“You wouldn’t kill your own daughter,” Ned said tersely. He held his gun with both hands, aiming it between Morvath’s eyes. His own eyes were resolutely focused on the captain; he did not dare glance at Cecilia.

“How do I know she’s my daughter?” Morvath retorted. “Cilla probably cuckolded me. God knows women are fickle, unfaithful beasts. Look at my own mother. Jemima Darlington!” he bellowed. “Step forward so you can be introduced as the trollop you are.”

A gasp arose from the company.

“I say, good fellow,” declared Prince Edward. “Even if she is your mother, you can’t talk about her like that.”

“What do you know about it?” Morvath spat.

“My mother is the Queen,” Prince Edward replied inexpressively. He paused while people came to their own conclusions about his statement. “Apologize to the lady at once.”

“Never! She is the one who should apologize to me! Her lewd, immoral behavior—”

“Silence!” roared a furious male voice. Everyone stared, mouths agape, as a large man in dusty clothes and with a bandaged arm shoved his way through the crowd to stand near Miss Darlington. He was white-faced but his eyes blazed with a dark fire of passion. Miss Darlington looked at him with astonishment, and he returned the gaze grimly, as if he had come to collect a debt from her and not even the hijacking of a royal banquet would prevent him from doing so. “Say another word about this fine lady and I will see you dead, sir!”

“Jaggersen?” Morvath said, incredulous.

“Jacobsen! Jacobsen!” The misnomered man stamped his foot in frustration. “Jake Jacobsen from Coventry, son of Joe Jacobsen, officer in Her Majesty’s royal guard.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” called a wit from the crowd.

“Oh, Jake Jacobsen,” Miss Darlington said unexpectedly. “I remember you now.”

He laid a hand to his heart. “I have never forgotten you, madam.”

“The hair tricked my eye. It used to be red, didn’t it?”

“Quite a while ago now,” he said, bashfully running a hand through his gray locks.

“No!” Morvath screamed.

Miss Darlington shrugged. “What can I say? If society wanted me to keep track of my illicit lovers, they should have educated me better.”

“But he’s nobody!” Morvath raged. “Just some half-witted copper probably raised on a farm.”

“Pig farm,” Jacobsen agreed.

Morvath hauled Cecilia back two steps, pressing the knife so hard against her throat she could feel her pulse bash urgently against the blade. She tried to think of how she might break his grip, disarm him, but the wine and cocaine were swirling heavily through her body, weighing her down, making her feel as though she might at any moment take a nap in her father’s arms. She stared at Ned, at his grim mouth that was usually smiling, his cold eyes that had warmed her so many times. She tried to impress the vision of him on her brain so that when Morvath killed her she could carry her own secret heaven beyond the grave. Somewhere out there stood Aunt Darlington, but Cecilia already had her tucked into her heart. It was Ned she wanted, here in these last moments—Ned like a mystery, a flare of magic, a horizon.