“Gentlemen,” she said stridently, “I require escort. I am certain you agree no lady is safe walking alone through a strange town.”
She lifted her skirts a little to check the gun tucked in her weaponized boots.
“I do agree,” Alex said. “You are indeed not safe walking through this town. God only knows who you might hurt.”
“Well!”Charlotte flung down her skirts with a huff. Then producing her little red besom from a pocket, she flicked out a tiny item that she fanned with brisk energy before her face.
Alex carefully maintained an unaffected expression as he watched her. The fact the fan was actually a shuriken, or small, star-shaped weapon, had apparently escaped her attention, and he felt no inclination to point this out, lest she throw it at him. From the corner of his eye he saw Bixby bite his lip in an effort to repress a laugh.
Bloody hell! It was bad enough the woman had got under his skin—that she’d driven Daniel Bixby to the verge of human reactions was the final straw!
“I shall accompany you through the town, madam,” he said. “We shall find Lady Armitage, recover the amulet, and have you back home in London by tomorrow. Bixby can remain here and—and—sweep a floor or something.”
“I beg your pardon,” Bixby said reprovingly.
“Nonsense!” Charlotte replied.
“God damn it,” Alex grumbled.
All at the same time.
The house shuddered. Its doors began to slam.
“Stop doing that!” Alex shouted at the confounded little witch.
She propped her fists against her hips. “Do you hear me saying the incantation?”
“You don’t need to, woman! You are magic on legs!”
Silence clanged down. Bixby blushed. Charlotte stood with her mouth ajar. And Alex sighed, rubbing a thumbnail so hard against his brow it left a red mark.
Then the shouting began again.
Outside, a dozen or so people who had been perambulating along Clacton pier until a great ugly stone cottage landed on it, and who wereat that very moment about to knock on the door and ask if the pirate might please move his premises just a little aside so they could get past, paused to glance nervously at each other.
“I would not risk it, if I were you,” advised an elderly lady at the edge of the group. She looked rather like an electrified ghost in a stiff black dress, her gray hair standing erect beneath a black lace parasol and her face stretched over thin, sharp bones. Her smile, however, seemed to crackle with life. “I am a daughter of the Fairley clan, and as such I recognize trouble when I see it. That’s anIrishpirate house, you mark my words.”
The group gasped, mostly because her tone seemed to demand it. “And we all know what that means,” she added significantly.
“Yes, yes, hmm, of course,” muttered the crowd—which might be translated as, “Actually no, wouldn’t have a clue, surely pirates are generically bad, whatever their nationality?”
Suddenly, from inside the house came an exclamation: “Fiend!” The building clattered against the wooden planks of the pier.
“I suggest you swim for it,” said the elderly lady.
The group hesitated, for they all were dressed in rich and heavy clothing, not to mention shoes that, if stolen by a Wicken League member, would have fed several orphans for a month.
“Virago!”
The building leaped two feet before smacking down again.
Splash.
The elderly lady watched the dozen or so gentlewomen and men paddle desperately for the shore. She chuckled a little to herself. Then, with a contentedly wicked smile, she edged past the pirate’s house and ambled away toward her own, stopping only to purchase an ice cream from a vendor on the beach as she went.
15
they are lost—lobster and laundry—live entertainment—a sudden exit—if only—taking the long way home—two hearts in the dark—turning back—they are found
