“I remember where I’ve seen you before,” he said in a pleasant tone. “It was when you mugged me last year in Clacton-on-Sea. YouareMiss Dearlove, aren’t you? Erstwhile lady’s maid to Mrs. Chuke. You stole my wallet and cufflinks.”
“Nonsense,” Alice retorted.
“I assure you, madam, my memory of events is as clear as a daguerreotype.”
“Oh, I agree it happened. But it is nonsense to say they were cufflinks. They were miniature communication devices.”
“Well, yes, such things are a necessity when one is butler to a pirate. Captain O’Riley was forever wandering away from my supervision.” His eyes seemed to lighten as he regarded her. “If you know that, then I assume you are a member of the secret service. Is that why you attacked me in Clacton?”
“I am not aware of anything about a secret service,” Alice replied promptly.
“Of course you aren’t. Neither am I. Never heard of its existence. Never drawn a paycheck from its coffers.”
Alice cast him an austere glance. “I might have guessed, considering your bulletproof hat. Very well. I was observing a clandestine ladies’ league—”
“The Wicken League of gentlewomen witches?”
“You know them?”
“A petty amount. They enjoy a generational feud with the Wisteria Society of lady pirates. Both groups possess the same magicalincantation, inherited from the adventurer Beryl Black, but they disagree on its proper use. Witches have a greater concern about being caught, since employing magic to manipulate people without their knowledge is generally considered more wicked than employing it just to fly houses—unless you are an urban planner, I suppose. But if you asked me to name any other difference between them, I could not. They are equally lawless and shameful.”
“Villainous,” Alice agreed.
“Dangerous.”
“Terrible taste in hats.”
He smiled at her fleetingly, sending a flurry of confusion through her body. Had she said something amusing? Should she smile in return? Her training had not included how to undertake polite conversation on the street with a man of brief acquaintance. Falling back on instinct, she frowned, crossing her arms tightly.
“While observing the League I was also managing the rogue pirate Lady Armitage and keeping an eye on the Wisteria Society.”
“Busy, busy.”
“One tends to be when one is the best agent of a secret government organization.”
“The best?” His eyebrows slanted eloquently.
She raised her own eyebrows in response. It was like the clash of swords, only with barely noticeable facial expressions.
“I am stating mere fact, sir. While there exist several committees and squads dedicated to fighting the pirate scourge—or at least sitting back and complaining about the pirate scourge, since there’s not much that can be done against people who fly weaponized houses—not many have been able to infiltrate the Wicken League of witches. Those who have tend to meet a dreadful end, choking on tea cakes or tripping and hitting their head on the ceiling. It is fair to say I may haveoverreacted toward you in Clacton-on-Sea, but I was in a tight spot. And I was disinclined to trust the butler of a pirate whom even the Wisteria Society considers a loose cannon.”
“Excuse me, but Captain O’Riley’s cannon is bolted in securely. I supervised the work myself.”
“Is that meant to be a joke?”
“Good God, no. One does not joke on a public street.”
She nodded in reluctant approval. “That day I had planned to question you about O’Riley’s intentions. But...” When the moment had come to ask if he’d like to join her for an ice cream and stroll along the beach so they could discuss matters, she’d taken one look at his handsome face and calm eyes and decided bashing him on the head was the less stressful option.
“But?” he prompted.
“Oh look, we are back at the shop.” She hurried forward the several dozen steps necessary to make that statement true. Taking a deep breath, she settled her countenance into the quiet docility of a lady’s maid. Bixby, reflected in the door’s glass panels, straightened his tie. Their eyes met briefly via that reflection; something dark and intense flashed between them. Then Alice opened the door.
“—and people of good sense don’t wear so much pink!”
Crash!
Alice stared into the shop. Its owner knelt weeping over a tangled heap of dresses and broken racks. The thief Merv moaned, half-hidden beneath a pile of hatboxes. A mannequin lay broken across the counter, a coat hanger impaled in its back; another protruded headfirst from a wall. In the center of this, Primula and Dahlia wrangled over a ballgown. It seemed the ladies’ tête-à-tête had escalated into a full-blown tit-for-tat.
