EIGHT

In Which Percy Encounters a Pepper

To the surprise of everyone, including himself, Percy agreed to attend the garden party that evening. Rue forbade him to bring any books. Quesnel looked as if he could not decide whether to be amused or distressed. Primrose disappeared with her brother in order to monitor his apparel choices. Virgil was in a near panic. He’d never dressed his master for an actual event before, even something as casual as a garden party. Prim provided a most necessary service, for Percy emerged looking almost respectable.

Of course, while his sister finished her own toilette, the professor mucked about in the library and managed to get covered in dust, skew his cravat, and wrinkle his waistcoat. A very long-suffering Virgil marched him abovedecks.

“Hopeless,” pronounced his sister in exasperation before turning her ire on Rue.

Without Dama to impose upon her, Rue leaned in favour of ease rather than style. She had selected a gown of pale lilac muslin that was startlingly plain and nearly four seasons old. It had no train and only a single band of dark purple velvet at the hem and collar. There was a demure pattern of cream appliqué on the bodice and over the forearms, and dark purple puff sleeves. That was all. It had a matching velvet hat with silk sweet peas in the same lilac colour and a ribbon like an undertaker’s down the back. Without a lady’s maid, Rue had resorted to twisting her mass of hair up quite simply. Dama would have disowned her on the spot.

Prim was moved to tisking disapproval. “And here I thought Percy was the only one who required assistance.”

Rue smiled at her. “This is a working event for me, my dear.”

“What if you get run over? People would read about what you were wearing when you died in the papers.”

“Don’t tempt fate, Prim. Besides, I need something practical.”

“There is absolutely no call for you to use that horrible word. And what do you mean, working? You’ve never worked a day in your life, I’m happy to say.”

Rue detailed, with some suppressed excitement, her naptime encounter with Miss Sekhmet.

Prim was, as ever, an excellent sounding board. “But why did this female feel it necessary to approach you on the ship and not wait until you were out in the city?”

Rue had no answer, only adding, “And why such urgency? Dama implied it was a secret economic concern. Admittedly, if he’s right and this new variant of the plant takes, others will be interested, but to go to such lengths for tea?”

“Be fair; tea is important,” Primrose remonstrated.

“And why mention my mother?” Rue continued. “To be sure, her job revolves around securing the safety of the empire, but that could hardly be a matter integral to a rove vampire’s tea concerns.” Percy and Prim, because of their mother’s intimate friendship and vampire state, knew of Rue’s mother’s position on the Shadow Council. So Rue felt she was not betraying any confidences by involving them. Percy wasn’t paying attention anyway.

Primrose looked serious. “You’re certain about that?”

Rue considered the ramifications of her mission. “Perhaps these new plants are more significant than even Dama thought? Or perhaps he misled me as to their nature.”

“Oh, now, Rue dear, I hardly think your Dama would let you walk blindly into a labyrinth of intrigue.”

Rue didn’t entirely agree. Already one agent had contacted her using the name Puggle, a name only Dama used. “I’m his beloved daughter, true, but he is still a vampire and he doesn’t perceive danger in quite the same way as we mere mortals.”

Quesnel appeared, looking stupefyingly gorgeous in a grey suit, purple cravat, and crisp white shirt. The ladies fell silent.

He fingered his cravat. “You see, I went with the theme.” He’d obviously heard Rue ask Prim to wear purple.

Rue wasn’t certain why she felt it necessary to run a scheme–perhaps it was simply in her nature to enjoy chaos. Plus any chance to perform was not to be missed.

Prim’s dress was far more Lady Akeldama-ish, so she would probably get the lion’s share of any attention in that regard. Those who had only heard of them were always easy victims. Prim’s gown was stylish and modern with a slit-front bodice over a fine Chantilly lace shirtwaist and a lavender and gold brocade jacket matched to the skirt. Everything was cut simply to showcase the beautiful pattern of the fabric–and Prim’s excellent figure. A wide sash emphasised Prim’s narrow waist, several inches smaller than Rue’s own. Yes, they looked alike in basics but, side by side, Rue was darker of complexion and substantially curvier. Prim lamented this frequently for it meant she could not borrow Rue’s dresses, thereby doubling the size of her own wardrobe.

In keeping with her mother’s wishes, Prim also wore a cream lace hat, perfectly matched to her dress, decorated with lavender ribbon and a bouquet of silk violets. Of course, the event was to take place after dark, and the sun was beginning to set in orange profusion over the Arabian Sea–thus hats were not strictly necessary. But custom dictated that a garden party meant hats, so hats they would wear. No doubt Aunt Ivy would learn of the breach if they didn’t, even thousands of leagues away.

Rue’s party elected to walk. The ladies utilised closed parasols as walking sticks. Fortunately, as they had absolutely no idea where they were going, Lieutenant Broadwattle was waiting for them on the shore.

