Imprudence

As if her thoughts had summoned him, the antiquity in question joined her on the forecastle.

“Lady Prudence.” He greeted her with a painfully formal bow. Rue was afraid he might fall over with the effort. He looked so frail, the slightest breeze could tip him spout over handle in the manner of a porcelain teapot.

“Mr Panettone. How are you this morning?”

“Tolerable.”

A man of brevity, this one.

Rue gestured for him to sit in a nearby deck chair. He did so with relief. Rue was sympathetic; the stairs and ladders of her ship were not designed with the aged or infirm in mind. Quite the opposite, having been conceived of by an ageless vampire and executed by a series of disgustingly healthy drones.

Rue turned back to their surrounding flock. “I find it interesting that these dirigibles of yours are all painted red with black spots. Newly painted, unless I miss my guess. Surely this is no coincidence? Not that I think my taste unique, simply eccentric.”

The man barely cracked a smile. “I had word of your coming.”

“And somehow knew I would need ladybug decoys?”

“You may be different from your mother, but not that different.”

If that wasn’t the perfect opening for more questions, Rue would eat her hat. “Eighteen fifty-five was the date. Mother would have been around eight. How did you—?”

“I was in service to your family.”

That explained his general demeanour. “Oh yes?”

“It is a family in ever great need of decoys.”

Rue wrinkled her nose. Truer words were likely never before uttered.

She prodded. “Grandmother’s household?”

He inclined his head. “Butler.”

“I do apologise.” Rue had little to do with Grandmother Loontwill over the years, first at her mother’s insistence and later at her own. Grandmother Loontwill was unpleasantly silly and had produced two equally silly follow-up daughters to Alexia. Aunt Evelyn came to the pack’s Sunday roast once or twice a year but Grandmother Loontwill wasn’t welcome in the Maccon household. There was another aunt, Felicity, but she and Mother did not speak. She’d left London and was reputed to be worse than the whole rest of the family put together. “That could not have been a very pleasant house to work in.”

Mr Panettone did not acknowledge this statement. “Before that, I worked for your grandfather as valet.”

Rue was totally floored by this. “The Italian one?”

“Alessandro Tarabotti.”

“Is that why you have an Italian name?”

“That’s why I use one.”

Ah, then it’s not his real name. “Mother said her father was an unsavoury sort but that he’d died heroically and was burned without headstone.”

“True enough.”

“Dama said he was one for both women and men.”

This seemed to rather shock Mr Panettone. “One does not discuss such things, Lady Prudence.”

Rue grinned. Of course, he was from a different generation. “I assure you, one certainly does. We’re very frank aboard this ship, quite modern. Well, not Primrose. I’d wear bicycle bloomers all the time if shape-shifting weren’t easier in tea-gowns. And you’ve seen Miss Sekhmet marching around in split skirts and a military jacket.”

The gentleman went silent.

“Mr Panettone, have I offended? I beg your pardon.”

He sniffed. “You might as well call me Floote. It seems odd to use any other name with Alexia’s daughter. You may not look like her, but your voice is reminiscent.”

“Mr Floote, then.”

“Just Floote.” That rang another bell in Rue’s memory. Hadn’t she heard him mentioned by the Maccon staff in a reverential manner? The Great Butler who came Before.

“I remember that name. They missed you.”

A tiny smile crept through the wrinkles. “Nice to know I made an impression. They wouldn’t include Lady Maccon, would it?”

“No.”

“I thought not. We parted badly.” He appeared impassive, but there was something stilted in the way he spoke.

“Not uncommon with my mother.” Rue’s voice held a trace of bitterness. On more than one occasion, she had been on the receiving end of her mother’s militant obstreperousness.

“Not her fault.”

“I suppose not.” Rue was dying to know more about this wrong person that Floote had killed. “She apparently objects to untidy death.” She prodded.

“To be fair, so do I.” He did not take the bait.

“Then you disagreed over the individual in question?”

An inclination of the head.

“Not going to tell me more, are you?”

A slight shake.

“And my grandfather?” Rue shifted forward. “What about him?” It was rare Rue got to ask anyone about her grandfather. Lady Maccon had told Rue some things – things relevant to being preternatural. After all, Alexia had inherited her soullessness from Alessandro Tarabotti. Which meant Rue owed half her metanatural powers to this long-dead ancestor. But Mother was more circumspect about her paternal line than she was about anything else. Which must have been difficult for her.

“Very tidy about death was Mr Tarabotti. Not to mention, good at doling it out. A curious man. He had his own morals, although they were not always commensurate with that of society.”

“Which society?”