Constantinopla’s blush deepened. “Oh no, ma’am. Provide code at perimeter. Morse code, with your lantern or curtains, so we know you’re not with the enemy.”
“The enemy?” Miss Darlington was aghast. “No one has accused me of being their enemy in—in—”
“Two weeks, Aunty,” Cecilia supplied. “Lady Espiner.”
“Espiner? Thin woman, ruby necklace?”
“Yes, Aunty.”
Miss Darlington scoffed. “I wasn’t her enemy; I was doing her a favor. Imagine wearing rubies in summer! They are an autumn jewel. And I never would have thought my own Society would shoot at me.”
“You shot at Mrs. Eames last month, Aunty,” Cecilia reminded her. “And Miss Coatwallis shot at us in Greenwich over Eastertide. And Lady Armitage—”
“Nevertheless,” Miss Darlington said. “I did not expect such a poor welcome.”
An answer issued from the open doorway: “We have to be careful, with houses being snatched right from under our noses.”
Everyone turned to see a woman step across the threshold. She was dressed in a voluminous black gown, with a black lace cape about her shoulders secured by a brooch of skull and crossbones. Her head was glazed with thin black hair and featured round pallid eyes, thin pallid lips, and a nose so pallid that it seemed more like an insinuation of anose than actual nasal cavities. If Death had a governess, she would look like this woman.
“Anne,” Miss Darlington said in greeting.
“Jemima,” the woman replied. She stepped forward, extending a hand in a businesslike manner. Miss Darlington eyed it warily.
“Have you sanitized your hands before coming here?”
“I’m wearing gloves.”
Miss Darlington shuddered. “Cecilia, shake hands with Miss Brown on my behalf.”
Cecilia set down her rifle and politely shook Miss Brown’s small gloved hand. “How do you do?”
“Cilla Bassingthwaite’s daughter?” Miss Brown asked, throwing Miss Darlington a complex look.
“Yes,” Miss Darlington replied.
“Interesting.” She regarded Cecilia more closely, as if mentally measuring the depth of lace on her petticoat and drawers, assessing her posture, and judging her against the memory of a woman far superior to that which stood here now. “With that hair, she looks more like her father. How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
“Nineteen,” Cecilia corrected demurely.
Miss Darlington waved this away with an impatient hand. “What’s happening about the house theft?”
“Why don’t you come over to Gertrude’s,” Miss Brown said, “and we’ll tell you the news. Everyone’s there.”
“Everyone?” Miss Darlington was surprised.
“Everyone who’s currently in the country and out of jail. Only Issy Armitage hasn’t come, but we all know how antisocial she can be. I myself flew down from Newcastle for Constantinopla’s graduation, only to be waylaid by these events. Rather decent of the Fairweathers to provide some entertainment for my first visit south in ten years.”Her bland countenance did not alter, but she nevertheless managed to exude the impression that she was smirking. “You’re the last to arrive, Jem. Better late than never, aye?”
Miss Darlington lifted her chin. “One does like to make an entrance. Pleasance, bring the canapés. Cecilia, fetch my cloak.”
“Which one, Aunty?”
“The black velvet that Madame Yurovsky would have gifted me on the opening night of the opera, had she been in the room at the time.”
“Yes, Aunty.” Cecilia began to walk down the hall, toward the cloakroom.
“And put on a dress. And shoes. And coat, scarf, beret. It will be nightfall soon, and you don’t want to develop bronchitis.”
