“A gentleman does not trouble a lady by pinpointing the time of her murder,” he said.
“A gentleman also does not accost a lady at night unless he intends to assassinate her at that moment or marry her.”
“I’m not going to assassinate you at this moment,” he murmured in her ear.
She shivered at the hot tickling of his breath. Then she frowned. “What on earth is going on in Miss Dole’s house?” The rush of lights had settled in an upper front room that Cecilia supposed to be the cockpit, and she could sense the trembling aura of old flight magic.
“We are stealing it,” Captain Lightbourne said. “I’m afraid I shall have to render you unconscious so that you do not raise the alarm. Would you prefer a brisk tap on the head or the application of chloroform? The latter is less painful, but some people consider it rather flirtatious, and as you are a very proper lady, I—”
She moved abruptly, inserting her arm beneath his, angling to grasp his coat, and then bent to flip him over her shoulder. He fell with a grunt at her feet, and she turned at once to depart.
She had taken only half a step when he caught the hem of her dress and tugged, causing her to stumble and fall. Within a moment he was rolling her over and sitting astride her waist in a most ungentlemanly manner indeed. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them to the ground, and grinned down at her through the tumble of his hair.
“Sir,” she said coolly. “Unhand me at once. You are not wearing gloves.”
“Miss Bassingthwaite,” he replied, “I humbly beg your pardon, but I am not at liberty to—er, set you at liberty. And yet, I cannot feel too apologetic for imprisoning your soft hand, or wanting to rave about your peerless eyes—”
“Really, sir!” Cecilia was entirely shocked. “You misquote Keats inthe most appalling fashion. Furthermore, your dagger hilt is pressing into my—my midsection.”
“Dagger hilt?” He contrived a slight, confused frown, which melted into a grin so wicked that Cecilia blushed. They stared at each other for a long, silent moment. His grin faded, her heart began rushing, he bent as if to kiss her, and she kneed him in the groin.
“Urgh,” he said.
She shoved him off and hastened to her feet. As he coiled into himself, groaning, she gathered up her skirts. “Excuse me,” she said, and ran toward Mrs. Rotunder’s door.
Ned was up again even as she reached it, but he did not give chase; instead, he ran rather awkwardly across the field to Petunia Dole’s house. Cecilia applied a fist to the Rotunder door, but it was in vain. By the time the butler opened the door, and the ladies were alerted, and all rushed out with swords and pistols drawn, the Dole manor was sailing eastward under billowing enchantment.
“Well, I never!” Miss Darlington exclaimed, taking in Cecilia’s disordered hair and flushed face. “What has been happening here?”
“My house!” Petunia Dole wailed.
“It was Captain Lightbourne,” Cecilia explained.
“What, the homeless man?” Gertrude Rotunder asked with surprise.
“Who more likely to steal a house?” Essie reasoned.
“I believe he’s working for someone else,” Cecilia said. “There’s another house beyond the woods—a large building—” She pointed, despite knowing that it was rude to do so. Everyone turned to stare as the great spiked shadow rose out of the distance, one light blazing from a high window. Miss Dole’s manor flew toward it.
“Northangerland Abbey!” Gertrude exclaimed.
“Captain Morvath!” Essie gasped.
A grim murmur went through the group. Several of the women glanced with narrowed eyes at Cecilia, but as she did not begin shrieking in fear at the sudden appearance of her evil father’s monstrous Gothic lair, they looked at one another instead. A wordless code traveled through their gazes.
“To your wheels, ladies!” Anne cried, lifting her sword high. “We must give chase!”
“Tally ho!” someone hollered.
“Hurrah!” someone else shouted—and then: “Oh, sorry, Petunia, it’s really not exciting at all.”
And the ladies ran for their battlehouses.
Cecilia turned to hurry home, but Miss Darlington caught her by the arm. “We cannot leave without our coats,” she said, and hauled Cecilia into the Rotunder foyer with a strength belied by her cane and her frequent claims of being too infirm to fetch anything for herself, even from a table within reach.
“Good man,” she said, snapping her fingers at the butler, who was directing staff to action stations. He bowed and went at once, with a butler’s instinctual understanding, to retrieve the ladies’ outdoorswear.
Mrs. Rotunder had already dashed up to her wheelroom, and servants began running about closing windows and dousing candles. Miss Darlington, still possessed of Cecilia’s arm, eyed her closely.
