She ought to train one of her other servants to fly the house, but they were all men, and Lady Armitage doubted their mental strength. Oh, they looked robust enough in their elegant livery, but could they keep it up all night? In her experience, they could not. At least two of her husbands had put it into quagmires, and a third landed it on Queen Victoria’s head (the head of the royal statue in Exeter, that is). Lady Armitage thought she was better off managing things herself, and if that meant perching on the occasional rooftop—well, she could simply call it a penthouse.

“Besides,” she said to Signor de Luca, “I should imagine climbing is no problem for an Italian.”

His expression went momentarily blank as he tried to parse this logic. Then he smiled again. “Half-Italian, ma’am.”

“Never mind your preposterous heritage, is the deed done?”

“Yes,” he said, and her spirits rose so high they burst forth as a smile from her thin, creased lips.

“That is to say,” he added, and her spirits drooped again, as did her mouth. “Not quite yet, my lady. But we have them on the run.”

Lady Armitage smacked her hand against the mahogany rim of the divan and tried not to wince as pain shot through her bones. “On the run? On the run? The house is still standing right there!” She gestured to the window, through which the Darlington house could be seen if one walked over and looked out (and down).

“I meant their blood, ma’am,” he answered smoothly. Lady Armitage began to suspect his pretty smile was mocking her. “Their pulses will be racing with fear.”

“Ha. That is no accomplishment. You might have as easily sneezed in Darlington’s direction and achieved the same result. I do not want them running; I want that girl lying still, motionless, dead, and Darlington destroyed by a grief that will end only when I literally destroy her. You have failed me, Signor de Luca!”

She would have swooned in despair, but the divan was rather narrow and she did not trust that a faint wouldn’t see her toppling onto the floor.

“Ma’am, I assure you not,” the man said. He took a step toward her, his smile rising at one tip in much the same way a shark’s might when trailing its prey. Lady Armitage watched warily as he knelt on one knee beside the divan and grasped her hand. It was the left hand, with its pale band around the third finger where her ring had been (the same ring with each marriage, for while husbands were easily discarded, a really nice ring, flattering to the finger, was not). He kissed it, then gazed up at her over her knuckles, through his eyelashes. She almost slid right off the velvet into his lap; only her corset, which was too tightly laced for sudden movements, saved her.

“I will admit I like to play a little with my quarry,” he said in a wry, murmuring voice. “As you know, a pirate’s life can be tedious, and we take our fun where we can.”