“Don’t worry,” Ned told her as Randall fumbled in his pocket. “It’s not one of Aunty Army’s potions. I always carry a little chloroform with me in case the need arises to kidnap someone.” He grinned as her eyes widened. “That’s right, I could have rendered you unconscious at any time and taken you to your father. Or prison. Or wherever I chose. So now will you be quiet?”
She responded by stamping on his foot. He did not even flinch. Taking the soaked handkerchief from Randall, he pressed it against her nose and mouth. “Have you had a busy day?” he asked Randall conversationally as Cecilia struggled in his arms.
“Oh, you know,” Randall replied, shrugging. “Taunting prisoners, target practice, listening to the captain rave—the usual.”
“Uh-huh,” Ned said, and looked down at Cecilia. She was sagging against his shoulder, eyelids fluttering. “And there she goes,” he said, smiling.
Cecilia felt herself falling, falling, even as Ned’s arm held her up. Her last thought before the darkness overwhelmed her was that Aunt Darlington was going to be most annoyed indeed.
14
constantinopla lets tom take the lead—forbidden chocolate—windsor—her majesty’s linen—her majesty’s person—the dangers of toast—an accurate parrot—the parrot hopefully gets it wrong
Constantinopla did not think Tom Eames had any right to command her merely because he was older than her, or because he had seen more of the world than her. After all, one’s claim to superiority depends on the use one has made of one’s time and experience, and while Tom had been attached to his mother’s apron strings for years, visiting boring museums (and robbing them), meeting boring aristocrats (and robbing them), Constantinopla had learned really important things, like how to make fudge over a Bunsen burner in a dormitory after lights-out and how much salt could be put into a teacher’s tea before she noticed. Tom might be three years older, but Constantinopla was obviously his superior in meaningful ways.
However, she was not so far ignorant as to tell him this. When he put his manly foot down and insisted they return to Ottery St. Mary—“You are too young, Oply, to understand the consequences of youractions,” he declared with all his new and unexpected authority as her fiancé—she grudgingly surrendered.
And yet they somehow managed to take a wrong turn among the country lanes, a fact Tom realized only when they were several miles toward London.
And when at Taunton he decided traveling by horse would be better than by train, Constantinopla agreed only moments before a male passerby snatched her purse and ran into the station, boarding a train for London. Tom gallantly chased him, with Constantinopla close behind, and he was on the verge of confronting the man at gunpoint when lo! she discovered she’d not lost her purse after all; it was merely in the other pocket. By then the train had pulled out from the station and there was nothing for it but to take seats in first class (stealing tickets from fellow passengers and tut-tutting judgmentally when those passengers were forced back to third class), to enjoy a dinner of roast pheasant, and to sleep until dawn ushered them into Windsor.
“Thank goodness I have you at my side to guide and protect me,” Constantinopla had said as they ate the chocolate dessert Tom vetoed on the grounds it would make her sick but the waiter brought anyway, and of course one does not waste food. “How lucky I am that you proposed! We shall have such a happy marriage with you at the helm.”
Although Tom could not actually recall proposing, he had smiled at this, and when she had curled up with her head on his lap to sleep, he’d felt nothing but adoration for her (literally: his legs went numb within half an hour and remained that way all night).
At Windsor, Tom determinedly took the upper hand. “We will not attempt to enter the castle,” he declared. “Instead, we will inform the police about Morvath’s plot.”
“That makes good sense,” Constantinopla agreed. “After all, what pirate doesn’t seek help from the police in relation to her business? Butperhaps we ought to change our clothes first, since we are rather dirty from our travels?”
Tom could see no harm in this. Therefore, Constantinopla followed him into a department store, where she modestly refused his offers of pink silk and creamy lace, choosing instead a simple black dress, which was less costly (not that Tom actually paid for them, since the store was not open for business at this early hour). They ate bonbons from the confectionery counter while changing clothes.
“But wouldn’t you prefer a velvet hat with a feather?” Tom asked, perplexed, as Constantinopla set a white mobcap on her head.
“I want to be a good, frugal wife for you,” she explained. “Let me help with your tie.”
“I look like a butler,” he said, scowling at his image in a glass cabinet as she reknotted the tie he was sure he’d got perfect.
“Not at all,” Constantinopla murmured. “Not at all.”
They left behind their own clothes and exited through a back door, politely locking it again behind them.
“Our clothes were worth far more than these ones,” Tom said, “so it’s not really stealing. In fact, the store is stealing from us.”
“You are so clever,” Constantinopla replied dreamily.
He smiled and puffed out his chest, and from there was easily persuaded that his idea of taking a shortcut along Queen Charlotte Street was an excellent one... then provoked in his protectiveness to enter a doorway when Constantinopla was sure she felt raindrops... and then inspired to climb a wall, follow a side path, duck out of the sight of a guard, turn left instead of right, and risk another door that would surely lead them out of this maze...
Whereupon they found themselves inside Windsor Castle’s laundry room.
“Goodness me, what a surprise!” Constantinopla declared.
Tom frowned at her.
“I can see from your grim expression that you’re thinking now we’re here, and by pure chance dressed like servants, we might as well try to find the Queen. Very wise, my love.”
She turned away from his darkening eyes, for if there’s one thing midnight fudge-making teaches you (along with cunning, careful measuring, operating dangerous equipment in the dark, avoiding burns, and where to hide your sugar), it’s how to not let things boil over. She heard Tom take a deep, calming breath, and by the time she turned back he was smiling with reluctant admiration for her machinations.
“All right, pirate girl,” he said, bowing. “You win—this time. But understand for the future that I intend to be the head of my household.”
