Speaking of which, a holler rent the air and Quesnel Lefoux bounded into the mêlée followed by Aggie Phinkerlington and two of their biggest greasers. Quesnel had his dart emitter out, deploying one after another with impressive accuracy. Aggie and the greasers were wielding iron firebox prods with deadly skill.
Once out of darts, Quesnel was about Rue’s ability with intimate combat. Someone had taught him the basics, but he was no proficient. All his muscles, which Rue could personally attest to, were from labour in the laboratory, not sporting at White’s.
Rue grinned at him during a lull in the proceedings.
“More of a lover than a fighter, pretty boy?”
He winked. “You should know, chérie, I was on my way to your room. Your week’s wait is up.”
“So it is. Bother this interruption. So rude!”
The odds having been evened by Quesnel’s arrival, it was merely a matter of sorting through who was more tenacious in pursuit of their ends: the bandits in securing whatever they had been sent to secure or Rue’s crew in defending the ship.
Rue had complete faith in her crew. The invaders may be many things – more prepared, more powerful, and more ferocious – but Rue’s people were most assuredly more stubborn.
“I know. I was so looking forward to it. Speaking of, I adore your dress.” He winked at her.
Rue whacked a particularly harassed-looking beard with a mop handle. For some reason mops were the first things she grabbed in a scuffle. She twisted it about and shoved the dirty rag end into the offender’s face, twirling it savagely.
“Take that!” she said, knowing the man likely couldn’t understand her. “You have interrupted my deflowering. There’s no excuse for that kind of thing!”
Quesnel laughed. “Especially when we’ve been practising for days.” He danced around Rue’s opponent in a fair imitation of a Highland Fling and, applying the principles of leverage and fluid dynamics – because he was an excellent engineer – utilised a bit of a ramp and some machine oil to slide the confused bandit over the side.
“Exactly!” Rue turned a manic grin on her next opponent.
Lord Maccon had led the front lines in several wars, not to mention the fact that Scotsmen had a well-earned reputation. It wasn’t for flower arranging. For Conall Maccon, a nice brawl under the moonlight was, to put it mildly, old hat. Trusting in his wife to know the way of things – Lady Maccon wasn’t a great fighter, but she was an unrelenting one – Rue’s father, nibbling a date, came to secure his daughter.
Only to find her dressed like a dollymop and flirting outrageously with a Frenchman. In terms most indelicate and, frankly, alarming for any father to hear.
“Your what?” he roared, banging together the heads of two attackers and looking as if he would like to bang Rue’s and Quesnel’s heads together next.
Rue did not desire her father’s input in this matter. Nor did she feel he could add anything of value to the situation. “Flouring, Father. Quesnel and I were to learn baking techniques from Cook this evening. We were interrupted before we could get started. That’s why I’m wearing this old dress.”
Lord Maccon was not mollified. “And face paint?”
Rue turned big innocent eyes on him. “Didn’t you know? All the best cooks wear face paint.”
Lord Maccon had nothing to say to that, only glared at Quesnel and turned to bash his fist into the face of some luckless scrapper.
Quesnel gave Rue a look of profound cock-up.
Rue nodded her agreement before returning to the rumpus.
It didn’t last much longer. Fully half of the invaders had been repelled, and upon realisation that they were losing the battle, the others ran and jumped over the railing. Rue thought it a tad extreme to die simply because one didn’t get one’s way, until it became clear that just below them were two dirigibles. What the men were doing was leaping off The Spotted Custard to land comfortably in a net held taut between the two gondolas and then scrabbling over to one ship or the other.
“Ingenious,” said Rue.
“Drifters have them.” Lady Maccon sprayed down the last of her acid, perhaps hoping to eat away at the net. She either hadn’t enough or the net was resistant to such things. A few hapless malingerers squeaked at the burn, but nothing else resulted.
“Bother,” said Lady Maccon. “Now I require a refill. I don’t suppose you happen to stock lapis solaris in acid as a general rule?”
Rue pursed her lips. “You’ll have to ask Primrose; she handles provisions. I wouldn’t be surprised. Acid is one step removed from citrus, and she’s convinced we must always have a full complement of limes. Very paranoid about scurvy, is Prim.”
Rue considered manning the Gatling gun. However, it was on the port side, which would make for some wonky manoeuvring to get a clear shot. Plus she wasn’t certain they were allowed to fire on native craft while under quarantine.
Instead, she looked at Quesnel with overly bright eyes. “This is rather fun, isn’t it?”
“Feral little beastie, aren’t you?” Quesnel’s tone was affectionate.