But Miss Darlington nodded with approval. “Competence, a fresh teapot, if you please. And some digestive biscuits.” She flicked a glance at the floor beneath Alice’s feet. “And towels.”
As Competence bustled from the room, feather swaying, MissDarlington returned to her inspection of Alice’s shivering form. “I do declare, the fashions of young ladies today leave much to be desired. Why aren’t you wearing gloves? Or a scarf and shawl? This late in autumn one must be on guard against sudden breezes.”
Alice glanced out the window, where the breezes were currently not so much sudden as squalling furiously. Yet Darlington House slid through them without the merest tremble.
“I was indoors until a moment ago,” she explained. The warmth of the room was beginning to seep into her body and she felt less in danger of breaking her teeth from clattering them together—although more in danger of various other body parts being broken by pirates. Miss Darlington’s mouth was tightening; Jake Jacobsen had closed his book without even marking the page. Alice nervously advanced a placating compliment: “May I congratulate your pilot on their skill?”
“Pilot?” Miss Darlington’s eyebrows swooped up like cutlasses. “Who says we have a pilot, as if we are pirates? Why would you make such an accusation, young lady?”
“Er, because we are currently several hundred feet above the ground? And because a black pirate flag flies from your roof? And furthermore I recognize that Gainsborough portrait over your mantel, which I last saw when visiting the London Art Gallery.”
“They gifted it to me,” Miss Darlington said. Her husband cleared his throat, and she shot him a look so supercilious it should have been outfitted with a crown and scepter. “Theywould havegifted it to me had they known I admired it,” she amended. “Therefore I saved them the effort. Besides, Fanny Andrews, therein portrayed, was a pirate, so the painting is rightfully mine.”
Alice did not even try to unravel this logic. “I myself am a pirate,” she said, shaking back her hat feathers. “Newly returned to England after an unfortunate sojourn in Amsterdam. Unfortunate, that is, for the people I robbed, ha ha.”
There came a decided lack of ha ha–ing from her audience. Alice’s insides spun. Twenty-four years, most of them spent in espionage training, and she’d still not learned how dialogue worked. Really, Mrs. Kew should have assigned her to be a maid so she need not speak with anyone.
She hastily reviewed the Three Primary Rules for Normal Conversation as drilled into her by long-suffering tutors at the Academy. Hold eye contact for five seconds, blink, glance away, repeat.... Do not speak until the other person has finished talking.... Do not fidget or climb on the furniture while listening. Thus mentally refreshed, she tried again.
“My husband and I are traveling to a house party in Hampshire.”
“Starkthorn Castle?” Jake asked.
“Yes.”
“We are attending the same party,” he said, giving her a smile that was clearly intended to be disarming, but which just made him look like a murderer planning to literally remove her arms. “Miss Darlington is the host’s great-aunt.”
“Indeed?” Alice inquired—although in fact she could have recited Miss Darlington’s family connections back six generations. The lady was related to several villains, each of whose A.U.N.T. dossiers could have filled a bathtub, should someone inexplicably wish to store them there. Her former ward, Cecilia Bassingthwaite, tried to assassinate the Queen, stole an invaluable amulet from the British Museum, and was seen flying a bicycle over London. Cecilia’s husband, Ned, was infamous for his meltingly gorgeous smile, one glance at which would persuade even the most sensible lady to remove her drawers (her cabinet drawers that is, to submit the valuables stored therein; Ned had surrendered his libertine ways upon marriage). And Darlington’s niece, Cecilia’s mother, had been known as the Queen of Pirates. They were a wicked lot, and Jemima Darlington the wickedest of all.
“Pudding!” the lady declared.
Her husband and Alice stared at her blankly.
“Pudding,” she repeated, as if this made all clear. “I forgot to have Competence bring some chocolate cream pudding. Bother.”
At that moment, Competence entered, bearing a tray of tea, biscuits, and pudding. Alice eyed her with interest. With perspicacity like that, could she be an A.U.N.T. agent? Or did Miss Darlington often desire pudding at midmorning?
Setting down the tray, Competence brought out several thick white towels that had been tucked under her arm and handed them to Alice.
“Thank you, I am glad for any server in a port,” Alice murmured, which was code forAre you a representative of the agency that is the true effective (albeit highly secret) government of England and has licensed me to kill you if these towels are not what they seem, or are you just a regular housemaid?
“Hm,” said Competence in a brusque tone before turning on a heel and marching away—which either answered that or completely did not.
While tea was poured and biscuits dunked into pudding, Alice dried herself as best she could. At last, Miss Darlington motioned for her to take a seat by the fire.
“Where is your husband, Mrs. Blakeney?” she asked as Alice laid a towel on an armchair and lowered herself gingerly, wincing a little as her wet clothes clung to her skin. “Not loitering on the balcony, I hope?”
“N—”
“Notunwell?”
“N—”
“Good God, Jake, she’s brought illness into the house!”
“Dear, I’m sure that’s not the case,” Jake murmured soothingly. “She seems perfectly healthy to me.”
Alice tried to quell the remnants of her shivering, lest Miss Darlington conclude she had malaria. “The last I saw Mr. Blakeney, he was flying west with a glasshouse in pursuit,” she explained. “I imagine we’ll catch up at Starkthorn Castle.”
