“Yes, Aunty,” Cecilia replied, brushing gunpowder residue from her chemise as she went.
“This is ever so exciting!” Constantinopla declared. “The Wisteria Ladies’ Society, reunited at last!”
Miss Darlington frowned. “Several of us were together in April for Lavinia’s bridal shower.”
“I hosted a gathering myself only three weeks ago,” Miss Brown added. “Olivia lost her tiger on the beach and it was great fun watching the landlubbers run screaming.”
“I don’t recall receiving an invitation to that,” Miss Darlington said frostily.
“Yes, I’ve been meaning to be in touch ever since you framed me for the Marlborough House robbery twelve years ago. But you know how it is, busy, busy. I’ve quite lost count of all my heists and husbands. And now this little one is getting her wings.” She patted Constantinopla’s arm.
“Finally!” Constantinopla added fervently.
“Oply’s ever so gifted. With her excellent grades and just a touchof blackmail, she graduated three months early from Mrs. Higglestone’s School of Music and Martial Arts.”
“School,” Miss Darlington said, her tone the verbal equivalent of cold, unsugared tea. “How modern of you.”
Miss Brown smiled.
Miss Darlington smiled.
Constantinopla edged away.
They were at the point of showing their teeth when Cecilia returned. Constantinopla huddled in the doorway, and Pleasance, holding a large tray of canapés, was quivering so much that shrimps leaped to the floor. Cecilia sighed.
“Your cloak, Aunty,” she said, stepping between the two women to drape the cloak over Miss Darlington’s shoulders. The pleasantness cracked and ebbed away. Anne Brown frowned, Miss Darlington scowled, and Constantinopla took a deep breath of relief. Pleasance began picking up shrimps off the floor and replacing them in their canapés.
“Shall we join the others?” Miss Brown suggested.
“Delightful,” Miss Darlington said.
They made a dainty, feminine procession into the deepening night.
Cecilia, taking the tray from Pleasance and stepping outside, glanced eastward over the field. In the distance beyond, sharp towers of darkness jutted into the moonless sky. Cecilia frowned, trying unsuccessfully to recall the jagged peaks of East Devon. She would have to consult an atlas tomorrow.
She turned to hasten after the other ladies, therefore missed seeing a light come on in a window of those distant peaks as Captain Morvath lit a lantern with which to inspect his cannons.
6
the wisteria society motto—the wisteria society itself—assassination by parrot—seating arrangements—fencing with flying butlers—ill met by moonlight—a risk of matrimony (or murder)—the wisteria society motto, junior division—a speeding house chase—ned makes a vow
It is violence that best overcomes hate, vengeance that most certainly heals injury, and a good cup of tea that soothes the most anguished soul”; thus ran the motto of the Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels. Therefore, by the time Miss Darlington and her niece joined the gathering of ladies in Gertrude Rotunder’s dining room, plans had already been made to chase down the thieving butler and have him hung, drawn, and quartered, with his remains displayed in Hyde Park as a warning to others. The ladies, seated around a lace-clothed table laden with cakes and delicate savories, paused in their conversation as Cecilia and Miss Darlington entered.
It was like walking into a tropical garden in which several flocks of rare birds had exploded. Feathers jutted in all directions from silk-flowered hats and bosoms. Entire wings swooped up from some heads; on others, taxidermied robins nested among swathes of lace. Thegowns below were a hysteria of colors that would have sent any painter mad. Such an array of jewels glinted in the chandelier light that the air was thick with rainbow fragments.
Twelve ladies altogether attended the meeting. The youngest was Essie Smith, who had barely made her début before her parents were killed by the curse of the Black Diamond; she’d inherited their Palladian town house and had spent the next five years looting the northern counties before settling down to motherhood. The oldest was Verisimilitude Jones, known as Millie the Monster, blight of the Cornish coast: so old was she that rumor had it she’d once stolen a cake from Marie Antoinette. She piloted a quaint, thatch-roofed cottage despite being rich enough to own a castle, and had taught Cecilia how to use a cutlass.
No men sat at the table, having been left at home to mind the children, guard the treasure, or quite frankly just stay out of the way of women’s business.
Cecilia’s heart warmed as she looked upon the ladies. She suspected that, no matter how old she became, she’d always feel a rush of comfort when she entered their company. The motherless child she’d been, hiding behind their skirts, listening to their madcap bedtime stories, and absolutely trusting that they’d keep her safe from her father, could never imagine anyone so powerful, or so magnificent, as the Wisteria Society ladies.
Now she was eligible to become one of them herself. They could not deny it since another Society member wanted her dead. Surely today would be the day of her induction!
Why, how unexpected!she reminded herself to say when they pulled out the chair. She’d probably be placed down at the end of the table by the condiments, but even so.You are too kind; I am not worthy, she would murmur as she lowered herself onto the cushioned seat, back straight, head high albeit hatless, while a maid poured her tea.
Envisioning it, she tried not to smile or rock on her heels like an excited little girl.
“Jemima,” said Gertrude Rotunder, rising in a flurry of blue lace, ribbons, feathers, and flounces to greet her latest guest. “How lovely to see you. And in such good health, too.”
