Imprudence (24 page)

“Oh yes?” He began unwrapping his cravat and removing his jacket at the same time. It was not particularly dexterous – he got the long tail of the first caught in the sleeve of the second.

“I was ruminating on your leather apron.”

Quesnel was momentarily arrested by confusion. “Oh, indeed?”

“You know, the one you wear to work the boilers, all smudged and such.”

“Yes?”

“And nothing else.”

Quesnel blushed cherry red and, having nothing much to say in response, tried to extract himself from cravat and jacket, only to get more muddled.

Rue tsked. “Allow me?” She began to detangle him with no little delight. “Did you lock the door behind you?”

“Of course. Wait. Why, do you think it necessary?”

“My father is suspicious.” She removed his outerwear.

Quesnel paused. “Could we
not
discuss him, perhaps? A most uncomfortable topic.”

Rue grinned and leaned back in the bed, pushing to make her chest press against the outrageously revealing bodice. It seemed to be sufficiently distracting because he pounced on her with a murmur of French.

There was a goodly amount of kissing at that juncture, now daily established as popular with both of them, and then some fumbling while Rue got him out of the rest of his clothing, albeit with greater skill than he had yet displayed.

He rubbed up against the satin of her skirts with a purr of approval and did a deal of petting and stroking all over as if trying to memorise the shape of her body beneath its smooth texture.

Eventually, he began to attack the buttons down the front of the velvet bodice.

“I thought you liked this gown.”

“Rather too much, which is why it is now time for it to come off.”

Come off it did, and Rue's silk combination. They were both bare but for foolish smiles and rosy cheeks.

Quesnel took great care with her, as if he had ever taken anything less. In fact, he was almost inexcusably gentle. To the point where Rue resorted to frustrated wiggling to get him to move faster.

“I won't break, I promise.”

“I've never actually done this before,” he admitted.

At Rue's expression of extreme doubt, he corrected any assumption as to his lack of prowess. “I mean to say, I've never done this with an unsullied lady. I don't want to hurt you.”

Rue pulled away and took his face in both her hands. “Dear boy, I change shape regularly. There is nothing more painful than shift.”

He looked miserable. “It's still not exactly fun for me to know I will cause you suffering.”

Rue, in the end, rolled her eyes, flipped him over, and took matters into her own hands… so to speak.

It did indeed hurt, but as she had said, not nearly so much as changing shape. After a bit, it was decidedly fun, and Quesnel was perfectly sweet. Having established that she was enjoying herself – she had to nibble his neck to convince him – Quesnel gave over sweet for fierce and intent, his violet eyes dilated. He made sure she was coasting those marvellous waves of joy before he let himself go at all. Rue loved the way his face twisted, almost wolflike, and that he was careful all the way to the end. Ensuring her satiation before taking his own and pulling out so as to minimise any chance of a future inconvenience.

“Most excellent.” Rue lay staring up at the ceiling for a long time after, exhausted and happy.

Quesnel's voice came sleepy soft. “Battle fever. I've read about it.”

“You mean it's not always that fun?”

“
Chérie
, I shall attempt to ensure so.” He'd recovered most of his cheeky arrogance now that she was safely deflowered. “It's usually not so intense. They say there is something about facing down death that drives a body to ecstasies after.”

“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.

In the interim, Lord and Lady Maccon would stay at Shepheard's in fine style with no one the wiser to the fact that they intended their retirement to be one of dabbling in the tea trade – a most ignominiously mercantile end for a pair of vaunted aristocrats.

Rue was proud of them. It would suit her mother to have something to do under the desert skies. Otherwise she might end up Queen of Sheba or on a mission to save the local crocodiles from embankments, or whatnot.

Rue, Percy, Primrose, and various decklings laden with baggage accompanied the Maccons to their hotel. The decklings and the luggage were lowered from
The
Spotted Custard
to the ground in porter's nets with balletic aplomb. The officers utilised the Egyptian passenger swing with a great deal less aplomb. Rue tried to be graceful, but grace wasn't her strong point, and upon dismounting from the wooden bar got the single long rope tangled in her skirts. Prim attempted sidesaddle and nearly fell off. Percy, white-faced, lost his top hat and then his dignity in a flailing of limbs and curses. However, once groundside they were rejuvenated by coffee from an enterprising nearby vendor.

Rue's mother complained that this was a sign of how great the need was for proper tea in this country. “Here we are, after a harrowing yet commonplace occurrence, and all that is on offer is
coffee
.”

It was a quick march from the mooring obelisk to the hotel. Quesnel did not accompany them. He could not meet Rue's gaze and insisted he must stay to supervise the maintenance and restock.

Tasherit stayed aboard, as ordered. Rue also officially requested that she ensure the safety of the crew. Catlike in protection of her territory and her people, Miss Sekhmet adored official sanction to cause maximum bloodshed. She wore her favourite tan skirt and red hunting jacket, which looked very like a military uniform, and tucked a pistol of indeterminate make into the sash at her waist. Rue didn't ask if she could use the gun, let alone where she had purchased it. Tasherit would never arm herself with a weapon she couldn't wield, and her means of acquisition were mysterious and likely to remain so.

With her ship in good hands, Rue marched along, taking in the wonders of the city around her. In the comparative cool of early morning, the streets were alive with activity – performers plying their arts, vendors selling wares out of stalls or off the backs of donkeys, and all manner of street urchin. On the short walk to the hotel, they stepped to the side to allow not one but two processions. One was religious and the other military. They were passed by several open-topped steam carriages and a caravan of impressive camels – no doubt off to view the pyramids. A massive omnibus scuttled by, steam-powered and covered in passengers, so many they appeared piled and draped over a box on wheels, dangling in such a way as to be both precarious and decorative.

Cairo was a desert child dressed in soot and sand. The men wore flowing robes of rust, soft blue, and cream with the women confined to darker shades. There seemed a great deal of importance placed upon the type and style of a gentleman's headwear, more so than even the top hats of Rue's home country. She could only respect that, given her familial relationship to Uncle Rabiffano and Aunt Ivy. The street was loud, full of chatter and music. The laymen sang as they marched towards the Nile and the railway stations beyond. Even as Rue delighted in her new surroundings, she dreaded the impending horror of abandoning her parents in this dusty place.

Shepheard's was very impressed with itself and with the honour of housing Lord and Lady Maccon. Certainly, the hotel was accustomed to entertaining persons of great wealth and privilege, even occasionally great title and power, but rarely all four at once.