“You have an invitation?” Cecilia asked, trying to keep the surprise from her voice.

Olivia and Miss Darlington laughed. “Of course not,” Olivia said, and left.

Quiet was restored to the house. Miss Darlington sagged back in her chair. “More tea,” she requested, “and a bigger splash this time. A dollop. In fact, just put a splash of tea in the sherry.”

Pleasance set about making a new drink. Cecilia returned to Hiawatha. “‘The Shining Wigwam,’” she read, “‘of the Manito of Wampam—’”

“Man-eater?” Pleasance squeaked, dropping a teaspoon.

“No, dear,” Cecilia reassured her. “It means—er—”

She was saved from being exposed in a literary ignorance by another knocking on the door.

Miss Darlington sighed. “One would think there’d be more peace in the countryside. Pleasance, send them away.”

“Yes, miss,” Pleasance said, and exited the sitting room door—

Only to return immediately, running backward so as to prevent her demise by stampeding gentleman. Frederick entered the room with a full-bodied flourish, Jane Fairweather scurrying in his wake.

“Miss Darlington!” he effused. “Cecilia! And—er—unknown woman who is staring at me quite alarmingly. I bring you tidings from the fond heart of Bassingthwaite, i.e., yours truly, on such a propitious—”

“Who is this?” Miss Darlington demanded.

“It is I, O venerable aunt who—”

“Frederick Bassingthwaite, miss,” Pleasance belatedly announced.

“Who?” Miss Darlington asked, taking up a pair of opera glasses to scrutinize him more closely (albeit blurrily, as the glasses were a recent acquisition from the Duchess of Argyll, who was shorter of sight than our lady).

“Your nephew Frederick,” Cecilia explained.

Miss Darlington looked at her blankly.

“You were introduced to him this morning.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Your sister’s grandson?”

“Aloysius darling?” She smiled with sudden sincere affection.

“No,” Cecilia said patiently. “Aloysius was killed attempting to steal a gold chalice from St. Paul’s Cathedral. Struck by lightning, I believe. This is the younger son.”

“Oh.” Miss Darlington put the opera glasses back on the table with a sharp little clink that made everyone in the room wince. “What do you want, lad?”

Frederick swallowed nervously. “I wish to invite you to the wedding.” He glanced at Cecilia with a limp smile.

“No,” Cecilia said before she could stop herself.

“Whyever not, dear?” Miss Darlington asked. “I like a good wedding. The pretty dresses. The flowers. The rich purses to nab.”

“Frederick,” Cecilia said gently. “I am sorry, but I can’t marry you.”

“Oh,” he said, grimacing with embarrassment. “Oh dear me. I do beg your pardon, cousin, but I meant that I am marrying Miss Fairweather.”

Cecilia’s mouth fell ajar. She blinked from Frederick to Jane, whose demurely lowered face did not quite hide its smirk, and then back to Frederick again.

“But—but—”

“It is true, we only just met,” Frederick said, “but I was struck immediately through the heart by her golden darts of starlike beauty. There was no defense against it. ‘Mightier far than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway of magic potent over sun and star, is love—’”