Primrose took the lieutenant’s proffered arm with alacrity. Rue thought she saw the young officer cast her a wistful look. She dismissed it as highly unlikely–for no young man of sense preferred Rue over Prim–and accepted Quesnel’s all-too-casual offer. Percy slouched after them without any effort to participate in the social niceties of ambulation. Why had he bothered to come?

It turned out to be only a short way along the outside of the barracks to the impressive, almost church-like structure of the officers’ mess. As they walked, of all out-of-place things, the sound of bagpipes permeated the air. Rue had never visited the Scottish Highlands, but she suspected nothing could be more different than Bombay. Without explaining the noise, the lieutenant led them through the mess and out the other side into a beautiful walled garden boasting overarching trees, a square pond, copious graceful–if flimsy–chairs and tables, and the milling throng of Bombay’s resident elite.

Rue bounced in happily. Everything was so pretty and colourful. She and Prim were dressed to confuse. Tea espionage was afoot. This was going to be fun.

No one announced them but it was clear that the unvarying nature of society abroad made four newcomers a welcome curiosity. There was no doubt that they had been the talk of the party prior to their arrival. Rue felt rather like the pudding course of a fancy meal, viewed with desire by some, suspicion by others, and discomfort by those who had already partaken too freely. She adored it of course, delighting in engendering discomfort. It was, after all, her forte.

Lieutenant Broadwattle abandoned them at the stairs, presumably to alert the hostess.

Rue turned to her three companions and said with an air of celebration, “Let’s keep them as confused as possible, shall we?”

Quesnel looked game to play along.

Primrose nodded, an almost evil gleam to her dark eyes, before assuming an expression of pleasant enthusiasm. Percy rolled his eyes.

A large battleaxe of a woman bustled up to them, Lieutenant Broadwattle in her wake. “Ladies. Gentlemen. You are most welcome to our modest gathering. Most welcome, indeed. Such an honour. Now who is…?”

Lieutenant Broadwattle, doing his duty, said politely, “Lady Akeldama, Miss Tunstell, if I might introduce our lovely hostess, the ambassador’s wife, Mrs Godwit? Mrs Godwit, this is Lady Prudence Akeldama and the Honourable Primrose Tunstell.”

“Forgive me my dears, but which is which?”

Primrose stepped smoothly in before Lieutenant Broadwattle could elucidate. “Oh, Mrs Godwit, you’ll get accustomed to our little idiosyncrasies quite quickly. Allow me to introduce Professor Tunstell and Mr Lefoux.”

Percy’s bow was almost too perfunctory to be polite.

Quesnel stepped forward, knowing his duty. The Frenchman twinkled at their hostess in a most agreeable manner, entirely distracting that good lady from the question of confusingly similar brunettes in purple dresses. “How do you do, Mrs Godwit?”

“A pleasure, a pleasure. Mr Lefoux, was it?”

“Indeed, dear lady.”

Prim said, all gossip and good cheer, “I must say, the weather since we arrived! Is it always so hot this time of year here in India?”

“Oh, my dear young lady, I assure you this is mild, demulcent even, compared to the true summer suffering of this heathen land. You are lucky–or should I say, propitious? You have timed your visit very well indeed–the monsoon season has only recently ended. Such rains as we have been having already this month, a pabulum, a tempering of our customary languish—”

Rue stopped listening. The ambassador’s wife was clearly a woman who enjoyed the sound of her own voice. She dropped flowery vocabulary about her like an incontinent hen might deposit eggs. This would not have been so horrible except that the voice in question was unpleasantly nasal. The banality of the subject matter only added insult to injury. Mrs Godwit was clearly a bore. But a powerful bore. Which meant Rue happily consigned her to Prim’s tender mercies.

Quesnel, one mock desperate look in Rue’s direction, was dragged along by Primrose.

Percy, unable to tolerate blathering, drifted towards a table of comestibles. It was laid with tea and coffee, ginger wine, and hard-iced milk with soda to quench the thirst. Percy was helping himself to a small plate of buttered scones and prunes soaked in rum when he was swarmed by a gaggle of giggling young ladies. Presumably these represented the eligible among the officers’ and ambassadors’ daughters. Percy, as usual, had drawn them to him like jam to toast.

Rue was left alone with Lieutenant Broadwattle. She noted a few other officers were present, wives in tow, but none seemed particularly scruffy or wolfish. “I’m assuming the werewolves will be joining us later, when it is fully dark?”

The lieutenant nodded, his attention on Prim’s graceful form. He offered Rue his arm and they drifted after the others. Mrs Godwit was still detailing the weather.

Prim guided the conversation towards more lucrative territory. “My dear Mrs Godwit, I have heard much of Brigadier Featherstonehaugh. Will he and his wife be attending this evening’s festivities?”

