“When I heard Cecilia had been brought on board the abbey, I was determined to help her escape, despite my grandmother’s trust in me. I stole the key to the secret garden where the Society houses have been moored.”

“Jolly good!” cheered the pirates in enthusiastic whispers. “Well done! Brava! Fine work!” They elbowed Cecilia aside to pat Jane’s back, shake her hand, and mortify her thoroughly with a close view of their bare ankles and uncorseted breasts. Cecilia turned away with pursed lips and caught Ned smirking at her. She scowled.

“Cecilia,” Miss Darlington said, emerging from the throng like a battlehouse hoving into view. “Are you all right? Have you seen your father?”

Everyone turned to look at Cecilia in anticipation of her reply. She noted the unspoken third question in their eyes: Have your instincts awoken to the moldy, dark heritage of villainy that stalks these halls in which you were raised? (Or, as they would more likely put it, Have you gone off the rails yet?)

“I met him briefly, but we did not speak,” she explained, her voice tight. “I’m fine.”

The ladies, being British to the core, were not fooled by fine. They looked more closely at her mother’s dress, as if it was her mother’s ghost; they turned their suspicious stares then to Ned, who grinned in response.

“Your eyes are bleary,” Miss Darlington continued fretfully. “I fear you have caught chicken pox in this damp place. And you should not wear your hair down; you never know what vermin you might attract.” She gave Ned a pointed glare. Her expression stiffened as she noticed Frederick standing beside him. “I say, who is that?”

Frederick bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself, O madam of magnificence, whose august name—”

“That is my cousin,” Cecilia said. “Aunt Darlington, please meet Mr. Frederick Bassingthwaite. He is late of Starkthorn Castle and has a keen interest in ladies’ calves. Mr. Bassingthwaite, Miss Darlington.”

Frederick stepped forward to take Miss Darlington’s hand, but she did not offer it. “A Bassingthwaite in Northangerland Abbey.”

“Cecilia and I are to be married,” Frederick explained. “I am the happiest of men! Our fates have aligned and for as long as—”

“We must go at once to the garden,” Miss Darlington declared. “Cecilia, do you remember the way?”

“I’m not sure,” Cecilia admitted. She could envision her mother drifting through the walled courtyard lavishly filled with greenery and flowers, but its location was beyond her power of recollection.

“I know it,” Ned said.

Miss Darlington threw him the sort of look she usually bestowed upon an unsanitary surface. “Well, I suppose there is no help for it. Cecilia, keep him by your side and see that he stays out of trouble.”

Ned frowned. “I am a cap—oh, never mind.”

Miss Darlington patted Cecilia’s arm in an effusion of emotion, then frowned. “This muslin is far too flimsy. Why are you not wearing a shawl? Do you want to languish and die? Pull yourself together, girl! And if anything happens that actually threatens your life, you must run away, do you understand?”