And then the music surged, and they moved apart with the rest of the dancers. Alex held up Charlotte’s hand, and laughing, she spun beneath it. If she was being wrong, at least it was enjoyable.
Crash!
Chairs scattered as the hall door smashed open under an assault of Latin poetry. The music faltered and the dancers staggered to a confused halt. Charlotte looked up to see Miss Plim inject herself into the crowd. The woman was not running; she did not even appear to be flushed or breathless with the effort of the chase.
“It’s time to come home, Charlotte,” she called out in a pitiless monotone. And then she began chanting.
“Abi. Abi.”
Bodies flung away from her. Hats spun across the room.
Charlotte stared in horror. “Come on,” Alex said, grasping herhard and pulling her. They ran for the nearest door. Unfortunately, “nearest” was a relative term, involving a crush of dancers, waiters with trays of lemonade glasses, a row of chairs, and a pirate.
Ned Lightbourne leaped seemingly out of nowhere onto one of the chairs, sword drawn. The crowd screamed and attempted to scatter, but as bustles tangled with lace trimmings and gloves snagged in ornate brooches, they quickly became something resembling an exploded wedding cake. Alex and Charlotte stood trapped amongst them, frowning up at Ned.
“Don’t make me fight you, old chap,” Alex warned.
Ned rolled his eyes. “You know the last time we fought I beat you so thoroughly you were limping for a week.”
“You mean the time you beat me at backgammon. I was limping because you danced around in celebration and knocked me off my chair, twisting my ankle.”
“Nonsense.” Ned paused, glancing at the crowd quaking in fear as they watched him. “Never mind. O’Riley, you have to stop. This isn’t as simple as an enchanted amulet that, in the wrong hands, could destroy the world. By running off with Miss Pettifer, you’ve annoyed a lot of old ladies. Both groups are tracking you across England, determined to prevent you from spoiling their feud.”
Alex shrugged.
“Good grief, man, how can you shrug? We’re talking about the Wisteria Society!”
The crowd gasped.
Alex looked around at them, hands spread so they could see the several weapons strapped to his hard, muscular form. “Do I look like the sort of person to be scared of lady pirates in ridiculous hats?”
“You should be,” a waiter said. The crowd murmured agreement.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Charlotte said testily. “Captain O’Riley and I remain perfect enemies.”
To which Ned replied by looking wordlessly at their joined hands.
“It’s so I can weaponize her if necessary,” Alex explained.
“Exactly,” Charlotte agreed. Glancing anxiously over her shoulder, she gasped as she watched Miss Plim elbowing her way deeper through the crowd. Any moment now, she would be upon them. Alex might not like to fight his friend, but Charlotte liked even less the idea of returning meekly home before she’d had her fill of happiness (and, er, recovered the amulet). She reached for the besom in her coat pocket.
Too late.
“I’m sorry to do this,” Ned muttered, and lifted his sword.
17
an intervention—miss plim arrives—charlotte is brave—an afternoon snack—a pedestrian conversation—they commit to a fitness regime
Generally speaking, Charlotte disliked the frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others. She preferred those who kept their thoughts to themselves, so saving her the inconvenience of listening to them. However, in the circumstance of someone wielding a sword, a little candor could be a good thing. Ned Lightbourne offered no explanation as he raised his weapon, and Charlotte was able to remain calm only because she had been so well educated that not even imminent mortal peril could make her cry out.
Unexpectedly, the sword left Ned’s hand and flew over their heads, arcing gently as dancers screamed and cowered. Watching it, Charlotte caught sight of Alex’s face, of the perfect tranquility there, and realized he had not worried for even a moment about what Ned might do. It astonished Charlotte and, were she not standing beneath a sharp, flying blade, and—worse!—with her furious aunt bearing rapidly toward her, she might have felt a moment’s fierce longing for that degree of friendship and trust.
The sword came down precisely as it was aimed: into the upraised, lace-gloved hand of Cecilia Bassingthwaite.
Typical, Charlotte thought dourly. (One of course did not wish Cecilia any harm... but if she’d failed to catch the sword, or dropped it on her foot perhaps, scratching her gorgeous shoes, then one would be more inclined to believe in the benevolence of the universe.)
Cecilia spun the sword dispassionately, turned on her heel, and applied the pommel with a professional degree of force against Miss Plim’s head.