Mrs Godwit played along obligingly. “Oh, dear child, you haven’t heard?” Her expression held all the joy of a hedgehog faced with a bowl of bread and milk. Rue suspected this meant that the topic could only be tragic.

“Oh, my dear Mrs Godwit, he is not ill, is he?”

“Far worse! Oh, my dear, do brace yourself. This is an untamed country, wild even. And so very dangerous. It is not the brigadier but his wife. Mrs Featherstonehaugh–young Mrs Featherstonehaugh–has been kidnapped! By native dissidents. Possibly those wretched Marathas. You know some of their women… Oh, it’s too much, too much for young ears.”

Primrose pressed her to continue.

“Some Maratha women do not wear skirts.”

Even Rue was shocked by that statement.

“You mean…?” gasped Prim, eyes wide.

“Oh no, dear. Not that. But sort of trousers instead. They ride along with their men into battle. It hardly bears thinking about, so ungenteel. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Young Mrs Featherstonehaugh, only a few days ago now–kidnapped! Along with some recently collected taxes. Although, of course, one cannot even contemplate the loss of the money when compared to what that poor girl must be suffering.”

Rue wanted to ask if they would force Mrs Featherstonehaugh to go skirtless, but didn’t want to interfere with the flow Primrose was coaxing forth.

Prim patted Mrs Godwit’s arm. “So sad.”

Mrs Godwit needed no more encouragement. “Of course, the dear brigadier is most distraught. Overwrought and despairing. All his attention of late has been occupied with investigating his wife’s disappearance. Poor lamb. So of course, he is unable to attend. The werewolves, I understand, will be looking in to tender their respects to you, our honoured visitors, before heading out to continue tracking. But the chances of recovering the unfortunate girl seem slim.”

Prim gasped.

Quesnel murmured appropriately aghast niceties.

Rue turned to Lieutenant Broadwattle. “Is this true?”

The lieutenant replied, “To the best of my knowledge. But I am only a lowly lieutenant and not on friendly terms with the brigadier.”

Rue was concerned for the Featherstonehaughs’ plight, of course, but having not met any of the players, she failed to be emotionally involved. Her attention drifted and she scanned the party, looking to identify Miss Sekhmet’s contact.

Lieutenant Broadwattle said, “Oh dear, I do believe most people believe Miss Tunstell is you. I suspect it is her continued conversation with Mrs Godwit, not to mention the elegance of her dress.” The gentleman caught himself at that. “Not that your gown isn’t pretty…” He trailed off, uncomfortable. “Should I make an announcement to the contrary? I mean, about you being you.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself on my behalf.” Rue was waiting to see if anyone, taken in by the scam, was desperately trying to get Primrose alone to pass on a message. But the cycles of social interaction seemed perfectly ordinary for a garden party, even one in Bombay. “Have there been any ransom demands?”

The lieutenant looked confused.

Rue elaborated: “For the brigadier’s missing wife?”

“Not that we’ve been told.”

“Odd.”

“Not very–this is India, Lady Akeldama. They do things differently here.”

“Yes, but that differentially? Why else would they want her?”

The young man looked grossly embarrassed.

Rue hastened to elaborate. “You think she was an accidental bonus and the taxes were the intended target?”

“Why else would natives want an Englishwoman? I’m not privy to the details but I believe the werewolves were blamed. It was supposed to be a cushy job, transporting the taxes and bringing the brigadier’s wife back from the hills. Yet the pack botched it. They are rather in disgrace. I’m surprised Mrs Godwit invited them.”

Rue said only, “Ah, I see.” She was thinking, however, that Kingair had a reputation for botching up their assignments. Troublesome, her father had called his former pack whenever Rue asked about her Scottish relations. He’d thought it best that Rue not meet them.

“Lady Akeldama, could I beg your indulgence for a moment of private conversation?”

Rue only then registered that, as they talked, Lieutenant Broadwattle was steering her away from the party towards the far end of the pond and the privacy of several bushes there.

“Lieutenant Broadwattle, we have only just met!” To arrive at a garden party and immediately disappear in the company of an eligible man–she was as near to causing a serious scandal as she had ever got in her whole life. And it was Prim’s good name at stake–since everyone thought Prim was Rue, it must follow that they also thought Rue was Prim. She could just imagine Aunt Ivy’s face should reports of her daughter’s behaviour reach London.

She drew back, intending to return to the party.

“But, Lady Akeldama, I have some very important information to impart. From Lord Akeldama.”

Rue gasped. Lieutenant Broadwattle was Dama’s contact?

She lowered her voice. “About tea?”

“I have been trying to get you alone since you arrived, but first those blasted customs officials–local spies for the Rakshasas of course–and now this party. No one here can be trusted,” Lieutenant Broadwattle whispered darkly. “Especially not with tea.”

