“I am your ardent servant and your cousin, Frederick Bassingthwaite,” he said, “imprisoned like you in this dour abbey under the cruel authority of Captain Morvath. Although we have never before met, dear Cecilia, I feel I know you intimately from the stories I’ve been told about your mother.” He brought forth a silver locket and, opening it, showed Cecilia the tiny portrait it contained of Cilla Bassingthwaite. “I keep this in lieu of a picture of you, for I was told how alike you were. It is not true, forsooth! Thou art more lovely, more graceful in the eye of the . . .”

Cecilia clambered out of bed. Her body swayed to starboard and her mind to port, but she took a deep breath and shoved them back into alignment by sheer will. Although she was still dressed in her riding habit, the jacket had been unbuttoned and her boots were off. Her hair hung loose down her back. Clearly someone had attended to her comfort after having drugged and kidnapped her.

She frowned. He’d had that chloroform with him the whole time, yet had not taken her to the Queen’s prison, nor to her father’s house until it landed right in front of them. He’d supported and protected her—and kissed her too, although she didn’t want to think about that. But then he’d declared himself Morvath’s servant all along and had chatted with Randall as he rendered her unconscious.

It did not matter. Ned Lightbourne did not matter, not even in the slightest. All that did was rescuing the Society and assassinating her father. Taking her boots from the floor, Cecilia shoved them on and buttoned them as fast as she could.

“When your father approached me,” Cousin Frederick was saying, “I felt disinclined to accept his hospitality. He brought me here anyway, determined to secure in my person your best happiness. Although I have been a wretched prisoner, fed only three times a day, and allowed no liberty but what is available within these dozens of walls, I care not! All I do, I do for you! Captain Morvath’s assurance that you would make for me a perfect bride has been answered with the most joyous proof. Think, my dear cousin, how the wounds of the past shall be repaired between our families when we are united in matrimonial bliss!”

By the time he ended this speech, Cecilia had climbed over the bed, crossed the floor in three strides, discovered that the door was locked, and then turned to survey the room. It seemed everything had been left as it was when she lived here twelve years ago.

“You will love Starkthorn Castle just like your mother did,” Frederick continued, oblivious to both Cecilia’s mood and Cilla’s. “The orchard is rich with nature’s bounty, the same as your own Venusian form . . .”

Returning across the room, Cecilia began pulling dolls from the shelves, inspecting them closely before tossing them onto the bed.

“. . . Thou art a blushing apple, and I the worm of love . . .”