They entered the house, utilizing the mat as they did, and Cecilia was glad to see no bowls or vases had been damaged in the maneuvering. Miss Darlington appeared at the top of the stairs and began a stately descent. The girl watched her wide-eyed, mouth slightly ajar. Miss Darlington had been known in her youth as a hearty lass, but seventy years of battle and enthusiastic ballroom dancing had rendered her dependent on both a cane and the handrail. Her piratical majesty was undinted, however, and her black bombazine dress billowed slightly in the manner of a brigantine’s flag as she took the stairs.

The girl curtsied. “Miss Darlington,” she said in reverent tones.

“Who are you?” Miss Darlington demanded.

“Constantinopla Brown, ma’am.”

Miss Darlington frowned in the severe manner that indicated she was feeling pleasantly surprised. “Not Anne Brown’s granddaughter?”

“The same, ma’am.”

“The last time I saw you was at the Scottish border. Your mother was helping me dispatch a gang of ruffians. She had you in a sling and at one point you reached out with your wee little hand and grabbed a fellow’s blunderbuss. In his surprise, he pulled the trigger, shot dead his captain, and lost his balance from the kick of the gun. Fell into quicksand. Most distressing. It took me three days to get the splashes of muck washed out of my dress. But you helped us win that skirmish, young lady. Good job.”

The girl blushed at this praise. Cecilia raised one eloquent eyebrow but hastily lowered it again before anyone noticed.

“I never thought I’d see the day when little Constantinopla would be shooting out the windows of my house. Cecilia!” she snapped without shifting her gaze from the trousered girl, “put down that rifle at once. Ladies do not point guns at friends. At least, not on happy occasions such as these.”

“I’m sorry I shot,” Constantinopla said, “but you were advised beforehand.”

“Advised?”

“Yes, ma’am, in the letter you were sent. It contained a postscript . . .”

Miss Darlington drew the letter from her waistband and opened it. Her lips moved as she perused the contents. “The only postscript is PCAP.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Constantinopla nodded vigorously, causing her hair bow to waggle. “As you can see, I had no choice but to shoot.”

“PCAP,” Miss Darlington repeated. “Please contribute a plate. It’s standard practice when the Society meets. Pleasance has been making mushroom and shrimp canapés all afternoon.”

Constantinopla’s blush deepened. “Oh no, ma’am. Provide code at perimeter. Morse code, with your lantern or curtains, so we know you’re not with the enemy.”

“The enemy?” Miss Darlington was aghast. “No one has accused me of being their enemy in—in—”

“Two weeks, Aunty,” Cecilia supplied. “Lady Espiner.”

“Espiner? Thin woman, ruby necklace?”

“Yes, Aunty.”

Miss Darlington scoffed. “I wasn’t her enemy; I was doing her a favor. Imagine wearing rubies in summer! They are an autumn jewel. And I never would have thought my own Society would shoot at me.”