Rue looked around. Everyone seemed to be respectably upper crust: the hats were in order, the hair was curled, the uniforms were crisp, even in the heat. “If you say so, lieutenant.”

He bent over as though murmuring romantic nothings. “I do apologise, but we must give them reason to believe that my interest is genuine. I cannot be suspected–things have already gone pear-shaped.”

Rue reluctantly agreed. “Quickly, then.”

“I have been instructed to tell you that I have a message but you will need the honeysuckle.”

“What? Oh. Yes, I see.” He most likely had a cypher for Aunt Ivy’s book and a message of encouragement from Dama.

Lieutenant Broadwattle angled himself so as to shield Rue with his body from the curious eyes of party attendees. He handed her a slip of paper. Rue glance at it briefly–it was notations on a grid, which she recognised as a received aetherographic transmission. Unfortunately, there were no letters but instead it featured only a series of numbers and spaces.

Rue knew a code when she saw one. This was some kind of message. “No cypher?”

The young man looked genuinely shocked. “My dear lady, I am only the redundancy agent. Newly minted, I am not privy…”

“Yes, yes, you are not privy to any secrets.” Rue tucked the slip of paper down the bodice of her dress, much to the young man’s embarrassment. “Now that Miss Tunstell’s reputation is in tatters, shall we rejoin the party? I believe we have given them enough gossip for one evening.”

“Indeed. Possibly even more than the kidnapping. At least that was respectable. This is good for my reputation, however.” The young officer smiled at her and Rue wondered if he really was one of Dama’s boys, as it were, and needed to establish notoriety as a lady’s man. Or if he were simply referring to barracks bragging rights.

A thought occurred to her as they strode back, arms linked. “What happened to his previous agent?”

“Lord Akeldama didn’t give you the name of your contact?” Lieutenant Broadwattle was surprised.

“He did not.” Rue was beginning to regret her decision to sneak off in the wee hours of daylight without saying goodbye to Dama. Clearly, she had missed more than fond farewells. “I departed precipitously, for fashion reasons.”

“His first agent was Mrs Featherstonehaugh.”

“Oh dear,” said Rue dropping his arm.

As soon as they joined the throng about the refreshment table, Quesnel and Prim abandoned Mrs Godwit and attached themselves, one on each side of Rue.

“Rue,” hissed Primrose. “What are you about? My reputation!”

Quesnel added, “Yes, her reputation. Not to mention you’re flirting shamelessly with that sorry excuse for an officer.”

“Oh, stop it, both of you. He’s Dama’s not-so-specialist tea contact.”

“What?” said both accusers as one.

“Keep your voices down. We’ll discuss it later.”

Quesnel would not let the matter drop. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

This inexplicably annoyed Rue. “Mr Lefoux, I always enjoy myself at a garden party. And now, I believe the regimental werewolves have arrived.”

The werewolves made a grand entrance. They could hardly do otherwise. The pack was a standard size, looking to be eight or so members, but above-standard on an individual level. Each man was built on the brick wall end of the spectrum of human shape. They were also scruffy, boisterous, and wearing exotic formal wear. This involved a plaid skirt-like object instead of trousers. Luckily, Rue had been warned of this garment on more than one occasion.

All arguments and accusations forgotten, Prim edged closer to Rue and snapped open her fan, the better to whisper behind it. “Oh my goodness, are those kilts? I’ve never seen them outside the history books. They are an appealing fashion statement, aren’t they?”

Rue could not help but agree–after all, how often did one get to admire a gentleman’s knees in polite society? “Practical,” she said. “I suppose they allow for a certain breeziness in this heat.”

Primrose was clearly on the road to becoming a great admirer of the apparel. “Don’t they just? Do you think they wear, uh, bloomers underneath?”

“I should think, as werewolves, they’d have my problem with bloomers.”

“Tails?”

“Tails.”

Prim’s fan fluttered excitably at the unspoken conclusion–nothing at all under kilts. “My, but they do grow them large and handsome in the north now, don’t they?” Prim’s interest in Lieutenant Broadwattle was entirely forgotten in the face of this new invasion.

Rue had thought never to encounter a man as big as her father, but now she realised he was merely representative of the breed. She felt almost dainty. The rest of the assembled garden party seemed to be doing their best to ignore the newcomers, quite a feat given their size. Mrs Godwit had said something about the pack being in disgrace, the loss of Mrs Featherstonehaugh and the taxes placed in their paws.

The kilted masculinity rippled at a disturbance from the back, and an unlikely individual pushed her way roughly through the sea of plaid. There stood, feet braced, an ill-dressed older woman to whom the pack instantly deferred. She was also quite tall and tough as old boots, her expression uncompromising and her stance one of controlled power. Her long greying hair was plaited like a schoolgirl’s, showing off strong features and a face that no one would ever call pretty.

