24
taking the low road—buckingham palace—prince albert ogles cecilia—accidental robbery—the king of belgium’s beard—dr. lumes—the obligatory romantic waltz—a proposal of theft
A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of making a grand entrance. Miss Darlington and Cecilia approached Buckingham Palace at what seemed to be a leisurely pace, as befitted their general social superiority; in fact, it was timed to the minute so they were exactly the right degree of unpunctual.
Through the windows of their (i.e., Lord Bacomb’s) carriage, they could see the city in a dreamlike blur of darkness and golden lamplight. Cecilia had gazed out at it for a while, entranced, but grew queasy from the motion and had to sit back. Miss Darlington never varied from her stiff posture. The carriage rocked around them, and they gripped the cushioned seats, unused to such an ungainly, primitive mode of transport.
“Seldom have I lowered myself in this fashion,” Miss Darlington said. “I hope we are fed well for our sacrifices.”
Cecilia regarded her aunt, resplendent in blue silk (and a blackcloak, brown muff, gray scarf) with sapphires at her throat and ears, looking as magnificent as a queen—and surmised she would be happier at home by the fire, dressed in a flannel nightgown, drinking tea. Her wounds still irritated her, although she gave no complaint. And her thoughts were little better, judging from the serenity of her visage. Miss Darlington’s serenity was her iron shield, forged over a lifetime of scoundrelry: not even the merest regret penetrated into the world. And yet, there were lines on her brow that had not been visible a week ago, and a shadow of weariness in her eyes. Cecilia knew her aunt was old, but for the first time began to perceive her as elderly. It was a painful realization.
“I am sure the Queen’s menu will prove adequate,” she said. “Although I doubt it will surpass Pleasance’s chicken pie.”
Miss Darlington chuckled at this tepid joke, but in fact Cecilia was serious. Despite the pearls, she, too, would have preferred flannel worn beside a cozy fire while she read her latest book (On the Origin of Species) in peace. The idea of mingling with kings and queens offered her no excitement. Miss Darlington had forbidden thievery for the evening, and Cecilia could not think of anything interesting about royalty other than their jewels. After all, they did little more than sit around in stationary houses, aggravating their ministers and marrying one another.
Besides, Major Candent would be present at the banquet, and presumably for the ballroom dancing afterward. Cecilia did not want to see Major Candent. She did not want to think about Major Candent. Or Ned Lightbourne. Or Teddy Luxe with his skintight breeches and pink dancing shoes, sliding her across the floor in a tango.
“Are you all right, dear?” Miss Darlington asked. “You gave the most remarkable shudder.”
“Fine, thank you, Aunty,” Cecilia replied.
“I fear it was a mistake to come out this evening. You will perish from dengue fever before the night is done.”
“Not unless I am bitten by something,” Cecilia said—and then had to fan herself rather urgently with her gloved hand.
“Hmm.” Miss Darlington rummaged in her purse, then handed a lozenge to Cecilia. “Take this, my dear. It will offer some protection.”
Cecilia eyed the lozenge warily. “What is it?”
“Merely a dose of cocaine. I keep it handy in case of toothache, neuralgia, or syphilis.”
“Thank you.” Cecilia pretended to swallow the pill. She then discreetly slipped it into her purse, alongside her handkerchief, powder box, and pearl-handled revolver. It was unlikely any medicine could cure what ailed her. Had a floral-scented envelope arrived at any point containing an invitation to tea with the Wisteria Society’s senior members, she might be feeling better now. But having sacrificed love for the sake of her career, she still awaited promotion.
Perhaps it would happen tonight!
Or perhaps never.
“You have been out of sorts all this week,” Miss Darlington observed. “And I never did get around to employing that doctor for you. Maybe what you need is a good assassination attempt to invigorate your blood.”
Cecilia envisioned Signor de Luca creeping into her bedroom, blade unsheathed, and tried not to moan.
“I myself have been disturbingly untroubled by Lady Armitage,” Miss Darlington mused. “Not a single poisoned apple or missile. I hope she is all right.”
“Perhaps her house finally broke down,” Cecilia suggested.
“Hmm,” Miss Darlington said again, and stared out the window as if wishing for a red-doored town house to suddenly swoop down, guns blazing in an effort to murder them.
Buckingham Palace glimmered like the jewelry box Cecilia stole from Lady Diana Hollister when she was eleven years old (and sold back to her for a profit when she was fifteen). The ladies were assisted down from their carriage and escorted into the magnificent Bow Room, where royalty, aristocracy, and several incognito pirates mingled in a display of wealth so ostentatious that Cecilia had to link her fingers together to keep them from business.
People turned to stare as they entered, and Miss Darlington strode through the parted throng as if she was the Queen herself. She had left her cane at home, and although Cecilia suspected her of maintaining a stable gait only through determination and the aid of several cocaine pills, she gave no indication of frailty.
Following behind, Cecilia absolutely did not glance about in search of Ned Lightbourne (nor did she see him). Murmurs rippled through the company—“scoundrels”; “dangerous ladies”; “those sapphire earrings look just like the ones I lost.” Gentlemen bowed. But none of them had blond hair falling piratically over one eye, nor silver hooped in their ear, nor a bewildering effect on her pulse that might have caused Cecilia to stumble, had they done so.
She passed Olivia Etterly in discussion with the King of Denmark—
(“Oh yes, it’s an excellent opportunity, Your Majesty, I bought land there myself only last month, such divine views of the jungle, I’d be pleased to introduce you to my agent, who just so happens to be present this evening.”
“What is their name?”
