“I beg your pardon,” Charlotte said belatedly. “I believe this is yours?”
Looking again at the handkerchief, the woman’s gray eyes began to soften. “It isn’t mine, but I did see such a one in a store window this morning and was admiring it. Where did you get it?”
“A gentleman in the entrance hall said he saw you drop it, and he asked me to bring it to you.” Charlotte gestured with the handkerchief toward the doorway at the same moment the woman reached out to take it. An awkward dance of hands followed; finally, the woman smiled and carefully removed the handkerchief from Charlotte’s grip.
“Thank you.”
“He also asked me to convey that he found you beautiful.”
The woman laughed. A blush suffused her lovely face. “Let me guess—blond fellow, ridiculous sense of fashion?”
“Yes.”
“That’s my husband. He’s such a rogue.” She tucked the handkerchief into her bodice, near her heart. “I noticed you here yesterday also. Have you come up with a plan for acquiring the amulet yet?”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Are you calling me a pirate?”
“Certainly not. I would never offend you in such a way.”
“Thank you.”
“I, however, am a pirate; therefore my curiosity is professional.”
Charlotte looked more carefully at the woman. Red hair, easy self-assurance, interesting pockets in her dress. “By any chance are you Miss Cecilia Bassingthwaite?”
The woman smiled again effortlessly. “My husband keeps trying to introduce me as Mrs. Lightbourne, but yes, I am Cecilia Bassingthwaite. May I beg the honor of your name?”
“Charlotte Pettifer.” She held out a gloved hand and Cecilia shook it. For the merest moment, their grips shifted in what may have been called, by uncharitable observers, a wrestle for dominance, although the pleasant expression on both faces did not waver. As they lowered their hands again, they smiled at each other with ladylike sweetness.
Guns have been cocked less terrifyingly.
“Charlotte Pettifer,” Cecilia repeated. “The same Charlotte Pettifer who flew a bicycle over St. James’s earlier this week?”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “That is a provocative question.”
“I certainly hope so, or I’d have to give up piracy and become a reasonable woman.”
“Are you going to report me?”
Cecilia gasped with what appeared to be genuine horror. “Egads, no. We may be beyond the era of mass witch trials, but I am aware the death penalty remains for witchcraft. It would be most ill-mannered of me to send you to the gallows.”
“While I am pleased indeed to hear that, I feel obliged to mentionyour duty to the century-old feud between the Wisteria Society and the Wicken League. For example, look over there—Mrs. Chuke is attempting to maneuver a marble bust onto the head of that poor, frail, elderly lady.”
“That poor, frail, elderly lady is Bloodhound Bess,” Cecilia said. “I am fairly sure her hat will be specially constructed to—and yes, there you go.”
Both women winced as the bust bounced off Bloodhound Bess’s large purple hat and shattered against a wall. It was followed by a dart that failed to impale Mrs. Chuke only by the prompt intervention of her maid, Miss Dearlove, who leaped in front of her, flicking a miniature metal parasol out from a red-handled device to shield the woman.
A museum employee dashed over, crying, “No! Not Melpomene!” He fell to his knees before the marble shards.
“Tragic,” Charlotte murmured.
“What was that tool your associate used?” Cecilia asked with quiet but keen interest.
Charlotte hesitated, but could see no harm in telling her. “We call it our witch army broom, or besom. It has several functions, although we primarily use it as a broom.”
“For flying?”
“For tidying.”
