“Yes,” the man said in a dire tone.
“And does this assassin have a name?”
“Eduardo de Luca.”
“Italian,” Cecilia said, disappointment withering each syllable.
“You need to be a bit older before you can attract a proper assassin, my dear,” Miss Darlington advised from the interior.
The man frowned. “Eduardo de Luca is a proper assassin.”
“Ha.” Miss Darlington sat back in her chair and crossed her ankles in an uncharacteristically dissolute fashion. “I venture to guess Signor de Luca has never yet killed any creature greater than a fly.”
“And why would you say that, madam?” the man demanded.
She looked down her nose at him, quite a feat considering she was some distance away. “A real assassin would hire a sensible tailor. And a barber. And would not attempt to murder someone five minutes before luncheon. Close the window, Cecilia, you’ll catch consumption from that icy draft.”
“Wait,” the man said, holding out a hand, but Cecilia closed the window, turned the latch, and drew together the heavy velvet drapes.
“Do you think Pleasance might be ready soon with our meal?” she asked as she moved across the room—not to her chair, but to the door leading into the hall.
“Sit down, Cecilia,” Miss Darlington ordered. “A lady does not pace in this restless manner.”
Cecilia did as she was bidden but upon taking up her book laid it down again without a glance. She brushed at a speck of dust on her sleeve.
“Fidgeting.” Miss Darlington snapped out the observation and Cecilia hastily placed both hands together on her lap.
“Maybe there will be chicken today,” she said. “Pleasance usually roasts a chicken on Tuesdays.”
“Indeed she does,” Miss Darlington agreed. “However, today is Thursday. Where are your wits, girl? Surely you are not in such hysterics over a mere contract of assassination?”
“No,” Cecilia said. But she bit her lip and dared a glance at Miss Darlington. The old lady looked back at her with a trace of sympathy so faint it might have existed only in Cecilia’s imagination, were Cecilia to have such a thing.
“The assassin won’t actually be Italian,” she assured her niece. “Armitage doesn’t have the blunt to employ a foreigner. It will be some jumped-up Johnny from the Tilbury Docks.”
This did not improve Cecilia’s spirits. She tugged unconsciously on the silver locket that hung from a black ribbon around her neck. Seeing this, Miss Darlington sighed with impatience. Her own locket of similar forlorn aspect rode the gray crinoline swathing her bosom, and she wished for a moment that she might speak once more with the woman whose portrait and lock of golden hair rested within. But then, Cilla would have even less patience for a sulking maiden.
“Lamb,” she said with an effort at gentleness. Cecilia blinked, her eyes darkening to a wistful orphan blue. Miss Darlington frowned. “If it’s Thursday,” she elaborated, “luncheon will be lamb, with mint sauce and boiled potatoes.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Cecilia said, pulling herself together. “Also peas.”
Miss Darlington nodded. It was a satisfactory end to the matter, and she could have left it there. After all, one does not want to encourage the younger generation too much, lest they lose sight of their proper place: under one’s thumb. She decided, however, to take pity on the girl, having herself once been as high-spirited. “Perhaps tomorrow the weather will be better fit for some perambulation,” she said. “You might go to the library, and afterward get a bun from Sally Lunn’s.”
“But isn’t that in Bath?”
“I thought a change of scenery might do us good. Mayfair isbecoming altogether too rowdy. We shall fly the house down this afternoon. It will be a chance to give Pleasance a refresher course on the flight incantation’s last stanza. Her vowels are still too flat. Approaching the ground with one’s front door at a thirty-degree angle is rather more excitement than one likes for an afternoon. And yes, I can see from your expression you still think I shouldn’t have shared the incantation’s secret with her, but Pleasance can be trusted. Granted, she did fly that bookshop into the Serpentine when they told her they didn’t stock any Dickens novels, but that only shows a praiseworthy enthusiasm for literature. She’ll get us safely to Bath, and then you can take a nice stroll among the shops. Maybe you can buy some pretty lace ribbons or a new dagger before getting your iced bun.”
“Thank you, Aunty,” Cecilia answered, just as she was supposed to. In fact she would rather have gone to Oxford, or even just across the park to visit the Natural History Museum, but to suggest either would risk Miss Darlington reversing her decision altogether. So she simply smiled and obeyed. There followed a moment’s pleasant quiet.
“Although eat only half the bun, mind you,” Miss Darlington said as Cecilia took upHiawathaand tried yet again to find her place among the reeds and water lilies. “We don’t want you falling ill with cholera.”
“That is a disease of contaminated water, Aunty.”
Miss Darlington sniffed, not liking to be corrected. “A baker uses water I’m sure to make his wares. One can never be too careful, dear.”
“Yes, Aunty. ‘The level moon stared at him, in his face stared pale and haggard, ’til—’”
Crash!
