“Fine,” she relented. “But only to save you from the hideous fanged arachnids that are even now lowering themselves toward your face.” She lifted her chin imperiously and began to turn away, but he abruptly drew her so close their heartbeats knocked against each other.

“The Society are being held in the cellars. Be wary of Frederick.”

“And don’t turn your back on me, Captain, unless you fancy a knife in it.”

When she pulled away this time, he let her go. She marched into the bedroom.

Ned came behind. “Your father wants to see you at breakfast,” he said. “A bath is being prepared for you now.”

“I’m not—” she began, but then Frederick was rushing over, grasping her hand in both of his.

“Fear not, dear cousin,” he urged. “Lightbourne is a brute, but I will keep you safe with me, your tender limbs and gentle heart ensconced in my protection despite—”

Cecilia turned, took Ned’s gun from his hand, and smacked the butt of it into Frederick’s forehead. He gave a little scream and collapsed among the dolls on the bed.

“Much better,” Cecilia said, handing back the gun.

Ned grinned. “Listen, Cec—”

“Miss. Bass. Ing. Thwaite.”

“But—”

The door opened, admitting a footman and two henchmen carrying guns and soft, folded towels.

“Your bath is ready, ma’am,” said the footman. “If you will follow me.”

Ned dropped his words into grim silence. On the bed, Frederick groaned. Cecilia shook her head in disgust and walked away without a backward look.

Far below, in the musty gloom of the abbey cellar, Pleasance stood chewing her thumb knuckle unhappily. She’d spent years dreaming of being captive in the dungeon of a madman, but the reality proved not as deliciously woeful as she’d expected. It was, in fact, plain uncomfortable. And boring, too. The Wisteria Society ladies had taken the opportunity to catch up on gossip, but as a mere housemaid Pleasance was ignored, even if she did know how to fly a house and seven ways to rob a duchess of her diamonds. She hoped something interesting would happen soon, before she lost all faith in melodrama.

If only the guards would enter. All they needed to do was take three steps into the cellar. Three little steps. The prisoners had been stripped down to their underwear and divested of enough concealed weaponry to supply a battalion, so what harm could it do to walk three steps inside?

(There was of course an extensive trap awaiting anyone who tried, since pirates needed only their underwear and a few old wine crates, a stray nail or two, to create something lethal. Pleasance did not dare to even think about it. Thoughts were not safe things. The mind was no sanctuary.)

Nearby, Miss Darlington perched on an overturned box, eyes closed, as if she meditated peacefully in a summer garden instead of a damp, barely lit cellar. The rest of the Society watched her cautiously and whispered behind their hands. Everyone knew about Morvath’s hatred of the Darlington clan, which was equaled only by his hatred of the Bassingthwaite clan, his adopted family the Morvath clan, the Hanoverian clan currently represented by Queen Victoria, the Chapman and Hall publishing clan, and the company that made those caramel cream profiteroles that ended up tasting like fish. No one could believe she was still alive. Morvath must be planning something particularly slow and vicious for her, and several conversations were taking place, in the spirit of professional curiosity, as to what it might be.