“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.