“En garde!” Petunia shouted.
And Morvath shot her.
His pistol exploded in a cloud of hot gas and metal fragments. With a scream, he threw it from him and clutched his burned, bleeding hand against his chest.
“Did I mention,” Ned mentioned, “that I tampered with all your guns?”
“Traitor!” Morvath roared.
Ned shrugged. “It depends on who’s saying so.”
The air hissed as Morvath drew his sword. Behind him, guns clattered to the floor and the henchmen pulled out swords, knives, truncheons.
Petunia stepped back, hands on her hips. “Everybody sorted now? Shall we try again? En garde!”
“For England!”
“For Cilla!”
The sexes rushed forward to battle.
“Come on,” Ned murmured, pulling Cecilia away.
They shoved through the rush of hollering women and cursing men, ducking swords, cowering as a jar of cocktail onions exploded nearby. A man grabbed Cecilia’s hair and she kicked his shin, then kneed him in the unmentionables. As he collapsed howling to the ground, she gathered up her skirts, leaped his body, and twisted the arm of another man who was about to stab Essie in the back. Ned reached past her, snatched the knife from the man’s hand, and used it to stab a third in the thigh, while Cecilia forced the man to his knees. A swift application of Ned’s boot heel to his head rendered him unconscious. Thus they cleared passage for themselves through the melee, and within moments were around the corner and running hard along a corridor.
“Wait for me!” Jane cried out behind them.
“Oh, lovely,” Cecilia muttered.
“I have the key to the garden door!” Jane said breathlessly as she reached them. “The Wisteria houses are still fully armed.”
“We’ll give the ladies air support,” Ned said, grinning.
“Fine,” Cecilia agreed. “But keep up. This will be even harder than robbing a bank, you know.”
“I would have robbed a bank,” Jane retorted, “but there are few of us who are secure enough to commit such a crime without a bad influence encouraging us. With my parents off selling fool’s gold in America, and my grandmother too busy conspiring against the Society, I’ve been forced to be sensible.”
“No pirate should have to be sensible,” Cecilia conceded reluctantly.
“Wait for me!” came another cry. They glanced back to see Frederick stumbling and gasping along behind.
“Wonderful,” Ned muttered. No one waited, but Frederick managed to keep up nevertheless, driven by terror. Behind him came Alex, blood dripping from his sword.
“Anyone else?” Ned asked dryly.
“Oh, I’m not coming with you,” Alex said as he ran. “I’m heading out for my own house. I just got a new thirteen-pounder field gun and I’m keen to try it.”
“Aim for the west wing,” Ned told him. “That’s where they keep their artillery store.”
“Will do. Break a leg, old chap.”
Alex veered off. The others reached the end of the corridor, rushed down a flight of stairs, made short work of two henchmen they encountered there, and turned into another long, murky corridor that dwindled into shadow. Ned led them past one door but stopped at the next.
“This one,” he said, tugging at its rusted knob handle. “Jane, bring that—”
He stopped, staring at the knob, which had just broken off in his hand.
“Key,” he said limply.
