Prudence (Page 19)

Rue grinned. “Ah, good. Spoo, follow those trunks, pretend to be helpful and try to touch them but don’t actually do so.”

“If you say so, captain.” Spoo, irrepressibly good-natured, trotted off to do exactly as she had been instructed.

Percy instantly panicked and ran after the girl as she rendered – what Percy was certain was – smudgy doom upon his trunks and satchels of books. Everything else was forgotten as he followed the sootie’s stubby form in gangly worry. Virgil brought up the rear carrying a wicker picnic basket that was yowling in protest, and a good quality hatbox. At least Percy would have one top hat on board. And his cat.

“Good. That’s him safely ensconced,” said Rue.

“You’re not worried he’ll escape?” Prim watched her brother with affectionate exasperation.

“I’ve given instructions for the footmen and porters to wall him in with his own books. By the time he reads his way out, we should be ready for float off.”

“You’ll leave a feeding hole?”

“I’m not a monster.” Rue looked up in time to see yet another conveyance barrelling towards their not-so-secret location. “Speaking of monsters.”

This contraption was no horse-drawn carriage but a steam-powered locomotive of a most unusual design. It was insect-like in appearance, constructed rather like a pill bug, although it was not intentionally decorated as such – like The Spotted Custard – but only appearing bug-like out of necessity. It was more utilitarian than beautiful, its exterior comprised of darkened metal panels shelling into one another like scales. It belched steam from below this carapace, and smoke from two stiff antennae.

The steam roly-poly subsided to a stop and a hatch at its top popped open. Quesnel Lefoux’s boyish head poked out.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” He tipped his hat. He, of course, was impeccably well turned out.

“Mr Lefoux, how do you do?” Prim gave the inventor a warm smile.

Rue nodded, her own smile slightly forced.

“Like that, is it?” Primrose looked at Rue sideways and then suddenly caught sight of something aboard ship that needed her attention. “Oh dear, my skirt tapes appear to be in some danger. The sooties are turning them into slingshots. If you would excuse me.” With which she opened one of her parasols, a frothy white affair with small green embroidered leaves, and bustled up the gangplank. She was wearing a sage travelling dress with cream lace sleeves and collar decorated with more embroidered leaves. Prim had such an enviably effortless style. She used the second, closed parasol, with equal effortlessness to prod her way through the masses.

Quesnel came over. “And where has the charming Miss Tunstell gone? Was it something I said?”

“Perhaps the cut of your jib offends,” suggested Rue.

“I assure you my jib is very well cut indeed.” Before Rue could sputter he changed the conversation. “I can’t say I approve of what you’ve done with the place. Why the spots?”

“I like spots.”

“She’s rather over-decorated for a dirigible.”

“So she should be. You stick to your jibs and leave the dirigible to me.”

“A man, mon petit chou, has only one jib.” Rue did sputter at that. “Now, what did you decide to call her?”

“The Spotted Custard.”

Quesnel couldn’t suppress his snort of derision. “Goodness, that sounds like a disease of the unmentionables.”

“You and your jib should know,” Rue shot back without thinking.

“Jealous of my experience, mon petit chou? You’ve only to ask and I’d be happy to teach you all the rigging.”

Rue tried not to be shocked or intrigued – after all she had rather asked for it. She was actually tempted to open negotiations on that very subject right then and there. She’d wager he could teach her a great deal, and she was quite curious. Instead she stuck her nose in the air. But it was a retreat and they both knew it.

Quesnel didn’t press the advantage, instead assessing propellers, belay lines, sail, and smoke stack. “N’importe quoi. Who cares about the name as long as she floats smoothly?”

Rue arched her brows at him. “Well, that would be your responsibility now, wouldn’t it, Mr Chief Engineer?”

“A responsibility at which I have no doubt I shall excel.” He became distracted by Prim gesticulating wildly at a deckhand. “Why is the Honourable Primrose Tunstell accompanying us? What purpose could she possibly serve? Is it a safe journey for a woman of her delicacy?” Quesnel seemed genuinely concerned.

Rue sniffed – he didn’t give a toot for her delicacy. “Don’t worry about Prim. All will become clear.”

They watched as Primrose flirted and parasolled her way through rank and file on the main deck, in a matter of moments organising the entire crew into a streamlined baggage transportation troop. Rue would have had to act like Paw and issue orders. Primrose simply manipulated everyone into doing what she wanted. It was impressive.

“That is the Honourable Primrose Tunstell’s purpose, as you so delicately put it,” said Rue.

As Quesnel’s own bags were already being unloaded and whisked up the gangplank under Prim’s expert guidance, the engineer could only say, “Remarkable. I stand corrected.”

“I believe you might want to become accustomed to the sensation.”

Quesnel turned twinkling violet eyes on her. “This is going to be such fun.”

Rue laughed. “Yes, yes, it is.” She spent a moment appreciating those eyes before Quesnel’s attention was once more caught by something on the ship.

A redhead appeared on the main deck, and it wasn’t Percy.

“Goodness,” said Rue. “What’s she doing outside the boiler room? She never leaves the inner sanctum.”

Aggie Phinkerlington waved a hand at Quesnel and yelled, “Thought those were your bits I saw loading in.”

Quesnel shouted back, “What would you know of my bits, you beastly woman?”

“More than I ever wanted to, you repulsive boffin. Come on up, see what they’ve done with all your original bits. I think you’ll like it.”

“I’d better – you know how seriously I take my bits.” Quesnel turned to Rue and doffed his hat. “Until later, chérie.” He began to stride towards the gangplank.

“Chief Lefoux?”

He paused gratifyingly quickly. “Yes, captain?”