“Fine, thank you, Aunty,” Cecilia replied.

“I fear it was a mistake to come out this evening. You will perish from dengue fever before the night is done.”

“Not unless I am bitten by something,” Cecilia said—and then had to fan herself rather urgently with her gloved hand.

“Hmm.” Miss Darlington rummaged in her purse, then handed a lozenge to Cecilia. “Take this, my dear. It will offer some protection.”

Cecilia eyed the lozenge warily. “What is it?”

“Merely a dose of cocaine. I keep it handy in case of toothache, neuralgia, or syphilis.”

“Thank you.” Cecilia pretended to swallow the pill. She then discreetly slipped it into her purse, alongside her handkerchief, powder box, and pearl-handled revolver. It was unlikely any medicine could cure what ailed her. Had a floral-scented envelope arrived at any point containing an invitation to tea with the Wisteria Society’s senior members, she might be feeling better now. But having sacrificed love for the sake of her career, she still awaited promotion.

Perhaps it would happen tonight!

Or perhaps never.

“You have been out of sorts all this week,” Miss Darlington observed. “And I never did get around to employing that doctor for you. Maybe what you need is a good assassination attempt to invigorate your blood.”

Cecilia envisioned Signor de Luca creeping into her bedroom, blade unsheathed, and tried not to moan.

“I myself have been disturbingly untroubled by Lady Armitage,” Miss Darlington mused. “Not a single poisoned apple or missile. I hope she is all right.”

“Perhaps her house finally broke down,” Cecilia suggested.

“Hmm,” Miss Darlington said again, and stared out the window as if wishing for a red-doored town house to suddenly swoop down, guns blazing in an effort to murder them.

Buckingham Palace glimmered like the jewelry box Cecilia stole from Lady Diana Hollister when she was eleven years old (and sold back to her for a profit when she was fifteen). The ladies were assisted down from their carriage and escorted into the magnificent Bow Room, where royalty, aristocracy, and several incognito pirates mingled in a display of wealth so ostentatious that Cecilia had to link her fingers together to keep them from business.

People turned to stare as they entered, and Miss Darlington strode through the parted throng as if she was the Queen herself. She had left her cane at home, and although Cecilia suspected her of maintaining a stable gait only through determination and the aid of several cocaine pills, she gave no indication of frailty.

Following behind, Cecilia absolutely did not glance about in search of Ned Lightbourne (nor did she see him). Murmurs rippled through the company—“scoundrels”; “dangerous ladies”; “those sapphire earrings look just like the ones I lost.” Gentlemen bowed. But none of them had blond hair falling piratically over one eye, nor silver hooped in their ear, nor a bewildering effect on her pulse that might have caused Cecilia to stumble, had they done so.