Without waiting for an introduction, the lady marched across the lawn straight at Prim and Rue–who were still hiding behind Prim’s fan.

Primrose hastily closed the fan and tried not to stare at this odd female.

Rue, on the other hand, regarded her with open interest. She knew of Lady Kingair. Who didn’t? The only female werewolf to have been made in generations. Bitten into immortality by Rue’s own father. But to meet the legend in person? To encounter the stuff of nightmares–it was thrilling.

Lady Kingair was dressed in a way that suggested all sense of style had been sacrificed on the altar of practicality. Her gown was made of sensible muslin in deference to the heat, with copious pockets and a wide leather belt from which dangled various useful objects including a magnification lens, a medical kit, and a bar of soap.

Lady Kingair stopped in front of the two girls. She was not confused by their similar appearance. She focused on Rue, narrowing a pair of awfully familiar eyes. Those eyes were the same as the ones Rue saw in the looking glass each morning before breakfast. Eyes that were such a pale brown as to be almost yellow. Rue’s father’s eyes. Rue’s eyes.

“Good evening, auntie. We meet at last,” said Sidheag Maccon, Lady Kingair.

Rue played along. “Niece!” she said, tempted to throw her arms around the woman. She held back because hugs were not acceptable conduct at garden parties, even among family members. Maybe in the Americas, but not here, not even at the fringe of the empire.

Rue continued, eyes twinkling. “What a pleasure to meet you at last, niece.”

Lady Kingair seemed taken aback by Rue’s enthusiasm. “My, but you are different from your parents.”

“What a lovely thing to say!” crowed Rue, even more delighted to meet this long-lost relation. Because it seemed to unsettle her relation, Rue acted even more bubbly. She bounced a bit on the balls of her feet and coloured her gestures with awkward, barely suppressed energy–like Spoo.

Lady Kingair shook herself slightly. “And how is old Gramps?”

“Paw was fine when we left London–topping form, really.”

“Oh indeed? Isn’t he getting a little… old?”

Rue blinked at her. What is she implying? All werewolves were old, except the newly made ones, of course. “You’d never guess it to look at him.”

“Of course not. But I didn’t intend to ask after his appearance, more the state of his soul.”

Rue didn’t understand the question and so misdirected it. “He was in good spirits when I left London.”

Lady Kingair tilted her head, as much as to say she respected Rue for avoiding all direct questions.

Rue accepted the unspoken accolade and said, “But I am remiss. Please allow me to introduce my travelling companions. This is the Honourable Primrose Tunstell and Mr Lefoux, and that is Professor Tunstell.”

“Indeed? Fine company you keep, auntie.”

“Primrose, Quesnel, this is my great-great-great-great-niece, Sidheag Maccon, Lady Kingair. I think that’s the right number of greats.”

Prim and Quesnel made polite murmurs. They did not find the relationship confusing, having grown up among vampires. Very strange things happened to family trees once immortals got involved. The Tunstell twins experienced similarly baffling relationships regularly. Their mother had been bitten to immortality when she was only a few years older than they were now. Primrose and Aunt Ivy looked, in effect, like sisters. Eventually, as Prim got older, her mother would look younger than she, like a daughter, and then a granddaughter. Vampires and werewolves had all sorts of rules in place to stop such things, but Ivy Tunstell had been made vampire by accident. And Rue’s entire existence was a massive mistake. Lady Kingair had been made werewolf under even more unusual circumstances.

We are all of us, thought Rue, not exactly meant to exist. It made her feel a kinship beyond blood with this acerbic Scotswoman.

“Let us be candid, auntie. Are you here to order us back to London?” demanded Sidheag.

That was when Rue realised that there was something more behind her parents’ refusal to host the Kingair Pack or visit Scotland. Something had gone wrong between them, something sinister, before Rue’s birth.

However, it didn’t stop her from ribbing her relation. “Order you to town, Lady Alpha? Why on earth would I do that? Everyone seems so eager to keep you out of London.” Rue could imagine the carnage should this pack and her father’s pack try to occupy the same city while at odds. London was big, but it wasn’t that big.

“But you are here at your father’s behest?”

“Which father?” Rue could play this game happily until the sun came up.

The Alpha werewolf lost a little of her aggressive posture. “I have always wondered which one would have the most influence. Well, if you aren’t here for us, why are you in Bombay, Prudence Maccon?”

“It’s Prudence Akeldama. And this is just a pleasure jaunt, esteemed niece. Dama gifted me with this lovely little airship and I thought I might see a bit of the world. I heard India was pleasant this time of year.”

Lady Kingair rolled her eyes. “Double-talk, nothing but double-talk. It’s like being back in finishing school.”

“If I may be of service, Alpha?” said a smooth voice. And out of the pack of large, kilted Scotsmen slid a slight Englishman as calm, quiet, and nondescript as any civil servant wandering the House of Commons. His urbane nature made him as incongruous and as appealing as cheese in a pickle shop.

