After he left, Lady Armitage arranged her skirts, smoothed her eyebrows, and experimented with several smiles before she decided upon the most suitable. She was thus elegantly situated when Signor de Luca entered the room. Her smile widened—
And then snapped shut.
She sat up so fast her hair reverberated. “You’re not Eduardo!”
The man bowed. His shoulders bulged beneath his coat, and when he looked up, his hefty, scarred face puckered in a scowl that revolted Lady Armitage even more than the gun he pointed at her.
“Jacobsen,” he introduced himself. “I work for Captain Morvath.”
“Egads!” She leaned across to the side table and took another pastille.
“Is he here?”
“Morvath?” The pastille clattered among her teeth. “Tall man, gray-headed, really needs to pluck his nose hairs? Of course not. Oh please, sir, do put down the gun, it’s ever so frightening.” She poured herself a cup of tea.
“I meant Lightbourne.”
“Who?” She frowned as she added sugar to the tea, but then her expression lit with understanding. “Ah, Signor de Luca. The boy with many names but no house. Why would you ask me that question? I am but a fragile woman come to the seaside for the sake of my health.” She coughed unconvincingly—and then for real, the cocaine pastille having become stuck in her throat. Jacobsen watched in bewildered alarm as she hacked and wheezed and thumped her chest and finally swallowedthe offending pastille. Then she frowned up at him. “Well? I haven’t all day. I asked you a question: Why did you ask me that question?”
Jacobsen very nearly rubbed his forehead with his gun before recollecting himself. “I chased Lightbourne from Sidmouth but lost him coming into town. When I saw this pirate house I figured it was where he was headed.”
“How on earth could you know this was a pirate house?”
“The skull and crossbones door knocker tipped me off.”
“Observant of you.”
“And the Jolly Roger flag flying from the eaves.”
“Well spotted.”
“And the fact the house is parked in the middle of Marine Parade, blocking traffic, with what appears to be a street lamp wedged beneath it.”
“Yes, well, we are experiencing minor technical difficulties.”
She picked up a fan that lay on the side table and began wafting it before her face. Jacobsen stared at her (no doubt entranced by her beauty and magnificence). “Lightbourne is not here,” she said. “And this conversation has become tedious, Mr. Jigglesen. You are excused from my presence.”
“Jacobsen. And I’m the one with the gun, woman. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Of course I can. Don’t you know who I am?”
“No,” he said, and shot her.
Lady Armitage barely flinched. The bullet struck her fan with a sharp twang, rebounded, and hit Jacobsen in his shoulder. He shouted, dropping the pistol.
“You seem to be experiencing technical difficulties of your own,” Lady Armitage remarked. “Ah, here is fresh tea.”
Jacobsen spun toward the doorway and promptly fell backward, crashing to the hardwood floor. His eyes flickered shut.
“Good afternoon, Lady Armitage,” Signor de Luca said, rubbing the fist he had just slammed into Jacobsen’s brow. He bent, picking up the man’s gun. “I apologize for interrupting your tête-à-tête.”
“And so you should,” Lady Armitage replied. “It was most uncivil of you, and you’ve left a mess on my floor. However, since the gentleman was intent on murdering me, I suppose I can forgive you this once. Where on earth is Whittaker with my tea?”
“I’m afraid he’s unavailable, madam.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Dead?”
Signor de Luca seemed offended. “Certainly not. What do you take me for?”
