Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(2)
Inside the cab, Rue slouched into her lace collar, feeling sorry for herself.
Sooner than they ought, Winkle drew the carriage to a halt. There was no way they had traversed all of Mayfair. Rue leaned dangerously far out the window and craned her neck to see the box. There was some kind of commotion going on in the middle of Oxford Circus near the recently reopened Claret’s.
“Turn back and go around, Winkle, do.”
“Everyone seems to have the same idea, miss.”
There was quite the ruckus surrounding them. Conveyances of all types were circling and trapping each other at odd angles as they jockeyed for position.
“Has there been an accident? Should I get out and see?”
Winkle had a much superior vantage point. “I don’t think that particularly wise, miss.”
Which, naturally, caused Rue to pop open the carriage door and swing down.
The first thing she noticed was that there was a great deal of yipping and some growling. Someone was also singing a bawdy song, off-key, at the top of his not-inconsiderable lungs.
“What the devil?”
Rue pushed through the confused mess of carriages, steam-powered Coccinellidae, monowheels, and assorted bicycles. She then forced her way to the front of a jeering crowd. It surrounded the dramatically carved marble entryway of Claret’s Gentleman’s Club, out the mahogany door from which oozed a stumbling mass of masculine rabble composed of several officers of Her Royal Majesty’s service, a handful of tight-trouser-wearing thespians, and one or two large dogs in top hats and cravats.
Ah, not dogs, wolves.
There were only eleven members of Paw’s werewolf pack, but as they tended to be rather large dramatic specimens, there always seemed to be more of them than there actually were.
Most of them were now in front of her and, much to Rue’s horror, at their cups. Now, far be it for Rue to object on principle to the consumption of the divine pip: even werewolves should be allowed a snootful on occasion. No, it was the fact that, ordinarily, werewolves did not get soused in the way of mortal men. They required a great deal of formaldehyde, of the type used to embalm human remains, not surprising since they were technically undead. Yet the pack before her was so very juicy that they had taken to, and there was no nicer way of putting it – troubling a group of beautiful and beautifully dressed ladies and gentlemen.
The beautiful group was not amused by this attention. There was something to their quick movements and very high collars that spoke of training and the covering of neck bites.
Vampire drones.
These were not the highly dressed pinks of the type her dear Dama collected. These drones must belong to one of the London hive queens.
One of the werewolves was harrying them, darting in and out like a sheepdog, only bigger and meaner. It had to be Channing; none of the others had a pure white coat. He was a beautiful wolf, if not very friendly with teeth bared and tail lashing.
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” Rue demanded of no one in particular.
Channing ignored her.
One of the other uncles, Rafe, still in human form, looked up. “Infant! What are you doing here? No place for a chit.”
Rue planted her hands on her hips. “You are no longer inside your club, you do realise? This is a respectable thoroughfare and I’m perfectly within my rights to be— Wait a moment. Stop distracting me. What is wrong with the pack? Corned beef, the lot of you. Oh, do stop it, Uncle Channing! You can’t go around growling at someone’s drones in public. It’s not done.”
They ignored her. Although Hemming, who made for a handsome wolf with his black and gold markings on creamy white, lurched in her direction – possibly operating under some latent need to protect.
Rue took that as permission and pulled off her gloves.
From behind her, Winkle said, “Miss, I don’t think—” but it was too late.
Rue buried her hand in Hemming’s thick coat, seeking his skin. That was all it took. There she went, bones breaking and re-forming, eyesight and hearing shifting, sense of smell increasing. Rue the brindled wolf stood among the tatters of a lovely striped gold and brown velvet visiting dress. And Hemming lay quite naked and somewhat less handsome as a confused man.
Winkle scooped up Rue’s dress and draped it over the now-mortal werewolf. The drone was quite brainy enough to know, at this juncture, there was no way he could safely interfere.
Rue leapt to protect the frightened huddle of drones. In actuality, they weren’t that pathetic, but she liked to think of herself as coming to the heroic defence of the innocent.
Hackles up, she bared her teeth at Uncle Channing, backing him away, challenging him.
Channing was not the kind of wolf to resist a challenge. As a major in the British Army, there had even been several duels, much more messy than a wolf brawl. Duels were illegal and had to be stuffed under carpets at great expense to avoid scandal. Channing had a vast collection of lumpy carpets. Rue usually allowed him some leeway because he was obviously a wounded soul of some sullen Shakespearian ilk, plus he wore angry petulance so beautifully. But tonight he was drunk, and she wasn’t going to put up with any of his nonsense.
Uncle Channing, unfortunately, was so far gone into the pickle that he either didn’t care or didn’t recognise that Rue was Rue and not some male werewolf actually challenging him.
He growled and crouched to leap.
Rue was loosely aware that the drones had taken Uncle Channing’s distraction as an opportunity to get away but that other pack members were corralling them. It wasn’t only Uncle Channing acting irrationally; it was the entire pack. Even Uncle Bluebutton who was practically civilised – he owned a smoking jacket and everything – was participating.