Lady Kingair relaxed and glanced at the man almost affectionately. “Yes, you’re far better at arranging these kinds of things, aren’t you, Beta?”

Prim dismissed the man instantly as uninteresting and stepped forward to engage one of the largest and best-looking of the kilts in conversation, clearly having decided that Rue had this encounter well in hand. Quesnel stayed fixed at Rue’s elbow, although blessedly disinclined to open his mouth.

The unassuming Englishman gave Rue a little bow. He had sandy hair and pleasing if unmemorable features arranged under a small set of spectacles. His evening attire was perfectly appropriate to the place and venue but nothing more, with no hint of modishness. Everything about him was simple, unadulterated, and proper. Rue was not surprised that she hadn’t noticed him when the pack first entered the room. He hadn’t wanted her to.

“How do you do, Lady Akeldama?” said the man. “Professor Randolph Lyall, at your service.”

Rue had heard somewhat of Professor Lyall. She knew he had been her father’s Beta but left when she was too young to remember. He’d gone off to take up the mantle of Kingair Pack Beta, and Uncle Rabiffano, newly made werewolf at the time, had taken his place at Rue’s father’s side. Professor Lyall wasn’t spoken of often by the London Pack, but when they did it was with a respectful wistfulness. Even Uncle Channing, who didn’t really like anyone but himself, hadn’t a bad word to say about Professor Lyall.

Rue smiled at him. As with Lady Kingair she resisted the urge to give him a hug. For entirely different reasons. A hug would have unsettled her niece; Professor Lyall simply looked like he needed one. “Uncle Lyall, how nice to meet you at last. Please call me Rue.”

Professor Lyall blinked at this instant acceptance, mildly bemused.

Lady Kingair, on the other hand, seemed to take it amiss. “She is here for us. It must be time, Lyall.”

The Beta shook head. “Don’t be hasty, Alpha. I would have been warned.”

“Oh, are you still so well connected to London you can sense their mood from India?”

Professor Lyall gave his Alpha a level stare. “I know how to write letters and so do they.”

He turned his back on his Alpha, something only a very strong Beta could do and stay alive.

Lady Kingair, surprisingly, took the snub and shifted away, giving them a modicum of privacy.

Professor Lyall offered Rue his arm. “Would you care for a stroll about the garden, Miss Rue?”

“Oh dear, I’m afraid Prim’s reputation couldn’t stand any more garden strolling tonight.”

“Pardon?”

“Could I take Primrose along as escort? Miss Tunstell, I mean.”

“You trust her?”

“Of course.”

“She is not so silly as her mother?”

“Not at all.”

The sandy-haired werewolf nodded his approbation. “Remarkable.”

“Mr Lefoux, would you fetch Prim for me? She seems to have been kilted.”

Quesnel gave Rue a disgruntled look but made his way into the group of Scottish werewolves, who were getting a little rowdy, honing in on Primrose with consummate skill. He extracted her deftly and returned.

Rue said, “Professor Lyall would like the pleasure of my company for a stroll about the gardens. Would you kindly act as chaperone?”

“Oh, now you think about my reputation.”

Quesnel trailed along as well, although Rue would have preferred he didn’t.

Rue made quick introductions. “Primrose, this is Professor Lyall. Uncle, this is the Honourable Primrose Tunstell.”

Primrose said, “How do you do, professor? My mother speaks highly of you.”

The Beta’s eyebrows rose. “Does she, indeed? How kind. The respect of a vampire queen is no small thing.”

They meandered further into the garden, leaving pond and society behind. The grounds were full of exotic plants of strange shapes. There was steam-powered mechanical statuary as well, built to resemble animals or many-limbed gods, but capable only of dancing a pattern over and over, like the ballerina in a musical box. Here and there monkeys chattered abuse and hurled projectiles at them.

“They don’t think much of werewolves,” explained Professor Lyall.

Prim and Rue raised their parasols in defence. Nuts and small hard fruit made harmonious drumming noises as they bounced harmlessly off the taut cloth.

Rue said, “Well, Uncle?”

“I only wanted to say, Miss Rue, that the pack and I are at your disposal. Sidheag can be grumpy but she knows her duty to queen and country or we wouldn’t be stationed here. If you are acting under the auspices of any of your parents in their formal governmental roles, we will aid you by any means necessary.”

Rue was startled by such an offer. “Why, thank you very much.”

Professor Lyall bowed. “And I am, most particularly, your servant.”

“You trust me more than she does–why is that?”

“I’ve received several letters over the years extolling your virtues.”

There was a mild despondency to his tone. Again, Rue sensed deeper troubles with his connection to the London Pack.

“Why does my niece think I am here to force Kingair back to London?”

