Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(8)
“Well, if I were Percy and very upset, I should head to my library. We should try there first.”
Prim brightened. “Oh yes! What a good idea. Naturally, he would go there.”
Rue was pleased to have come up with a plan. “To The Spotted Custard, then. And, Dama, I shall be careful, I promise.”
Lord Akeldama looked slightly nonplussed.
As they closed the door to the townhouse behind them, Rue said to Primrose, “Out with it. What else is there that you didn’t want Dama to overhear?”
Prim looked at her sideways, cheekily. “You guessed?”
Rue only gave her a look. A look that reminded her that they had spent almost twenty years in each other’s company.
They climbed into Prim’s carriage. Fortunately, it wasn’t nearly as ostentatious as Lord Akeldama’s. It did belong to another vampire, the Baroness Tunstell, Primrose’s mother. But Queen Ivy’s outrageous taste ran to fashion more than transport, since she never left the hive. Thus her carriage was pretty and proudly crested – a rampant hedgehog wearing an old-fashioned feathered bonnet – but built for speed and manoeuvrability, not first impressions. Rue suspected Aunt Ivy’s Egyptian vampires had a hand in its purchase. They were the type to think along more subtle lines.
The door closed behind Virgil, who’d given the driver instructions to the Custard’s mooring place.
Prim finally deemed it safe to talk openly. “Virgil says that strange men have been round asking after Percy. We’re both worried my difficult brother has offended the wrong person at last. Someone with real power and not the usual cadre of academics. Apparently, they asked all sorts of questions and were quite the most suspicious-looking fellows.”
Virgil nodded his agreement. “Most suspicious, Lady Captain. They even asked about the ship and the crew.”
“Ah, I see your concern. Percy is always a bit of a problem, but this could be serious.”
TWO
In Which Percy Proves Difficult and No One Is Surprised
The drive continued in companionable silence, until Primrose blurted out, “Oh, Rue, there’s something else. I can’t wait to tell you any longer. I’m to be engaged!”
“Again? This will be what, number three in the two weeks since we’ve been home? Aren’t you laying it on a little thick?”
“Well, if someone hadn’t played tiddlywinks with my reputation while we were in India, I wouldn’t need to establish a solid air of respectability.”
“I hardly see how three engagements in so short a time helps.”
“They have all been very respectable men.”
“Yes, you appear to be working your way slowly through the upper levels of Her Majesty’s Airtight Puffed Doubloon, dirigible regiment extraordinaire.”
Primrose appeared crestfallen at Rue’s lack of enthusiasm.
Rue tried to buck up. “Oh very well, why don’t you tell me all about him? Distract us from the problem of Percy.”
Primrose did. Prattling on about strong lines and well-turned thighs and a full mane of brown hair in a manner that made her latest beau sound not unlike a very desirable racehorse. Rue would have been supportive if she sensed any real affection from her friend, but Primrose seemed to be in hot pursuit of a fiancé merely because she felt she ought to have one.
Rue was a romantic. Her parents were a love match. Had to be, for there was no other possible explanation for them tolerating one another. Thus Rue held the very peculiar opinion that love made for a most agreeable form of companionship.
Primrose, on the other hand, was trying to arrange a match for herself – affection be damned.
“Prim, are you sure it is a good idea? Do you love him?”
Prim gave a brittle laugh. “Oh, I’m not certain I’m capable of loving any man. I’m too sensible for that. This is easier. And he does have very nice legs.”
Rue could think of no better reason, at the moment, for marrying. Quesnel, she mused, also had nice legs. And then she reminded herself she was annoyed with him. Her erstwhile beau had disappeared. He’d received an aetherogram while they were still in India and promptly floated off to Egypt. He was supposed to be educating her in the ways of the carnal flesh, or so she thought they’d agreed. But before anything got carnal or fleshy, he’d abandoned her for a rented dirigible berth with nothing more than a peck on the cheek and a cheery farewell. Rue felt rather rejected as a result. He ought to be teaching her French techniques and instead he and his nice legs were gallivanting about deserts and whatnot.
“I should be wary of a man with nice legs, if I were you.” Rue considered stretched buckskin meditatively. “They use them rather too readily.”
The Spotted Custard, Rue’s pride and joy, was moored off Worple Road in Wimbledon, not far from Baroness Tunstell’s hive house. Rue was paying a handsome sum to the All England Croquet, Lawn Tennis, and Airborne Polo Club for hovering rights and use of the green for outfitting and repairs. They’d lost their old mooring in Regent’s Park to float squatters, and Rue wanted something with more security than Hyde Park afforded. The court was well lit, well guarded, and quite respectable, proving to be an ideal arrangement all around, so she tried not to resent the expense.
Although Rue adored her airship, she did have a tendency to push the chubby craft to its limits. This – plus a certain near aetheric attraction for sharp objects hurled by, for example, weremonkeys – had left The Spotted Custard more in need of repairs than outfitting upon their return to London. Thus, while the officers of The Spotted Custard – mostly comprised of Rue and her friends – kept supernatural hours, the rest of the crew switched to daylight for ease of visibility in order to conduct said repairs.