mysterious fern tank down in the boiler room. Perhaps these men were after that? Exo-splorers, apparat-collectors, and cog-burglars weren't so uncommon these days, and if they heard of something new outside patent control, they might risk boarding her airship to steal it. Although, they didn't seem prepared to transport something as big.

As everything seemed to be controlled on deck, Rue ran below to find that Aggie had pulled an enormous metal carapace over the tank, which bolted to the floor through one of the securing rings meant for a boiler. Definitely Lefoux design. Rue had seen Quesnel in a steam roly-poly transport made with exactly the same kind of carapace.

If anyone was after that tech, they certainly weren't getting it. Rue was oddly reassured over its safety, especially given no one had asked her opinion on its presence.

Back on deck, Tasherit had her mouse supine and panting under one large paw. The decklings had their lemur tree felled and were sitting on every available part of him. They looked mighty pleased with themselves. Rue decided she would put on a very nice tea for them tomorrow as a thank-you.
I shall get some hot cross buns from Lottapiggle's.

While they had been trained to repel invaders, it wasn't until that moment that Rue realised they were not at all equipped to take prisoners.

“Decklings, you're good with rope. Could you determine a way to tie these men up for questioning?”

“Yes, Lady Captain!”

They did their best, but the ropes they had were big, being intended for balloon work, so both men were rather wrapped about as if they were mooring posts. Still, they didn't look likely to escape and, being injured, were docile enough.

Tasherit, with a meaningful glance at Rue, disappeared below, emerging some time later in human form with two greasers in tow – big burly men with large fish knives at the ready.

“Ah, good, Miss Sekhmet, there you are.”

They established early on that their werelioness did not want to be known as a werelioness. Her people had gone into hiding centuries ago and she wished to respect their secrecy. Whether this was preference or some sacred vow, Rue had never been so bold as to ask. It was clearly a private supernatural matter and the entire crew honoured the werecat's wishes. Just like a cat, to mould her environment to suit her whim. Thus, while Rue had told the Shadow Council – she had
had
to tell them – of her encounter with the weremonkeys, she'd left werecats out of her report.

Tasherit was invaluable muscle, being the first supernatural anyone had ever met who could travel through the aether. Although, truth be told, she slept like the dead the entire time. This, too, was intrinsically catlike.

Thus, in the face of their prisoners, everyone treated Tasherit as if she were different from the lioness. No reason for these thugs to know anything. Besides, it would only add to
The
Spotted Custard
's reputation as having a trained attack cat.

“Miss Sekhmet? If you could please assume control of the prisoners and begin questioning? See if you can find out who hired them and what they're after.”

“It's not my area of expertise but I will do my best.” Tasherit's beautiful face was impassive.

“If you can't get anything out of them, I'll pass them on to Dama. I'll wager he can.”

The werecat nodded. “Agreed.” Miss Sekhmet had yet to meet Rue's vampire father but she knew of him. At least, Rue assumed they'd never met – hard to tell with immortals.

“Still, I'd prefer to source this mess ourselves before we involve any of my parents. Things always get dramatic with them.”

“And you're young enough to still hunger for your independence.” Tasherit's tone didn't indicate whether she found this charming or annoying.

Rue had no idea how old the werecat was, but she would guess she was older than most werewolves if not as old as a vampire. Which meant three hundred at least. Under such circumstances, a little condescension was expected.

“You have the deck. I should go and tell the twins that everything is safe now.”

Tasherit nodded. “Good idea. You sent the little flower down to her brother?”

“Yes. I find it best to keep Prim out of the way when things get rough. She's a delicate flower.”

Tasherit laughed. “Or she likes to be thought a delicate flower.”

Rue narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing to her anyway?”

The werecat's brown eyes went wide with assumed innocence. “Me? Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Mmm.” Rue could almost see her licking her whiskers. “Try not to break her, please? She's my best friend and not your toy on a string.”

Tasherit only looked smugger. “I assure you, I have no intention of harming one hair on that lovely head. And I am most assuredly not playing.”

Rue issued her a measuring stare. “Cats.”

Rue knocked on the library door.

“Yes?” said a tremulous voice from within. “Who is it?”

“Honeysuckle Isinglass.” It was their agreed-upon code for all extenuating circumstances.

The door swung open to show the twins, wide-eyed and sobered after listening to the kerfuffle abovedecks.

Percival and Primrose Tunstell did not look like one another. Prim took after their dark-haired frippery of a mother and Percy their flamboyant father. Neither had inherited their respective parent's personality, thank heavens, aside from a certain flair for the dramatic.

“Has anyone died?” Primrose demonstrated her flair immediately.

“Possibly.” Rue was thinking of the one man who had jumped overboard while not in possession of articulated bat wings.

At Prim's harried expression she added, “But no one we know or care about.”

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.”

T
hey 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 this 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?”