“A bargain was struck, debts need to be paid. She has been waiting for the summons for years now. It has been longer than any of us expected.”

“Oh, indeed?”

“Your mother’s presence, I think. Amazing woman, your mother. She changes everything she touches, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, yes? What kind of everything do you mean exactly?”

“Fate, one might say. And you, little one, are you the same? I have so many questions. Have you mastered your metanatural state? I have greatly missed the opportunity to learn the scientific details as you grow. How does the shift feel for you? What is it like to be a vampire one moment and werewolf the next? If you touch both simultaneously can you be both at once?” Academic curiosity must be how he had earned the moniker professor. He was also obviously trying to divert her attention.

“Please, professor, why is Lady Kingair needed in London?”

“Ah, no. It’s me they need.”

Rue rocked back slightly. “What?”

The reserved man shook his head in refusal and apology. “If your parents did not tell you, it’s not my place.”

A horrible thought occurred to Rue. “Are you, by chance, the negotiator? Is that why you need to speak to me alone? Are you representing Miss Sekhmet and her interests?” She hoped it wasn’t the case, for that would mean the werewolves were acting against her father the vampire. Two supernatural interests at odds was never a good thing. Whole empires had crumbled because of it.

Professor Lyall arched an eyebrow. “Sekhmet? The Egyptian goddess?”

Rue was relieved by his confusion. Right then, so far, purple dresses notwithstanding, they had yet to meet Miss Sekhmet’s contact for the other side of the tea situation. “Never mind,” said Rue.

Professor Lyall was calm in the face of mystery. He said only, “Little one, the purpose of this conversation is merely to say that I am here if you need to call upon a werewolf.” He gestured, without rancour, to his bare forearm. “In any capacity you require, metanatural. Any capacity at all. You understand?”

Rue inhaled in shock. It was the first time a werewolf had ever offered to share his form without question or restriction. Usually, she had to steal supernatural shape from a reluctant donor and apologise for it later. She found his offer touching.

“Thank you very much, Uncle Lyall. I am honoured, but I hope that won’t be necessary.”

The Beta smiled. “As do I, Miss Rue, as do I.” With another small bow he glided off, leaving Rue, Primrose, and Quesnel slightly dumbfounded.

They watched his slight form disappear through the trees, dodging monkey projectiles with supernatural swiftness.

“Did he just offer what I think he offered?” asked Primrose.

Rue nodded, eyes wide.

“What an odd little man,” said Prim. “Nice, but odd.”

“He seems very capable,” replied Rue. “I like him.”

Quesnel, being French, picked up on emotions. “He seemed rather sad.” It was an oddly serious thing for him to say and he shrugged it off with, “Beautifully tied cravat for a werewolf.”

They followed said werewolf’s retreating form, conscious that they had been neglecting their collective social duties and had left Percy, of all people, to take on the lion’s share of the obligation.

They found the redhead holding his own in a spectacular manner. Surrounded by eligible young ladies, and a few who were not at all eligible, Percy was waxing loquacious on the breeding habits of chilli peppers. He was explaining, with the comestibles on offer as his sample specimens, why ingesting spicy food caused overheating of the body, heart palpitations, and occasional irregularities in the magnetic energies of the human brain–particularly in impressionable young ladies.

Said impressionable young ladies were duly impressed by this lecture.

The hostess was looking acutely embarrassed at the very idea that she had included truly spicy native cuisine in her offerings.

Percy caught sight of them coming up. “Here, let me demonstrate–try this.” He held out a small bit of flatbread, dipped into a reddish curry.

Rue, who was always game for a new experience, took it and ate it with alacrity.

All the impressionable young ladies, who had no doubt eaten the same on more than one occasion before Percy had come into their midst and begun soliloquising upon its dangers, gasped. They watched her with round eyes, anticipating tragic gastronomic reactions.

Rue liked the flavour well enough but, in truth, it was spicy. “Goodness,” she said, politely, to Mrs Godwit, “that’s quite lovely. It is a bit hot. Might I have a spot of that milk and soda water to wash it down, please?”

Mrs Godwit, grateful for Rue’s complacent response, gestured at one of the staff to pour.

Primrose followed Rue’s lead, trying a bit of the curry herself. She coughed a little, but carried it off beautifully, “Delicious.”

Neither young lady fainted, came over with some exotic rash, or appeared to experience any magnetic misalignment.

Percy harrumphed. “It must not be all that spicy.” He broke a bit off the bread and, pinky up in the air, dipped the tip tentatively into the curry sauce. Then he tried a tiny nibble.

Pure chaos ensued.

“Argh–water–I’m dying!” yelled Percy.

The impressionable young ladies closed in, offering him drinks, cooling cloths, and scented handkerchiefs.

Percy screwed his eyes shut and grabbed his throat, wheezing and coughing.

