24

taking the low road—buckingham palace—prince albert ogles cecilia—accidental robbery—the king of belgium’s beard—dr. lumes—the obligatory romantic waltz—a proposal of theft

A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of making a grand entrance. Miss Darlington and Cecilia approached Buckingham Palace at what seemed to be a leisurely pace, as befitted their general social superiority; in fact, it was timed to the minute so they were exactly the right degree of unpunctual.

Through the windows of their (i.e., Lord Bacomb’s) carriage, they could see the city in a dreamlike blur of darkness and golden lamplight. Cecilia had gazed out at it for a while, entranced, but grew queasy from the motion and had to sit back. Miss Darlington never varied from her stiff posture. The carriage rocked around them, and they gripped the cushioned seats, unused to such an ungainly, primitive mode of transport.

“Seldom have I lowered myself in this fashion,” Miss Darlington said. “I hope we are fed well for our sacrifices.”

Cecilia regarded her aunt, resplendent in blue silk (and a black cloak, brown muff, gray scarf) with sapphires at her throat and ears, looking as magnificent as a queen—and surmised she would be happier at home by the fire, dressed in a flannel nightgown, drinking tea. Her wounds still irritated her, although she gave no complaint. And her thoughts were little better, judging from the serenity of her visage. Miss Darlington’s serenity was her iron shield, forged over a lifetime of scoundrelry: not even the merest regret penetrated into the world. And yet, there were lines on her brow that had not been visible a week ago, and a shadow of weariness in her eyes. Cecilia knew her aunt was old, but for the first time began to perceive her as elderly. It was a painful realization.

“I am sure the Queen’s menu will prove adequate,” she said. “Although I doubt it will surpass Pleasance’s chicken pie.”

Miss Darlington chuckled at this tepid joke, but in fact Cecilia was serious. Despite the pearls, she, too, would have preferred flannel worn beside a cozy fire while she read her latest book (On the Origin of Species) in peace. The idea of mingling with kings and queens offered her no excitement. Miss Darlington had forbidden thievery for the evening, and Cecilia could not think of anything interesting about royalty other than their jewels. After all, they did little more than sit around in stationary houses, aggravating their ministers and marrying one another.

Besides, Major Candent would be present at the banquet, and presumably for the ballroom dancing afterward. Cecilia did not want to see Major Candent. She did not want to think about Major Candent. Or Ned Lightbourne. Or Teddy Luxe with his skintight breeches and pink dancing shoes, sliding her across the floor in a tango.

“Are you all right, dear?” Miss Darlington asked. “You gave the most remarkable shudder.”