Prudence (The Custard Protocol 1)

Whatever incident Dama alluded to seemed to do the necessary because her mother’s imminent boil-over subsided. She twisted her parasol about in her grasp and actually gave the matter serious thought.

She caught Rue’s eye. “I suppose, were you an ordinary child, you’d be married by now. And since you’ve been vampire-raised, people have mostly stopped trying to kill you. I worry, that’s all. What will become of you?”

Rue was touched. “Aw, you actually love me.”

Alexia Maccon scooped her child in closer to her on the couch with one arm and kissed her temple. “Of course I do, infant.”

Rue hid a smile. Sometimes it was too easy. “So, this ball I was at…” Before you get hold of tomorrow’s gossip rags.

“Very well, tell me all. What’s the situation with the tea? What did you do to poor Uncle Rabiffano? And why were you gallivanting about London in your bloomers?”

Of course, poor old Mother became quite agitated all over again at the idea of her precious daughter travelling to India. Although, as Rue pointed out, it was most certainly the countryside. Dama reminded Lady Maccon of her own misspent youth which, much to Rue’s surprise, appeared to include plagues in Scotland, a mad dash across Europe and one ill-advised trip to Egypt. “At least with Puggle here, we can see her well prepared, properly outfitted, and decently dressed.”

“Really, Mother, I had no idea you were so reckless. You seem so very staid.”

“I’ll have you know, infant, I was a madcap adventurer of epic proportions. Not that you should take that as permission, mind you.”

“So you agree I should go to India?”

“What did I just say?”

Rue crossed her arms and glowered, looking rather too much like her Paw for anyone’s comfort level. “I can take care of myself. Did you forget the little fact that I can steal supernatural abilities?” Nothing irritated Rue more than overprotectiveness. Except possibly flat champagne.

“Infant, there are times when there are no vampires or werewolves around. Not to mention daylight hours rendering you powerless. Also, I am not the only preternatural in existence and able to thwart you.”

“I have other skills,” Rue grumbled.

Her mother looked her up and down as if she were a military captain evaluating Rue for a mission. Then she turned back to Dama. Some silent signal passed between her parents. Dama had trained Rue in mysterious ways and Lady Maccon knew of Rue’s theatrical abilities, even if she rarely witnessed them first-hand, and preferred not to think about the ramifications.

“Oh, very well,” Mother capitulated, “but take this. You’ll need it. Very hot in India, I understand.” She handed over her parasol, an ugly if well-meaning gesture.

It was a good thing to have Mother’s approbation, for even Dama hadn’t the persuasive powers to convince the Alpha of the London Pack that his daughter traipsing around the empire was a good idea. Lord Maccon might be firmly wrapped around Rue’s little finger, but when her safety was at stake he could be militant. It would take Mother’s cajoling to bring him on board. Rue had never inquired too closely into her mother’s skills in this arena. Suffice to say that, on those occasions when Lord and Lady Maccon argued most virulently, a pattern inevitably emerged. They disappeared to their private quarters in disagreement and re-appeared in accord, generally to Mother’s way of thinking. Rue’s mother was fond of saying, “I am always right. Sometimes, it simply takes him a little time, flat on his back, to realise this.”

“India, infant, is going to take me most of our daytime repose,” was her mother’s assessment before they took to their beds before dawn.

“Oh, Mother!” It was nice to know her parents still enjoyed physical expressions of affection even at their advanced age, but also very much not nice to know.

The matter was thus settled, as far as Rue was concerned. She retired before her Paw returned home with the certain knowledge that plans would continue the next evening.

Rue came down after sunset in a dove-grey visiting dress trimmed with black velvet and white beadwork to find Dama and his drones preparing for a trip. The vampire, unlike his hive-bound fellows, often went out on the town, taking in the latest play or opera, occasionally calling upon his mortal acquaintances. Every such jaunt was an event, for everyone and everything in conjunction with the expedition must be aesthetically coordinated. Tonight, Rue’s appearance in the grey dress occasioned a line-up, two drones on either side, as they were to make up a party of six in the landau.

Winkle was instructed to go upstairs and change immediately as his yellow waistcoat did not go with Rue’s muted colour pallet. The drone returned in a sage vest, carrying Rue’s hat. Queen Ivy’s millinery influence dictated this accessory be a massive affair richly decorated in what looked like the flattened corpses of three seagulls. Rue thought it rather detracted from the beauty of her dress but Uncle Rabiffano insisted it was the very latest thing, and Uncle Rabiffano was never wrong about hats.

“Was Mother successful, do you think?” Rue asked Dama as he helped her into the coach. The horses sported grey tassels at their bits and the coachman a grey silk top hat.

“You are in some doubt? My Puggle of little faith.”

Rue smiled. “Of course. Silly me. It’s Mother. She always gets her way.”

“Mmm,” said Dama. “Except, of course, when you do.” He made room for his four drones to join them.

They made a very fetching picture, and Rue was delighted with the entire outing. She savoured the envious looks of the other ladies parading through Hyde Park. Rue was accompanied by five of the best-looking men in all of London, and was still young enough to enjoy the envy and not mind that it had little justifiable cause. For young women of burgeoning romantic hopes, these men could provide only decoration and conversation rather than amorous solace or entanglement. They were, as far as any lady was concerned, like the fake fruit on Baroness Tunstell’s favourite hat – entertaining, pretty, and apparently delicious but not actually useful in the event of starvation or even an attack of the nibbles. Rue, secure in this knowledge, was free to enjoy their company without expectations. Which she did, to the mutual entertainment of all.

Dama directed the driver through Hyde Park and out onto the Edgware Road towards Regent’s Park. Far less popular and less populated by the supernatural set, Regent’s Park was quiet at night. They drove along one side before turning in towards a dense plot of trees near Boating Lake. There, in the centre of a petite forest, sat an abandoned cricket pitch now occupied by a small but cheerful family of squirrels and Dama’s latest acquisition.