“Fiend!” Constantinopla yelled. “Blighter! Rogue!”
“Hello, Oply,” Ned said wearily.
“Where have all the houses gone?” Tom asked in bewilderment.
“Hijacked by Captain Morvath,” Cecilia said. “This fellow helped orchestrate it.”
“I’m not surprised!” Constantinopla declared. “Unscrupulous! Traitor! Rake!”
“You are acquainted?” Cecilia asked.
“This is Teddy Luxe!” Constantinopla shouted, her face as pink as her hair bow. “My fencing master!”
“Oh.” Cecilia recalled Constantinopla’s descriptions of hot, melting wax and undulating hips and tried with sudden urgency to pull herself from Captain Lightbourne’s grip. It only resulted in him drawing her even tighter against him. “But he has no mustache,” she said rather inanely.
“It was horsehair,” Ned confessed. “Itched like crazy.”
“Horsehair?!” Constantinopla’s face progressed from pink straight through red to a violent purple. “As false as your seductive words! You said you would see us in Monday’s class, but by the end of the weekend you had vanished, leaving not even a stray button or lock of hair to entertain our forlorn hopes!”
“I am sorry for the deception, Miss Brown. But at least you are now proficient in fencing and tango dancing.”
“Is that all you taught her?” Cecilia asked.
“Good God, madam, what do you take me for?”
“A pirate. A thief. A devious assassin double-crossing everyone...”
“Yes, but she is a mere child,” Ned replied, waving his gun briefly, expressively, at Constantinopla. “Of course I didn’t—”
“I’m not a child,” Constantinopla retorted, and would have saidfurther but Tom took sudden hold of her and pulled her around to face him.
“What does he mean?” the young man demanded. “You told me you were nineteen.”
“I am nineteen!” Constantinopla replied; then, catching the eye of both Ned and Cecilia, she ducked her head. “In my heart, at least.”
“Your heart,” Tom echoed flatly. “I see. And what age is your mouth? And your... other physical features?”
Constantinopla muttered something, but Tom clearly heard, for he repeated it in a horrified shout. Constantinopla, falling back on her training as a lady and a pirate, looked up with a flash of anger and a tut-tutting of the tongue.
“Thomas Eames, we have been in the same society for years. If you can’t count, the blame hardly rests with me.”
Tom debated this in a heated tone, to which Constantinopla replied furiously, and in less than a minute they had swords drawn and were proceeding to duel over their mutually stolen honor. Ned stepped back, releasing Cecilia, and they exchanged a blank look. They then edged away from the angry couple.
“You have to admit,” Ned said, “she shows good form with a sword. Oply,” he called out. “Lift your hand more.”
“Why were you working as a fencing master at her school?” Cecilia inquired.
“It was the premier educational facility for children of the high-flying set—in other words, pirate girls. We supposed you would attend.”
“No, Aunty believes too much education corrupts the delicate mind of young ladies. I received only the basic instruction at home—reading, writing, horse riding, navigation, weapons handling, piano, harp, the principles of burglary, geography, arithmetic, anatomy, metalwork, confidence trickery, history, battle tactics, dining etiquette.”
“Do you ever feel the loss of a thorough education?”
“Sometimes. I should like to know how to cook, and to embroider my own gun wipers. She really does have good form. Oply dear, move your foot back a little. And thrust on a steeper incline if you’re trying to gut him.”
“I’m aiming for something lower than his gut,” Constantinopla replied.
“Understandable. So what is your real name, Captain Lightbourne?”
