“You encountered this Lightbourne fellow, or merely saw him entering Pet’s house?” she asked in a stern tone.
“We had a brief conversation,” Cecilia confessed.
“A rather athletic one, from the looks of you,” Miss Darlington said, and Cecilia blushed.
“There was some exchange of stances.”
“I see.” The short phrase seemed to ring with bells—church bells, to be precise, and Cecilia held her breath. She was disinclined to marryher assassin, regardless of how charming his smile might be. But Miss Darlington’s eyes gleamed with unexpected humor. “Who won?”
“I would say that I did,” Cecilia replied, “but as he is currently getting away with Miss Dole’s house, I fear that would be an exaggeration.”
“Pish!” Miss Darlington said. “Pet should have locked her door better. Where is that man with my cloak? We shall have to jump for it if he does not—ah, finally,” she said as the butler arrived. “Hurry now, Cecilia, there is not a minute to lose.”
They took their clothing and exited the house. All around them, buildings were rising into the night. Even as Miss Darlington and Cecilia stood putting on cloak and coat (and scarves, beret, gloves), Mrs. Rotunder’s house groaned aloft. Miss Darlington lifted a disapproving gaze to the wheelroom window.
“It sounds like someone mispronounced the second rhyme,” she said. “Cecilia Patricia Bassingthwaite, your tonsils are quite exposed. Wrap your scarf again properly.”
Cecilia did this and then also rearranged her beret to Miss Darlington’s satisfaction, whereupon her aunt said urgently, “Come along, dear, let us make haste.”
They walked beneath manors, town houses, and cottages to their own house, where Pleasance was waiting with a tomahawk at the door. “If any burglar tries to get past me, miss,” she said as they approached, “I’ll make him into a ghost. He can help the White Lady haunt the guest bedroom.”
“Well done,” Miss Darlington replied, closing the door behind her and proceeding to unlace and remove the cloak she had one minute before so carefully donned. “Now we must rush to join the chase. All hands on deck! Cecilia, I want you to check windows and doors are closed, then put on the kettle. Tea is vital at a time like this. And,Pleasance, polish the sextant and telescope. We cannot venture forth with dirty instruments.”
Cecilia and Pleasance exchanged a brief glance.
“Ain’t we in a hurry, miss?” Pleasance dared to ask.
“Absolutely!” Miss Darlington replied in a strident tone. “Every moment counts! Plenty of sugar with the tea, Cecilia. And bring it to me in the parlor. I shall just rest my eyes before setting off. Many’s the accident that’s been had due to eyestrain, you know.”
“Yes, Aunty,” Cecilia murmured. She knew Miss Darlington was trying to protect her, not having been appraised of Cecilia’s long-held intention to run her father down and put a sword through him. However, she also knew that, if her aunt became aware of this scheme, no buts would be butted, and Cecilia would be thereafter lucky to fly her own armchair, let alone her own house. So she went without argument to do as she was told. (After all, the Wisteria Ladies’ Junior Division motto was: “Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and hopefully the other person dies.”)
“Also bring biscuits,” Miss Darlington called after her. “The ginger ones. I could not eat a thing at Gertrude’s table—you never know whether people clean their kitchens properly or not. The dangers of an upset stomach are not to be underestimated!”
Ned sighed dreamily as he limped through Miss Dole’s downstairs rooms, filling his pockets with small valuable items and trying to ignore the pain in a certain part of his anatomy. If Cecilia Bassingthwaite hadn’t injured him, he would be having quite the opposite reaction to their meeting. So much for implacability! So much for delicate pallor! Fire ran through her veins! He’d felt it in her throat, pulsing against his knife. He’d felt it in her breath beneath him. She had witchcraft in her lips!—and hands, and knees.
Definitely in her knees, he thought, wincing.
Lady Armitage was right to want such a woman blotted out, although right for all the wrong reasons. Lady Armitage thought her only a means to an end. But Ned was beginning to suspect Cecilia was the heart of everything.
One of the lackeys ran into the room, gasping. “They’re following us, Captain!”
Ned smirked, picking up a small, onyx-framed portrait from a table. “Of course they are,” he said. The portrait was done in oils, and its artist had possessed enough talent to capture the wildness of the woman’s smile, but not enough for the sadness in her sky-colored eyes. Ned remembered those eyes, although it had been a decade since he’d seen them. He doubted anyone could forget them. Cecilia’s eyes were a softer color, like the calm heart of a storm.
Except tonight, for but a moment, as he bent toward her and she considered not stopping him. Then she’d looked like her mother—a princess of pirates, all girlish wickedness and wild.
Ned tucked the framed portrait in a secret pocket of his coat. “They won’t catch us,” he said to the lackey. “But get someone to prepare the house gun, just in case.”
“You want us to shoot at ladies?”
Ned laughed incredulously. “Where did Morvath find you?”
“On the docks, sir. Navy gunner, but the captain offered better pay.”
“Navy. Well, that’s about as useful as a feather duster in a sword fight. I’ll do the guns; you go make sure the servants are comfortable.”
“Comfortable as in—?”
Ned frowned. “We do not kill servants, man. Not on my watch. Comfortable as in not restrained somewhere that heavy items might fall on them if the house swerves. Go. Now.”
