“Jehovahsen!” Cecilia gasped.
He strode toward them. His face was smoke-stained, his arm bandaged from shoulder to elbow. Cecilia pushed the footman protectively behind her. Pleasance gnashed her teeth. And Miss Darlington swung her cane around so its jagged end was pointed at Jacobsen.
“I have had a tiring morning,” she said, “and would be obliged if you stopped right there, my good fellow. Any misbehavior shall compel me to disembowel you, and I really just want to go home for a cup of tea.”
“Please don’t fight in the entrance hall,” the footman begged with the tone hand-wringing would have were it a voice. “We’ll never get the blood out of the carpet.”
Everyone looked down at the carpet on which they stood.
“It’s red,” Cecilia said. “Exactly blood colored, in fact.”
“There’s a stain here,” Pleasance added, shuffling her shoe against it.
“I can kill him without drawing blood,” Miss Darlington offered.
“Kill me and you will hang,” Jacobsen said. “I am a captain with Her Majesty’s secret service, but—”
“What, another one?” Cecilia shook her head. “It seems that lately a lady cannot go a day about her peaceful felonious business without being harassed by secret service agents.”
Jacobsen stared openmouthed at her for a moment, then shook his wits back into order. “I am Sergeant Jacobsen, employed by Colonel Williams to spy on Major Candent, who has been spying on CaptainMorvath,” he said, then paused while they worked this through. “When I learned you were caught up in this matter, Miss Darlington, I tried to contact your niece so she could furnish me with your whereabouts, for you owe me—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Miss Darlington swung her makeshift cane, smashing the sergeant on his bandaged arm and making him scream. Then she flipped the cane, thrust its blunt end into his stomach, and whacked him over the head. He collapsed, landing with a sickening crunch on his much-abused arm. With one groan, he was lost to consciousness.
“This is what happens to debt collectors who are rude enough to call without an appointment,” Miss Darlington said. A splinter of pain pierced her dignified expression, but she straightened her shoulders, brushed back her wispy aureole of hair, and marched toward the open door, cane swinging like a baton from her hand. “No blood, I’ll have you note.”
“Er, thank you,” the footman said tremulously.
“Cecilia! Hasten your pace! I am inclined to faint and wish to do so on my own premises before Anne Brown or that Rotunder woman sees me.”
It was too late. At that very moment Gertrude Rotunder came bustling toward them as if made manifest by the speaking of her name. A maidservant rushed behind trying to keep a parasol above the lady’s head while also carrying a shawl, spare gloves, reticule, and rifle.
“Jem, found you at last!” Mrs. Rotunder exclaimed. “Is it true your son is dead, blown to bits by your granddaughter?”
Cecilia and Pleasance cringed, but Miss Darlington showed only an expression of mild, polite interest. “I have not been informed of such developments,” she said. “Cecilia dear, is Mrs. Rotunder correct?”
“No,” Cecilia replied. “That is, I am sorry to tell you he is dead,Aunty, but it was not my doing. He accidentally flew into a hillside. I assure you his end would have been immediate and therefore painless.”
“I see.”
A pregnant pause ensued, through which Mrs. Rotunder watched hopefully for any sign of emotional collapse, and Cecilia and Pleasance watched anxiously for the same. But Miss Darlington merely sniffed. “Pleasance dear, run ahead and put on the kettle. And light the oven, if you would be so kind. I do not recall what day this is, but I think venison for lunch would suit me. Cecilia, you look pale. Allow me to support you for the walk home.”
Cecilia promptly stepped forward and held out her arm. Miss Darlington managed to lean on it without her spine losing any of its imperious rigidity.
They edged around Mrs. Rotunder and followed Pleasance toward the house.
“The hostages have been rescued,” Mrs. Rotunder said, persisting behind them. “Olivia is planning a celebratory party for this evening.”
“We shall not attend,” Miss Darlington replied. “Cecilia’s health could not withstand such excitement. Kindly convey our apologies to Olivia.” (In modern parlance: “Fuck off.”)
Mrs. Rotunder huffed so vehemently, the satin flowers on her hat quivered. Cecilia supposed a new assassin would present himself at their door in the days ahead. She tried not to smile. But Miss Darlington, catching her gaze sidelong, winked, and she found her mouth twitching despite herself.
“Good day, Mrs. Rotunder,” Miss Darlington said explicitly, and the former spun on a sharp boot heel and stalked away.
Miss Darlington scrutinized the chaos around them with a narrow, disapproving eye. Pirate ladies and soldier men were bustling about with the good cheer (or sheer relief) that arises from a victorious battle. Morvath’s henchmen huddled together under guard—for which theyappeared grateful, as several of the Wisteria Society were advocating their dismemberment, and only the stoic professionalism of the Queen’s soldiers kept them safe. Miss Darlington shook her head.
“Disgraceful behavior for ladies,” she opined, “shouting like that for the torture of captives. In my day we would have knocked those soldiers down and had the captives whipped without squawking about it first.”
“I do believe it is still your day, Aunty,” Cecilia assured her.
