Prudence (Page 60)

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.

Quesnel managed to look both guilty and determined. “Well, I suppose we could get you another one.”

Rue wasn’t sure why but something in his tone both embarrassed and thrilled in a way that no romantic comment would have. He likes it when I look a little less buttoned up, does he? I’ll have to remember that.

Uncle Lyall looked sharply at the young man but was too much a gentleman to say anything. Rue had the distinct impression he was taking mental notes on the flirtation.

Rue took her gloves off and touched the back of Uncle Lyall’s bare hand to distract him.

It was painful. It was always painful. More painful even than the day before she got her monthly courses. She remembered, before she had matured as a woman, that the shift had not hurt when she was a child. But when she stopped growing and her bones firmed into their adult shape, the fracturing of those bones into wolf was no longer mere discomfort – it was agony. But she had withstood it before and she would again.

Her revealing tight velvet bodice tore beyond repair. The skirt, tight over hips and posterior, also ripped. Rue wanted to console the crestfallen Quesnel that she could certainly lay her hands on more tight dresses. Goodness, if that was what it took to get him looking at her like that, she’d start a new trend as soon as they returned to London.

The hat stayed on her head. It was small enough to perch between her ears. Rue let it be. At least she could save one article of clothing.

Uncle Lyall, being the type, made quick work helping her to extract herself from the remains of her costume.

Rue yipped her gratitude and bounded towards the officers’ residence.

“How on earth is she going to look through books without fingers?” Quesnel wanted to know.

“I take it once she touches one of us she is in wolf form and can’t turn back to human voluntarily?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard.” Quesnel was careful not to give anything away.

“Very intriguing,” said Uncle Lyall.

Rue bounded back, supernatural ears having caught the entire conversation. She crouched in front of Quesnel expectantly.

“Oh no,” said the young man, blushing tomato red. “Chérie, I couldn’t possibly. Not ride a lady.”

The corners of Uncle Lyall’s mouth twitched. He smelled like the pomade Dama and Uncle Rabiffano favoured. Guess it is more popular than I thought. He must import it at great expense. She sniffed deeper. There was also a hint of sandalwood and fresh linens, and perhaps smoked fish on his breath.

Rue growled at Quesnel. He smelled of boiler smoke and hot coals and a little lime.

Uncle Lyall said, “She’s right. Time is getting on. Best if I don’t go. If you’re caught, someone has to get you out.”

“But you’ve lost your wolf form.”

“Did I say I would need to fight? Dear boy, no, that’s not my style at all.”

Rue growled at Quesnel again.

With a sigh he slung a leg over and squatted on top of her gingerly.

Rue rose up precipitously.

Quesnel made a pathetic noise of discomfort.

Professor Lyall gave him brief instructions on wolf riding – how to lean forwards and tuck his feet up and back. Quesnel leaned, stiff and uncomfortable. It was a good thing he was relatively slight or Rue’s supernatural strength would have struggled to make up for the awkwardness of disproportionate mass.

“You have your father’s markings, little one,” said Uncle Lyall. “But, like me, you’re not so very big. Speedy, I suspect?”

Rue lolled her tongue in agreement.

“He’s as settled as he’s going to be. In future, you might consider training your crew in wolf riding.” Professor Lyall stepped away, not a hair out of place. Well, to be fair, it was very good pomade. He did not seem at all perturbed to be mortal. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Hard to tell – he was a master of the impassive. Rue envied him that.

Quesnel was as affixed as he was likely to get, so Rue took off. She got up a good speed, showing off for her Uncle Lyall, and leapt. The brigadier’s window was large and wide open. Being inside a military fortress and up a storey, the man clearly felt little need to take precautions. Well, there was a werewolf regiment nearby, and his wife was already missing.

Rue sailed through, landing softly in the sitting room.

Quesnel tumbled off, shaken. “Not quite like riding a horse, is it?”

Rue growled at him. Never liken a lady to a horse.

“Pardon, how crass of me. I do apologise. Now, what are we looking for?”

Rue nosed towards the bookshelves.

Quesnel perused the titles. “Mostly military history, how exhausting. This must be the husband’s collection.”

Rue left him to it and trotted off to look for other clues. She sniffed her way to the bedroom, following the scent of shaving soap and sweaty sheets. It was clear whose side of the bed was whose. One smelled like horse and leather; the other like violets and shaved metal. Also, one side had a monocle and a tin of snuff – In bed? Disgusting – and the other a pot of cold cream and a lace bedcap. There was a book under the cap, all about the mythology of India.