Two red-coated guards rushed to drag Morvath from the dance floor. Ladies moved back, pulling their skirts against their legs so he did not sully them as he was hauled past. Gentlemen murmured to whoever would listen that they of course would have attacked the fiend themselves, foiling his dastardly plot, if only they had been close enough . . . wearing their sword . . . not protecting the lady at their side . . . not suffering from a terrible nameless malady that slowed their movements. When the body neared Petunia Dole, her foot suffered an unforeseen spasm and kicked him in the head. Olivia Etterly was so astonished by this, she stumbled, and only by stepping heavily upon his groin was she able to restore her balance.

Morvath was then taken from the palace into the custody of the police force. (Charged with disturbing the peace, attempted murder, and upsetting the Queen on her special day, he was shipped off to Afghanistan, where they put him to work in a copper mine. But he escaped, developed an addiction to opium, and wandered the southern mountains orating epic poetry about the poppy—rhymes with floppy—until eventually meeting his doom at the hands of a prospective bride and her pet weasel.)

Cecilia finally steadied herself, recollecting her inner resolve. “I’m sorry,” she told Ned whilst smoothing her dress, straightening her gloves. “I do thank you for the kind offer and, er, the generous expression of your ardor, but I can’t marry you, Captain, regardless of my heart’s conviction. As we previously discussed, I am bound in duty to my aunt.”

“Miss Darlington?” the Queen called.

“Huh? What’s that?” Miss Darlington turned from smiling at Jacobsen, her eyes blinking, her expression trying to settle into seriousness. “Did someone want me?”

The entire company laughed. Ned holstered his gun at the back of his waistband and smiled down at Cecilia’s flushing face until she sighed.

“It’s not amusing,” she said. “I am trying to do the right thing.”

“Oh good heavens!” Miss Darlington threw up her hands impatiently. (Countess Feodora’s pearl ring slipped from her glove and rolled across the floor.) “This has gone far enough! Did I not raise you to be a proper scoundrel, Cecilia? Have you not been educated in the correct ways of ladylike piratism? Why are you even thinking of trying to do the right thing?”

Cecilia blinked, confounded. “I—er—”

“Run away with the boy. Abandon your duties. Live in sin. Or else your bad name will be utterly redeemed.”

“But—” Cecilia began.

“So long as you promise to drink your daily tonic, wear a scarf in all weather, and not go after the Bevelrede fortune, which I have my eye on—”

“What?!” shouted an alarmed Count Bevelrede from within the crowd.

“—I will give you my blessing for an elopement. But of course it’s up to you.”

Cecilia frowned. What would a heroine do in this moment? How might she best fit herself to this evolution of events?