“You must tell me where you procured your dress. I’ve not seen such a style in decades.”

Cecilia brushed a hand down the white muslin skirts. “It was my mother’s. I did not take you for having an interest in fashion. You’re always so discreet with what you wear.”

“Discretion is the better part of valor, as my family have always exemplified.”

“What admirable self-awareness, to call your wardrobe choices pusillanimous.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frederick mouth that word, trying to guess what it meant. Jane was more clever. Her mouth snapped back into a hard white pinch. “At least they’re my choices, and not forced on me by my overbearing aunt as if I am a child.”

Cecilia smiled languidly, having worked Jane into this most satisfactory degree of aggravation; she swept a disinterested glance down the young woman’s form, then turned away. Jane scowled, for there was no comeback to silence, and recollected too late that Cecilia had, after all, been educated by Miss Darlington. No one bested that grand lady in the deadly martial art of polite conversation.

Cecilia glanced around the room. To her relief, Morvath was nowhere to be seen. Ned leaned back against the wall beside the food-laden sideboard, attending to his cuticles with a dagger. His black frock coat was embroidered with silver and gold, he had a ruby in his ear alongside the loop earring, and the buckles of his tall black boots were so polished, lantern light flashed and flared against them. The extravagance should have made him look like a dandy, but somehow it only honed the sense of danger about him, like a flower luring victims into its poisonous core. He appeared to have been highly entertained by the ladies’ parley, and as he caught Cecilia’s eye he raised his eyebrows in a manner that made her want to grab the nearest butter knife and stab him.

Nearby, Frederick cowered over a plate of kippers and jam toast. Cecilia tried not to stare at the smear of butter in his mustache. And at the end of the table the senior Miss Fairweather was holding a fork defensively, her gaze flickering from Cecilia to the open door and back again as if begging for rescue. Poor lady, forced into Morvath’s clutches by her traitorous granddaughter! Cecilia took a seat beside her.

“Madam,” she said, laying a hand next to Miss Fairweather’s on the white-clothed table. “Are you well? Have you seen my aunt? Is she alive?”

Miss Fairweather seemed taken aback. Obviously she was unused to kindness. How cruelly Jane must treat her! Cecilia offered a gentle, encouraging smile.

“I am doing as well as I can,” Miss Fairweather replied, her voice trembling. Jane gasped a contemptuous laugh, but Cecilia pointedly ignored her.

“These are difficult times,” she told Miss Fairweather, and even went so far as to pat the woman’s hand. The lady stiffened, then gave a great shuddering sigh. “But my aunt?” Cecilia persisted.