In the end, it did make her feel better. Byron was so ridiculously melodramatic it quite made her feel as if she were overdoing it herself. Tea, poetry, and cat duly applied, Rue girded her loins. The sun had set and it was time to approach her mother.
Percy appeared just as she was heading out. His hair was sticking up all over, as if he’d been tugging at it.
“Prudence? About your quandary?”
Rue was eager. “Do you have anything for me?”
“Aside from suggesting he stay in permanent contact with your mother? That might stave off Alpha’s curse.”
Rue shuddered. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
Percy shrugged. “Well, then, there’s always Egypt.”
“Oh? Oh! The God-Breaker Plague you mean?”
“Yes. There’s very little written about it, and the more recent stuff is classified. But it does make immortals mortal, so it might counteract the curse. He’d go ahead and die, though. I mean, just like the rest of us.”
Rue hugged him fiercely. “Thank you, Percy.”
“Oh leave off.” He brushed her away gruffly, but his eyes crinkled in pleasure.
Rue hailed a hackney. She considered herself a New Woman, thus she did not think it odd to travel alone in public hire, even if Primrose frowned upon it and Aunt Ivy thought it perfectly scandalous.
Nothing awful happened during the three-quarters-of-an-hour drive. She paid her fare, bidding the man on the box a pleasant evening, and took a deep breath to settle her nerves.
It was after dark so the werewolves were awake, and there were a number of clavigers also surging round. Many of them, duties discharged for the day, were heading off to their theatrical obligations or other pursuits. It was the pack equivalent of the changing of the guards.
“Evening, Lady Prudence. You’re not in the wrong house, are you?” A new claviger, whose name Rue did not know, let her in and gave her a small salute.
“You might well ask but I’ve come to call on Mother.”
“Ah. My sympathies.”
“Thank you. And where… ?”
“In the back parlour, miss, with himself. Last I checked they weren’t admitting.”
“I’m sure they will make an exception in my case.”
The claviger looked doubtful, for the pack had strict instructions never to disturb Lord and Lady Maccon when they made it clear they did not wish to be disturbed.
“It’s important.”
“Your peril, my lady.”
Rue gave him a nod and brushed by, heading for the back parlour. The dining room opposite was abuzz with humanity. The uncles sat at the table ripping into huge trenchers of raw meat, occasionally hurling bits at each other, boisterous as ever. Was it rougher than normal? Less controlled?
Rafe noticed her and said something. They all quieted. Most of them hung their heads and didn’t look at her. Hemming gave Rue a cocky grin. She thought about reminding him how ridiculous he’d looked in her dress, but the pack would have to wait.
Except they apparently wouldn’t. From a spot near the door, hidden from her hallway view, emerged a strapping blond gentleman.
Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings was both tall and broad, although not to Paw’s scale. He was entirely comfortable with his size in a way that many large men of Rue’s acquaintance were not. Few big men occupied space easily; most were constantly at war with it, trying to make room for themselves. Uncle Channing was elegant. He was also painfully good-looking, not a requirement for werewolves by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, Rue could never quite understand why he hadn’t gone for vampire. His style was more suited to hive than pack. But pack he was. Gamma by station, which meant the only ones to outrank him were Paw and Uncle Rabiffano. In human form he had a petulant mouth and icy-blue eyes. Most of the time both were arranged into a sneer of such arrogance it kept everyone at a goodly distance. Rue had learned, over the years, that this was the point.
It never worked on Rue. She’d somehow understood from her littlest girl state that Uncle Channing wasn’t intentionally mean; he was simply wounded in a way that made him scared of being prey. He hunted others as a great white wolf, vicious and bloody. And he hunted with words as a great blond man, equally vicious and bloody. Uncle Channing would do anything not to be vulnerable.
It almost hurt Rue to see him contort himself into shame before her.
“Lady Prudence?”
“Uncle Channing?”
He hung his head. “My behaviour last night. Please allow me to apologise. It was unconscionable. If I had known who you were, I would never… I can’t possibly make amends.”
“Pish-tosh.” Rue sounded so like her mother it startled a few of the other werewolves into smiles. “You didn’t hurt one hair on my pelt. There is nothing to apologise for. What’s a little growling between family, hmm?”
Uncle Channing lifted his head, icy eyes hot with hope. “You aren’t angry?”
“Of course I’m not angry. It’s not your fault.”
Uncle Channing looked like he wanted to protest. Only someone behind Rue said in a gravelly voice, “Channing, did you growl at my daughter?”
Rue spun to find her father looming in the parlour doorway with his wife, a slightly smaller loom, behind him. She was holding his hand. Keeping him mortal.
He seemed to be wholly Paw, tired but otherwise nothing like the creature she had encountered that afternoon.
“Paw, good, there you are.”