CHAPTER TEN
VANARA
R
ue was wearing an old-fashioned skirt of lilac satin, mismatched to a bodice of burgundy velvet with elaborate beadwork about the neck. It was heavy for the weather and hugely inappropriate to Rue’s rank.
“Goodness, chérie, you look like a lady of the night,” was Quesnel’s assessment. But his eyes were delighted and not at all critical as he took in her very well-emphasised figure.
Rue tilted her black velvet hat at him. Three seasons old when there had been a blessedly brief fad for sewing small gears to hatbands. “Do I really? Excellent!”
“Prudence Maccon Akeldama!” was Prim’s opinion, rendered in a very high voice. “Is that rouge? On your lips? And your cheeks! And what on earth do you think you are wearing?” She looked as if she might faint.
Quesnel said, “I think it’s delightfully flattering.”
“It’s certainly rather tight.” Rue was trying not to breathe too deeply for fear of the seams bursting.
Percy said, “Suspiciously accurate, as these things go, if you ask me.”
Prim responded to her brother. “No one did ask. And I’m shocked you would know.”
Rue was further delighted. She twirled. She’d even left her hair down. It felt very wicked. “Is it possible I have a bad case of the spotted crumpet?”
Quesnel laughed. “The worst.”
“I think we are ready to depart then.” Rue and Quesnel turned to leave.
“This is a terrible idea,” said Prim. Not for the first time.
“I agreed that Quesnel could come along only if you stopped questioning my judgement,” responded Rue. Also not for the first time.
Before Prim could say anything more, Rue left the ship.
Quesnel followed, chuckling.
It was dark as they marched towards the werewolf barracks. It was the barracks that accounted for Rue’s attire. Only one type of woman visited a soldier’s den after hours. Rue tried to sashay in a manner she though such women might walk. This was not a role she felt comfortable in; she wasn’t familiar with the nuances. She tried for movements and expressions that would appear worldly, but from Quesnel’s ill-disguised grin she wasn’t doing very well.
Quesnel was dressed in the part of her curator. Showing less skin, sadly, although his trousers were fantastically tight. His favourite top hat was turned to the seedy side through the addition of some very loud plaid ribbon. He’d even donned a small waxed moustache.
The fortress was quiet – presumably most of the military were off looking for the missing Mrs Featherstonehaugh, or fighting dissidents, or wheeling cheese, or whatever. The werewolves, unable to work during the day, would no doubt be conducting the night-time search. Rue hoped to catch them before they left. Or more precisely, she hoped to catch her Uncle Lyall.
There was a sleepy guard posted at the side entrance. He jumped to his feet at Quesnel’s throat clearing, but didn’t seem to know quite what to do when faced with a flesh dealer and his wares.
“Good evening,” said Quesnel. “Mr Pinpod and a lady to call upon the Kingair Pack. Please inform them that we are here.”
The man stuttered, “I wasn’t told. That is – your names are not on the list. Sir and, uh, lady.”
“They most certainly are,” insisted Quesnel.
The young man looked terrified. He couldn’t leave his post to check with his superiors, and he didn’t want to cause a scandal.
“Oh dear. If you could wait a moment, miss, my lady? They should be surfacing soon.”
No doubt he meant it literally. Werewolf attachments were often housed underground, for everyone’s safety.
“At ease, private,” came a calm soft voice, and Uncle Lyall materialised out of the shadows behind the relieved guard. “The lady is not unexpected.”
Rue batted her lashes. “La, sir!” she simpered.
The guard eagerly ceded all responsibility to Lyall’s authority. He resumed his post while the werewolf guided them inside and out of sight around the corner of a munitions building. “Herself is in a temper. I wouldn’t bother her if I were you. Can I help?” He didn’t even flinch at Rue’s attire.
Rue smiled hopefully. “Actually it was you I wanted to see. It’s Mrs Featherstonehaugh – I think she may be more important than anyone realised. I’d like to know more about her. Anything you can tell me would be useful.”
Uncle Lyall shrugged. “We didn’t socialise, I’m afraid. The brigadier is happy to have a werewolf attachment but unhappy to have a Scottish one. The pack was never invited to his private functions. Mrs Featherstonehaugh seemed nice enough, rather young. Bookish.”
Rue perked up. “What did she like to read?”
“I never had the opportunity to ask. Do you think it important?”
“I’ve been charged with investigating,” Rue replied cautiously. Was this estranged former member of Paw’s pack trustworthy?
Uncle Lyall didn’t seem to take this amiss. “Have you indeed? Well, my offer stands.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the brigadier’s quarters are there, second storey window. You could borrow my form and take a look for yourself if you like. He’s out of town. Guards on the first floor.”
Rue considered. “If I’m seen, Kingair would be blamed.”
Uncle Lyall shrugged. “We’re already in the soup for losing the chit in the first place.”
Quesnel looked suspicious. “That’s right. It was pack acting escort. You’re certain you didn’t socialise with Mrs Featherstonehaugh at that time? It’s a long journey back from the hills.”
Uncle Lyall didn’t resent his honesty being questioned. “I wasn’t with them. Left behind to act as pack anchor.” His tone spoke volumes. Clearly he felt that if he had been with them, they wouldn’t have lost the girl, and he blamed himself for not having kept a closer eye on things.
Rue thought for a moment. “Then I accept your offer. Have I ever stolen your form before, uncle?” She had been a holy terror in her childhood on this matter.
Uncle Lyall chose not to answer.
Quesnel said, “Mon petit chou, shouldn’t you consider your nice dress?”
Rue snorted at him.