“No,” Cecilia said before she could stop herself.
“Whyever not, dear?” Miss Darlington asked. “I like a good wedding. The pretty dresses. The flowers. The rich purses to nab.”
“Frederick,” Cecilia said gently. “I am sorry, but I can’t marry you.”
“Oh,” he said, grimacing with embarrassment. “Oh dear me. I do beg your pardon, cousin, but I meant that I am marrying Miss Fairweather.”
Cecilia’s mouth fell ajar. She blinked from Frederick to Jane, whose demurely lowered face did not quite hide its smirk, and then back to Frederick again.
“But—but—”
“It is true, we only just met,” Frederick said, “but I was struck immediately through the heart by her golden darts of starlike beauty.There was no defense against it. ‘Mightier far than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway of magic potent over sun and star, is love—’”
“What is he saying?” Miss Darlington demanded, her face creased with bewilderment.
“He is quoting Wordsworth, Aunty,” Cecilia explained.
Frederick heard the contempt in her voice and misunderstood. Striding forward, he grasped her hand. “My dearest pearl of a cousin, please do not be distressed!” he implored, enlarging his heavy, oil-colored eyes until they bulged. Cecilia noticed his mustache still bore a dab of butter, and she tried not to smile. “It is all utterly beyond my power! I have been kidnapped away from you by my own true queen of pirates, and if only—”
“Please, do not concern yourself,” Cecilia murmured, releasing her hand from his with little effort, for he had a soft, dainty grip. “I am glad for you and Jane. In each other you have met with perfect justice. Er, I mean, perfect joy. Jane, I offer you all due felicitations.”
Jane scowled from beneath her eyelashes. “Thank you, I shall take them in the same spirit they were offered,” she answered, “and wish you all the tranquil blessings of your maiden days, dear Cecilia. You must come to stay at Starkthorn Castle once I have settled in as its mistress.”
“Jolly idea!” Frederick enthused.
“I will have—how many is it, Frederick, thirty bedrooms?—at my disposal to offer you. Of course, as a wife, it will be my special pleasure to provide comfort and hospitality to all my single visitors.”
Cecilia found herself too tired to think of a cutting reply. Miss Darlington came to her rescue.
“Frederick is a lucky man to have you to wife, Jane dear. Your talent for making the best of a bad situation continually proves itself. Considering the Bassingthwaite estate is nearly bankrupt, they will benefit greatly from your shrewdness.”
“Bankrupt?” Jane repeated sharply.
“Was that before or after Captain Morvath stripped the castle of all its munitions, Aunty?” Cecilia asked.
Jane gasped. That Frederick did not perish immediately from the daggers she threw at him was not because they were only metaphorical, but because he was smiling idiotically into the middle distance and failed to notice.
“I am indeed a lucky man,” he said. “My heart has been endowed with the best fortune, its coffers overflowing with Jane’s charms—”
“But not your actual coffers,” Jane muttered thunderously.
“So it was a matter of love at first sight?” Miss Darlington surmised. “How romantic. I am always suspicious of love earned by familiarity—it shows a lack of imagination. Of course, a quick inspection of financial records can only prove true love’s value. But who am I to comment? Only an old maid who knows nothing of the joys of being dominated by a man, living self-reliant as I do in my own small home.” She sighed, glancing around at the treasures cluttering her sitting room. “Now, go away, you two. My head is beginning to pound.”
Frederick and Jane withdrew, and Cecilia could hear Jane hissing at Frederick all through the foyer. The door slammed behind them. She added a drop of medicinal strychnine to Miss Darlington’s sherry tea in aid of her headache, and as she replaced the cap on the medicine bottle, her hand trembled slightly.
Miss Darlington immediately noticed. “Cecilia,” she snapped. “You are becoming quite hysterical. I believe when we return to London we shall have to employ a doctor for you. A brisk pelvic massage will be the very thing to restore your nerves to tranquility.”
“Thank you, Aunty,” Cecilia said. “I am but a little tired.” As the house shook again and someone hollered “Score!” she retreated into poetry.
“‘The mightiest of Magicians—’”
A knock sounded on the front door.
Miss Darlington ejected a forceful sigh. Cecilia shut the book with an audible clap.
“We are not home,” Miss Darlington told Pleasance.
“Yes, miss,” the maid said, and hurried to convey this message to the caller. A moment later she returned, pale-faced and tremulous.
