Afterward, they trooped into yet another grand room, where a band played and the company danced in a sparkling, dizzying swirl of color. Olivia Etterly stopped her along the way to ask in a whisper whether she had seen Lady Armitage that evening. “No,” Cecilia whispered in reply. “Is she here?”

“That’s the thing,” Olivia said. “No one knows. No one has seen or heard of her all week. No assassination attempts, no newspaper warnings to the general public, no children running in terror along the street while her house chased them. It’s as if she’s disappeared.”

Cecilia thought of the last time she had seen Lady Armitage—standing in the dark forest, laughing as she realized Cecilia intended to be captured by Morvath if possible.

Hearing that laugh, Cecilia had felt a moment’s pride. Lady Armitage had considered her dangerous and had admired her for it, run away back to her house because of it. Not like the other Wisteria Society women, who had done everything they could over the years to repress her, keeping her on the sofa, ensuring she did not turn out like Patrick Morvath or, worse in a way, Cilla.

As they repressed her still.

A sudden strange love for the wily old Lady Armitage rushed through Cecilia’s heart. She found herself giving Olivia a smile like a scimitar. The older woman took half a step back, and there it was—that caution darkening her eyes, seeing Cecilia’s ghosts rather than the woman she was herself.

Oddly, it didn’t hurt. She just felt the sharpness in her smile and her eyes. “Never mind,” she said. “Knowing Lady Armitage, she’s probably off somewhere getting married. I wouldn’t worry, at least not about her, if I were you.”

Olivia swallowed dryly. “You’re right,” she murmured, then ducked her head and hurried away so that Cecilia would stop smiling at her like that.

Cecilia found herself a quiet space at the edge of the room where she could scrutinize the crowd. Perhaps it was just her own sudden fierceness, or perhaps the mention of Lady Armitage, but she felt a sense of danger that had her nerves tightening and her wits coming to armed attention.

But apart from a spiked fern that gave her a moment’s concern, swaying as someone knocked against it and reminding her of Aunty Army’s perpendicular hair, nothing suggested a need for alarm. In fact, danger seemed impossible among such gentility. Princesses glimmered; princes laughed. Alex O’Riley, in an elegant dinner suit but unshaven, was sharing an intense conversation with Prince Wilhelm and the King of Belgium. Glancing up, he winked at her before the German prince tugged on his sleeve, demanding all his attention. Even Miss Darlington was trotting along in a two-step with Prince Edward as if she hadn’t a week ago been knifed by her long-lost maniac son; the prince was struggling to keep up. Cecilia sighed.

“Why so sad?” came a voice in her ear.

Cecilia nearly (and unscientifically) spontaneously combusted. She glanced sidelong at Ned Lightbourne’s wicked smile before hastily looking ahead once more. Any thoughts of Lady Armitage were immediately lost to this clear and present danger. Ned was not dressed as an officer of Her Majesty’s forces, instead wearing impeccable white linen beneath a black tailcoat, his black trousers so tight it was dangerous to her blood flow, his hair brushed back in suave style. He looked like he was planning to steal the castle and every lady in it. Cecilia instinctively felt for the comfort of the knife tucked among her skirts.