Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(62)

“I shouldn’t worry. Given the way I run things, we’ll face death again soon.”

Quesnel rolled to his front and up on one elbow. With his free hand, he traced a pattern on the skin of her stomach. “I’m not sure whether to be consoled or terrified.”

There was silence for a bit while he continued stroking.

Rue closed her eyes and let herself drift, dirigible-like, under his ministration. His hand moved up to her neck and face.

It stopped against her cheek, now mostly rubbed free of the face paint. It was a silly thing for ladybugs to wear, Rue felt, as it seemed designed to come off on positively everything with the slightest provocation.

Rue opened her eyes.

There was something unfathomable in his violet gaze. Something serious and frightening. Did it herald rejection or declaration? Rue was fairly convinced she couldn’t withstand either, so she wilfully misinterpreted his focus as critique.

“What’d I do? Was it not good? Is there a smudge on my face?”

He smiled but remained intent. “No, chérie. It’s only that I am sometimes reminded of how beautiful you are.”

Rue was having none of that. “Only sometimes?”

He kissed her softly, as if she were skittish. She was a bit.

“You know what I mean.”

Rue batted him off. “Pish-tosh. Miss Sekhmet is beautiful. I’m passing fair at best.”

“Miss Sekhmet is pretty in her way. You are also beautiful – silly of you not to see it.”

“I’d as soon you said I was brilliant.”

“Oh yes, that too. But I suspect you’re more ready to accept a compliment on your intelligence and I prefer to keep you on your toes.”

“Here I was thinking you liked to keep me on my back.” Rue didn’t like it when Quesnel got overly sincere. She didn’t know what to do with an earnest Frenchman.

An unwarranted air of bitterness coloured his reply. “And here I was thinking it was you taking ruthless advantage of me and my vaunted vast experience.”

“Quite vast, considering this was your very first deflowerment.” Rue tried to tease, but he rolled away from her, leaving her bereft and confused as to how the conversation, and the evening, had so quickly twisted into awkward unpleasantness. Was he honestly not that experienced? Was his reputation cultivated but not earned? Had she somehow actually taken advantage of him?

“It is a wonder that I have lived so long without the privilege.” Quesnel stood and began to dress.

That hurt. Not the comment, because that was only his usual flippancy, but the fact that he was pulling on his trousers. Rue had thought, after the long-anticipated event finally occurred, that Quesnel might, finally, sleep the night through next to her.

“Going so soon?”

“We have your reputation to consider, mon petite chou.”

“Of course, my reputation.” Rue felt the inexplicable need to repress tears. She turned her head to the side and pretended exhaustion.

Silence followed until, fully dressed, Quesnel returned to her bed, gentleman to the last. He stroked her once more – a hesitant touch.

“You don’t entirely trust me, do you, chérie?”

Rue gestured to herself, where she lay, naked. Didn’t society dictate she had just given him the ultimate trust?

He took the hand she waved within both his and sat down gingerly on the edge of the mattress. He looked away from her confused tawny eyes, down at their clasped fingers. “Not that kind of trust.”

Rue dug about for reassurance. Was he feeling inadequate? “You’re a wonderful lover, a good friend, an excellent inventor, and very easy on the eyes.”

“But?”

“You’re a hardened flirt. You’ve always been a flirt. I never expected anything more from you than we have. That would be foolish of me, would it not? And I’m tired.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Ah. So, treasure what we have and never mind the rest? Sleep, then, chérie.”

He let himself out.

Rue was left with the distinct feeling of having handled something badly, yet she was utterly befuddled by what exactly it was.





Quarantine ended with no further surprises. The Spotted Custard found herself a mooring obelisk over the city proper in a prime location near Shepheard’s Hotel. She shared the post with three other dirigibles of standing. The sober sleek pleasure barges drifted slightly away when the Custard joined them, much in the manner of matrons at a party when a brightly dressed dandy tries to infiltrate their gossip. Rue wasn’t sure dirigibles had noses, but if they did, these were all looking down them at The Spotted Custard.

Paw had procured both a warehouse and residence in Cairo some twenty years ago, but he needed to consult his broker as to the location and condition. In classic Lord Maccon fashion, he had purchased it at some expense sight unseen on a whim, thinking of his wife and tea. Many a man have committed worse sins with far less justified instigation. The property turned out to be relatively close to Shepheard’s, near the bank of the canal, and exactly far enough from the newly built Principal Station to make the warehouse a practical business concern and the residence not dirtied by overexposure to modernity. With Abbasiyeh Station and the skyrail nearby, it was a tradesman’s heaven, and an unexpectedly fortuitous investment. Paw took full credit. It was, however, still occupied by tenants whose lease had yet to expire.