Charlotte would have rolled her eyes were they not widened in horror. Over her (or at least someone’s) dead body would that diabolical man set foot in Pettifer House!
“I do not think so, Mama,” she murmured, and attempted her book once again.
But Mrs. Pettifer possessed the determination of a mother whose daughter was not so much on the verge of old maidenhood as about to tumble right off it into a space devoid of future grandbabies. “Our other guests would be most entertained by his looks—I mean, his books—I mean, he seemed an educated man, judging by his—er—broad shoulders. He must have carried many encyclopedias over the years to make him so muscled. You yourself like reading and thinking. Surely you would enjoy having a conversation with him?”
Charlotte frowned sidelong at her mother, not liking the way she’d said the wordconversation.
“Mr. Pettifer, don’t you agree?” Mrs. Pettifer called across the sitting room to her husband. “A tête-à-tête or two with an erudite gentleman is just what our Charlotte needs?”
Mr. Pettifer snapped his newspaper as a reminder to his wife that he was actually trying to read the thing. “Charlotte is old enough to make her own decisions,” he said. (And since her dowry was in an account earning him good interest, he did not mind if sheneverspoke with gentlemen, regardless of their education.)
“I am entirely content, Mama,” Charlotte insisted.
“What you are is shy and tenderhearted,” Mrs. Pettifer replied, ignoring the fierce scowl Charlotte was giving her. “You need to take a few risks, start a new cycle in life, reach for the sky... Oh dear, Lottie, shall I bring you a drink of water?”
“No, no,” Charlotte said when she was able to breathe again. “However, I might just go for a stroll to get some fresh air.”
Donning sunglasses against the mellow autumnal light, she fled the house. But clamoring pedestrians and the clatter of horse-drawn carriages along the street only served to irritate her nerves further. Soon she found herself longing to run—and run—and not stop until she was in the countryside, where Jane Austen assured her one day was exactly like another, and no blue-eyed pirates with prodigiously long swords could be found.
At this reminder of Captain O’Riley, a strange electrical sensation leaped in her stomach (or at least a zone of her body one must discreetly refer to as the stomach). She muttered without thinking, and a man walking past found himself suddenly jumping to catch his hat, which had shot off his head as if propelled by a small and highly targeted tornado.
Life had been so peaceful before that bothersome pirate barged his way into it! So routine. So exceedingly tedious—no, wait,tranquilwas the word she meant. And now here she was striding through Soho at an hour usually reserved for attending to her blackmail correspondence. Charlotte vowed that as soon as she had possession of the amulet she would buy a train ticket for Hertfordshire. If adventures would befall a young lady in her own city, she must escape them abroad!
Having reached this pleasant decision, she lifted her chin to face the future with better spirit—and promptly lowered her eyebrows in a frown. She’d unconsciously walked back to the British Museum, where an odd sight confronted her. Several houses were cluttering the footpath—for pirates did not like to walk if they could fly, and set their houses down at maximum inconvenience to everyone else, and then complain about receiving a parking ticket—but amongst the elegant abodes an old cottage squatted. Charlotte removed her sunglasses to stare at it.
Whereas the others were pirates’ houses, this was apiratic house.Its stones looked like they had been dragged out of a marshland and scraped of old, murky ghosts before being cobbled together into walls and chimneys. Moss stubbled its steep slate roof and grew between many of the stones. This was a building that really needed to take two aspirin and have a good night’s sleep. Charlotte wanted nothing more than to give it a scrub down and hang curtains in the bare, white-framed windows. But scorch marks across the front and a broken chimney suggested the house had faced worse than Plimmish disapproval and had responded to it with ferocity. Altogether it brought to mind an ancient raptor (for example, a falcon of millennial age), and Charlotte shuddered again as she recollected the popular notion that a pirate’s house reflected their character. What kind of loutish woman lived here?
Just then, movement in a window caught her eye. Someone was standing behind the mullioned glass, buttoning their shirt. A glimpse of naked chest, ridged with muscles and marked with a swoop of black ink, made Charlotte catch her breath. Although she couldn’t see a face, she knew instinctively this was Alex O’Riley. The knowledge seemed to sing through her blood and nerves, causing more of those electrical sensations that made her wish to take an urgent holiday to Rosings Park. She averted her eyes.
He finished buttoning the shirt and proceeded to tuck it into his trousers. Charlotte realized her eyes had once again disobeyed a direct order, and she closed them firmly. But her vision fought back, flashing an afterimage of bare skin in the darkness behind her eyelids.
She had never seen such a thing before, except in cold marble. Years ago, she’d consulted the natural science books in Pettifer House library, only to discover certain pages had been torn out. It did not seem dignified to pursue the matter through a public library; besides, classical statues provided enough information to convince her men’s physical specificities were all a storm in a teacup.
Why, therefore, her pulse should be racing now, and in places where one’s heart was not located, she could not understand.
Suddenly the man paused in his shirt-tucking. He began raising his head, and as long black eyelashes and a crooked smile were slowly revealed, Charlotte understood that he was aware of being watched, and that any second now he was going to see her.
The smile curved, and she realized he alreadyhadseen her.
Despite the several layers of her clothing, she felt naked right down to her hot-blushing soul. Turning abruptly, she marched home, intent upon taking up a copy ofMansfield Parkand submitting herself to a stern talking-to from Fanny Price.
So focused was she on this course that she failed to notice the pale-haired gentleman following her from a distance, his nose making sharp little noises as he sniffed the air in her wake.
5
impersonation of the enemy—a marriage of inconvenience—mr.& mrs. smith—a culinary disagreement—divorce—the amulet is stolen—all’s unfair in theft & war—the amulet is stolen again—an old enemy returns
The season, the scene, the air of the following morning were all unfavorable to tenderness and sentiment. Charlotte frowned irritably as she marched yet again toward the museum. Miss Plim had conscripted Mrs. Pettifer to help her find the Knightley Street Orphanage by means of walking, consulting maps, or hitting City Planning Department employees around the head with a parasol, so determined was she to track the orphans down and bloody well feed them before that Gloughenbury woman could. Responsibility for stealing the amulet had been left in Charlotte’s prophesized hands. The breakfast tea leaves had promised success, and Charlotte herself was determined to get the job done. She had her briefcase of documents, her mental script of conversations, and her exit plan all in order. No pirate shenanigans would stop her today.
As she walked, imagining the peaceful Hertfordshire meadow in which she would soon be sitting while admiring her amulet (albeit on a straight-backed chair, with a parasol overhead to protect her from thefresh air) she rubbed at her sleeve, breastbone, hip. She’d applied talcum this morning, and a few drops of lilac perfume taken from her mother’s dressing table. Cecilia Bassingthwaite had smelled of talcum and lilac. Presumably, however, Cecilia Bassingthwaite had grown used to the rash caused by them.
And presumably she did not mind the aggravation of one gentle curl tumbling down her bare neck, whereas on Charlotte it was quite possibly going to cause insanity.
Furthermore, if Cecilia Bassingthwaite had some strategy for tolerating a lace-trimmed bodice, Cecilia Bassingthwaite ought to be morally bound to inform other women of it before they decided to wear a delicate, lacy, damned scratchy, white dress on the morning of an important robbery.
Thus dreaming and itching, Charlotte entered the museum.
The Beryl Black display had reopened despite a risk of fire (and theft, damaged books, broken statues, emotional trauma) and Charlotte hadn’t been the only one with the idea to arrive early. At least a dozen witches mingled uncomfortably with a dozen pirates in a scene that looked like something on an African savannah, only with lace and polite smiles instead of fur and fanged teeth.
