“Miss Fairweather, Your Majesty. A widow of integrity and excellent repute.”)
—and glancing away with a smile, caught sight of Bloodhound Besslaughing heartily with Prince Wilhelm of Germany as she slipped a gold medallion from his breast.
She and Miss Darlington came before Queen Victoria, and Cecilia was astonished to see Miss Darlington curtsy to the Queen. She followed the example and as she rose found the Queen staring up at her.
“Ah yes, the conundrum,” Victoria said. Cecilia smiled politely, but her wits turned inward, rummaging through old boxes, tossing memories hither and yon, trying to remember where they’d heard that word before. “We are pleased to see you here tonight,” the Queen continued. “One must do what one can for the younger generation, don’t you agree, Albert dear?”
She applied this question to a marble bust of Prince Albert that stood on a small, black-clothed table beside her chair. The bust had nothing to say, but it did stare at Cecilia with such intensity that she wished she was wearing a coat over her ball gown.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Cecilia said.
“Not that we actuallywantto do anything,” the Queen added, “but the mournful sighs got too much for us.”
“I know what you mean,” Miss Darlington said wryly.
Cecilia, who had no idea what she meant, watched the two ladies smirk at each other and began to worry. Perhaps she ought to have taken that cocaine pill after all: she suspected she would have a headache before this night was done.
The company dined in an opulent room surrounded by high, overwrought walls and the glare of so many candles Cecilia could barely see the food on her golden plate. She was seated between the King of Belgium and Princess Louise, and if the princess’s bracelet happened to fall into a surreptitious pocket of Cecilia’s skirt, that could be fairly described as an accidental collision between fingers and gold chain; and if the king later could not find his signet ring, well, anything mighthave happened to it—there must be a dozen innocent reasons why it ended up in Cecilia’s purse.
Besides,no thievingwas obviously more of a guideline than a rule, since there might be circumstances in which thieving was essential—for example, if King Leopold’s life had been endangered by his signet ring (due to a spontaneous allergy to gold)—and everyone knew it was morally acceptable to ignore guidelines.
The mealtime was as tedious as Cecilia had expected. She spent the entire first course listening to the king boast about all the buildings he had commissioned to be raised (albeit not literally, Belgian people being too sensible for piracy), and he mistook the glazed look in Cecilia’s eyes for shining interest. Alas, she somehow managed to knock over a candle and the king’s beard caught fire, which at least broke the tedium for a few minutes; after this, she turned to her left and for the remainder of the meal discussed the weather with Princess Louise.
Afterward, they trooped into yet another grand room, where a band played and the company danced in a sparkling, dizzying swirl of color. Olivia Etterly stopped her along the way to ask in a whisper whether she had seen Lady Armitage that evening. “No,” Cecilia whispered in reply. “Is she here?”
“That’s the thing,” Olivia said. “No one knows. No one has seen or heard of her all week. No assassination attempts, no newspaper warnings to the general public, no children running in terror along the street while her house chased them. It’s as if she’s disappeared.”
Cecilia thought of the last time she had seen Lady Armitage—standing in the dark forest, laughing as she realized Cecilia intended to be captured by Morvath if possible.
Hearing that laugh, Cecilia had felt a moment’s pride. Lady Armitage had considered her dangerous and had admired her for it, run away back to her house because of it. Not like the other Wisteria Society women, who had done everything they could over the years to repressher, keeping her on the sofa, ensuring she did not turn out like Patrick Morvath or, worse in a way, Cilla.
As they repressed her still.
A sudden strange love for the wily old Lady Armitage rushed through Cecilia’s heart. She found herself giving Olivia a smile like a scimitar. The older woman took half a step back, and there it was—that caution darkening her eyes, seeing Cecilia’s ghosts rather than the woman she was herself.
Oddly, it didn’t hurt. She just felt the sharpness in her smile and her eyes. “Never mind,” she said. “Knowing Lady Armitage, she’s probably off somewhere getting married. I wouldn’t worry, at least not about her, if I were you.”
Olivia swallowed dryly. “You’re right,” she murmured, then ducked her head and hurried away so that Cecilia would stop smiling at her like that.
Cecilia found herself a quiet space at the edge of the room where she could scrutinize the crowd. Perhaps it was just her own sudden fierceness, or perhaps the mention of Lady Armitage, but she felt a sense of danger that had her nerves tightening and her wits coming to armed attention.
But apart from a spiked fern that gave her a moment’s concern, swaying as someone knocked against it and reminding her of Aunty Army’s perpendicular hair, nothing suggested a need for alarm. In fact, danger seemed impossible among such gentility. Princesses glimmered; princes laughed. Alex O’Riley, in an elegant dinner suit but unshaven, was sharing an intense conversation with Prince Wilhelm and the King of Belgium. Glancing up, he winked at her before the German prince tugged on his sleeve, demanding all his attention. Even Miss Darlington was trotting along in a two-step with Prince Edward as if she hadn’t a week ago been knifed by her long-lost maniac son; the prince was struggling to keep up. Cecilia sighed.
“Why so sad?” came a voice in her ear.
Cecilia nearly (and unscientifically) spontaneously combusted. She glanced sidelong at Ned Lightbourne’s wicked smile before hastily looking ahead once more. Any thoughts of Lady Armitage were immediately lost to this clear and present danger. Ned was not dressed as an officer of Her Majesty’s forces, instead wearing impeccable white linen beneath a black tailcoat, his black trousers so tight it was dangerous to her blood flow, his hair brushed back in suave style. He looked like he was planning to steal the castle and every lady in it. Cecilia instinctively felt for the comfort of the knife tucked among her skirts.
“It seems you are just where you wished to be,” he commented. “Standing alone at the sidelines, watching over your aunt so she does not feel lonely or mournful.”
They observed Miss Darlington swirl past, batting her eyelashes at the English prince.
“Go away, Ned,” Cecilia muttered.
“Ned? Who is this Ned of whom you speak? Madam, may I have the honor of introducing myself? Dr. Edward Lumes at your service. Just back in town from a sojourn in the countryside and available to—um, service you.”
“Dr. Lumes,” she echoed scathingly. “I suppose you are going to suggest giving me a complete physical inspection.”
“Oh, I’m not that kind of doctor,” he replied in a languid voice, and leaned even closer to whisper, “I’m a doctor of literature, madam.”
