She had long been hoping to attract an assassination attempt. It was a significant development in her career. That it had been provisioned by Lady Armitage disappointed her only slightly, for there would always be the lingering suspicion that the real target was Miss Darlington; besides, she remembered the lady teaching her many years ago how to use a sextant (for both navigation and dismembering purposes) and always considered her a mentor, not a murderer. But at least Aunty Army had employed a pirate and not just some street thug—although Cecilia did consider tipping him a little money to buy himself a decent suit. She nodded across the street to him as she passed.
Suddenly, he was at her side. Cecilia sighed, lowering her book and looking at him sidelong beneath an arched eyebrow. She did not knowhow to more clearly convey her disdain, but he just grinned in response.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said.
“I hope you are not intending to do me the discourtesy of assassinating me in the street, Signor de Luca,” she replied.
“Call me Ned.” He nudged her with an elbow as if they were old friends.
“I shall do no such thing. Your manners are dreadful and your cologne cheap. Go away.”
“I declare, for a woman of such delicacy, you have a remarkably firm tone, Miss Darlington.”
“And for an Italian you have a remarkably Etonian accent. Also, ‘Miss Darlington’ is my aunt.” He opened his mouth and she held up a hand to forestall any reply. “No, you may not be informed as to how to address me. You may leave.”
“Miss Bassingthwaite,” he said, “you are being unnecessarily mysterious. I have seen your birth notice; I know the name written there.” Noting that she grew even more pale than usual, he shrugged. “Do you think I would undertake (pardon me) to assassinate a stranger, Miss Cecilia M——who is generally known as Miss Darlington junior but prefers to be called her mother’s maiden name, Bassingthwaite, by her friends?”
“Of whom you are not one.”
“Yet.”
She tipped her parasol slightly to better thwart the sun and not inconsequentially angle its hidden blade toward his heart. “When do you propose we become friends? Before or after you murder me?”
“Please, assassinate. After all, we’re not corsairs.”
“We are exactly that, Signor. Corsairs, robbers, pirates. I, however, am also a bibliophile, and you are impeding my visit to the library. So eitherassassinateme now and get it over with, or kindly step aside.”
“Do you have a ha’penny?”
“I should think if you’re killing someone it is on you to provide the coin for Charon.”
He laughed. “No, I meant for the bridge. There’s a toll.”
“Oh.” She stopped, frowning at the narrow, green-fenced bridge that lay across the Avon River ahead. “I did not realize.”
The young man put his hands in his coat pockets and smiled at her impishly. “You could always bludgeon the tollbooth attendant with your book and walk across for free, what with being a corsair and all.”
“Certainly not,” Cecilia replied, as if he had suggested she dunk a gingerbread biscuit into tea. Noticing his attention on the open pages of her book, she closed it and tucked it into her crocheted purse before he realized what she had been reading.
“I could pay for you,” he suggested.
Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him. “Pay my toll?”
“We can make it a loan if you prefer. You can repay me later with a coin or a kiss.”
“Over my dead body!” She knew she sounded like Lady Armitage, gasping with outrage, but it could not be helped.
“Well...” He grinned, shrugging.
Cecilia again shifted her parasol so that it leaned over her left shoulder, blocking the sight of him. This exposed her to the freckle-causing sunlight, but it was a risk she was willing to take. She almost strode away but recollected herself in time and continued at a sedate, ladylike pace toward the bridge.
“Come now, Miss Bassingthwaite, don’t be so harsh with me,” the aggravating man went on, strolling beside her. “After all, our souls are made of the same thing, yours and mine.”
She shifted the parasol once more so as to stare at him, aghast. “Are you paraphrasingWuthering Heights?”
“Are you readingWuthering Heights?” he retorted with a smirk.
She went on staring for a moment, then realized her face was flushed (no doubt from all the sun exposure) and turned away. “I am returning it to the library on behalf of my maid,” she said. “I merely had it open to ascertain the condition in which she’d left it, as she had an unfortunate education and therefore tends to dog-ear pages.”
