Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(23)

“I canna be listening to this,” said Lord Maccon. And then on a roar, “What do you mean he doesn’t take you seriously?”

“Oh, Paw, be fair. I don’t take me seriously most of the time. Why should anyone else? Besides, I’m not sure I want serious – it can be such a bother.”

Lord Maccon looked exactly as if he wanted to bash heads, possibly hers and Quesnel’s.

Rue soldiered on. “Besides, I don’t think Mr Lefoux takes anything seriously except maybe inventions and boilers. He’s charming, undoubtedly, but not a lot more than charming. I was hurt when he wandered off to Egypt and abandoned me, but I’ve learned my lesson. I believe he’ll give me a good education, but keeping my heart out of it seems the best approach.”

Lord Maccon looked pained, as if he wanted to stopper over his ears, but then he roared again. “He abandoned you?”

Mother, accustomed to the roar, was briefly distracted. “Did you say Egypt?”

Rue nodded, noting the emphasis with interest. “Then he returned to London without telling me and installed this tank in my boiler room without asking, so he’s clearly not to be trusted.”

Mother arrowed in on that like a pointer on a dead partridge. “What kind of tank?”

“I don’t know! That’s the annoying part.”

Lady Maccon focused on her husband, ignoring Rue with an abrupt thoroughness that Rue had grown accustomed to over the years. “I need to talk to Genevieve.”

“Must you?” grumbled her father.

She turned back to Rue. “Go on, infant. You were saying about the boy?”

Rue shrugged. “That was it. I only want a bit of fun. I think I’ve got it sorted so I don’t get hurt. Neither of you need worry on that score.”

Paw still looked upset. But Lady Maccon took Rue at her word. Mother was like that, mostly accepting of other people’s assessments of themselves. She was eminently pragmatic, which came with being soulless. She also mistakenly assumed everyone else was equally practical. This ought to have gotton her into trouble, living with werewolves, but most of the pack accepted her at face value, too. They treated her not as another pack member as much as an anchor located well below the emotional aetheric currents upon which werewolves bobbed.

She was thoughtful. “I don’t know the boy, not well. Young scamp of a thing running around blowing up contrivance chambers at the drop of a hat when I first met him. You’d have thought the same about his mother, though, flirty and inconsequential, had you known her when we were younger. Genevieve hides inside her inventions as a protection against affection. Perhaps her son is similar? Angelique, well, she was a different matter entirely.”

“Angelique?”

“Quesnel’s blood mother.”

“What?”

“He never told you? He’s adopted.”

“Adopted?”

“Oh yes. Thought he got his looks from his father, did you? Oh, no, no. Angelique was this little blonde slip of a thing. Quite the beauty. Also French. Biggest pansy eyes you ever saw, dab hand with the curling iron as well. She was my lady’s maid for a while there.”

“What?”

“Nasty piece of work, in the end. Espionage. I rather think she might have broken Genevieve’s heart. They were, you know, together for some time, back in the day.”

Rue did know that Quesnel’s mother preferred the company of ladies; he had admitted as much. And Rue was Lord Akeldama’s daughter, too. Dama made certain her education included all possible options. He himself preferred the company of gentlemen. Rue had, in the end, decided that she did as well – prefer the company of gentlemen, that is. Boyish French ones with pansy eyes and, as it turned out, contorted views on family and love.

“That could explain a lot about him.”

“Yes,” said Lady Maccon, “I thought you should know. Could be hazardous should you relax your stance on not taking him seriously. From my own experience, I can assure you, it was very dangerous to care for Angelique. Who knows if that kind of thing can be inherited? You see, infant, he’s not a great match in terms of the particulars of class and rank, but I also worry about other aspects.”

Rue grinned. “Very thoughtful, Mother. I appreciate the information. And now if we are being perfectly honest with one another, may I ask what’s wrong with Paw? Sorry, Paw, but I’m not perpetually blind to your faults.”

Lady Maccon laughed. “Too many things to list, I should say.”

Lord Maccon gave his wife a dour look. “Please don’t try.”

“It’s Alpha’s curse, isn’t it?”

Mother’s wide mouth twisted in a sad sort of grimace. “Yes, dear, it is.”

Rue widened her eyes so as not to tear up. “Has he hurt anyone?”

“Not yet. Not as far as we know.”

Paw stared down at his free hand as if it held the secrets of the world, thoroughly ashamed of himself.

“Paw, don’t look so. It’s not like you could help it. Doesn’t it happen to every Alpha?”

Mother examined the ceiling. “He thinks he’s superior to the others. Stronger. Better. Yes, Conall, I know, you always have been before. Except maybe the dewan. But you aren’t perfect. Trust me. At least you’re nowhere near as bad as Lord Woolsey got.”