“Give the man some air,” suggested Quesnel, barely disguising a guffaw. “Can’t you see he’s suffering?”

Percy cracked one watering eye to glare at him. “It burns!”

Rue, sensing the mood, shouldered into the solicitous group and grabbed Percy, just as a caring older sister might. “Come along, Percy dear, I think it’s time we got you home.”

The impressionable young ladies all twittered objections and sighed in distress. As indeed did Primrose, who, even with the Kingair Pack departed, would have been happy to redirect her flirting back at the hapless Lieutenant Broadwattle for the rest of the evening.

Rue, on the other hand, wanted to read her coded message. Or at least try to. And there seemed no indication that Miss Sekhmet’s contact was going to approach either her or Primrose. So she assisted the sputtering Percy in making their farewells.

They walked back to the ship, Percy hacking dramatically the entire way.

“Prim, did anyone try to negotiate anything with you? As if you were me? Anything to do with tea perhaps?” Rue asked.

Prim said, “One of the officers tried to invite me to tea tomorrow without a chaperone. I turned him down, of course. I have more of a care for your reputation than you do mine.”

“I am sorry about that. But it was necessary.”

“Mmm, that’s always your excuse.”

“I talked with Dama’s contact, finally, but I wonder what happened to Miss Sekhmet’s tea negotiator. He seems never to have shown up, which means we wore purple for nothing.”

“He probably went where all good tea negotiators go. Bottom of a cup.”

“Prim, that is not helpful.”

At that juncture, Percy’s coughing reached such a crescendo that they could no longer carry on a civil conversation. Many of those acquainted with the Tunstell twins believed only Prim had inherited their parents’ flare for drama. But Rue knew full well that Percy could produce more than his fair share of theatricality when called upon.

Chilli pepper consumption appeared to call for it.

Quesnel, for his part, was taking every opportunity to whack Percy on the back, as hard as possible without causing permanent damage.

“Your brother is a ridiculous man,” said Rue to Prim. “It wasn’t that spicy.”

Primrose said, “In his defence, it did burn all the way down. Not unlike cognac.”

Rue was arrested. “How do you know what cognac tastes like?”

Prim replied, as though it were nothing of significance, “Queen Mums likes a snifter of an evening.”

“Baroness Ivy Tunstell, vampire queen, drinks cognac?”

Prim grinned. “Apparently Madame Lefoux introduced it to her back when they were girls.”

Quesnel did not look surprised at the sudden appearance of his mother in this particular conversation. Rue wondered if that meant that Madame Lefoux made a habit of corrupting young ladies with cognac.

Rue blinked in amazement. “Your mother shared this habit with you?”

“Not exactly. Percy and I used to sneak a sip upon occasion, because we weren’t supposed to.”

“Percy drinks cognac?”

“Ladies,” rasped Percy, “I’m walking right here.”

Rue and Prim ignored him.

Prim said smugly, “Well, yes, old Percy’s very cultured in the matter of spirits.”

“Madness.” I guess one can still learn something new about friends of twenty years. “Clearly I’m going to have to instruct our cook to stock cognac.”

Primrose looked at her brother thoughtfully. He glared back, eyes still watering slightly. “Perhaps not the best idea. Percy has been known to overindulge.”

“Still right here,” he said.

Rue and Prim continued to ignore him.

“Percy gets looped?” Rue hooted.

“Yes, rather like now.”

Percy drew himself up and said with considerably dignity, “I am not at all looped. It’s simply that I don’t like chilli peppers.”

“I should like to see Percy looped,” commented Rue, meaning it.

Quesnel took a strange sort of pity on Percy. “Are they always like this around you, old man?”

Percy was morose. “My whole life.”

Quesnel said, “No wonder you’re so deranged.”

Percy sniffed. “Thank you very much.”

“It’s a wonder you don’t drink more cognac.” Quesnel didn’t bother to hide his grin.

Percy sighed. “Yes, well, if you’ve all had enough fun teasing poor old Percy for one evening?”

“It never gets old,” answered his sister.

The tide had progressed inward, causing The Spotted Custard to tie in closer to the promenade, making their walk back shorter than their walk out. The hot evening had become almost temperate, quite bearable. Rue was enjoying herself–she’d met Dama’s contact, received a code, uncovered possible scandal from her parents’ past, and encountered long-lost relations. Not to mention the fact that there had been a kidnapping recently. India, she thought, was turning out to be a delightful place.

Unfortunately, when they arrived back at the ship things took a turn for the worse. They could not board, for the gangplank was hauled in. Arranged up on the main deck was a row of fierce-looking sooties, decklings, and Greaser Phinkerlington, all armed with slings and other projectiles. Down below, standing on the shore, trying to look like he didn’t care, was a man.

“ ’Ware, Lady Captain,” shouted Spoo, the moment they were within earshot. “We got us an uninvited vampire.”