Cecilia did this and then also rearranged her beret to Miss Darlington’s satisfaction, whereupon her aunt said urgently, “Come along, dear, let us make haste.”

They walked beneath manors, town houses, and cottages to their own house, where Pleasance was waiting with a tomahawk at the door. “If any burglar tries to get past me, miss,” she said as they approached, “I’ll make him into a ghost. He can help the White Lady haunt the guest bedroom.”

“Well done,” Miss Darlington replied, closing the door behind her and proceeding to unlace and remove the cloak she had one minute before so carefully donned. “Now we must rush to join the chase. All hands on deck! Cecilia, I want you to check windows and doors are closed, then put on the kettle. Tea is vital at a time like this. And, Pleasance, polish the sextant and telescope. We cannot venture forth with dirty instruments.”

Cecilia and Pleasance exchanged a brief glance.

“Ain’t we in a hurry, miss?” Pleasance dared to ask.

“Absolutely!” Miss Darlington replied in a strident tone. “Every moment counts! Plenty of sugar with the tea, Cecilia. And bring it to me in the parlor. I shall just rest my eyes before setting off. Many’s the accident that’s been had due to eyestrain, you know.”

“Yes, Aunty,” Cecilia murmured. She knew Miss Darlington was trying to protect her, not having been appraised of Cecilia’s long-held intention to run her father down and put a sword through him. However, she also knew that, if her aunt became aware of this scheme, no buts would be butted, and Cecilia would be thereafter lucky to fly her own armchair, let alone her own house. So she went without argument to do as she was told. (After all, the Wisteria Ladies’ Junior Division motto was: “Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and hopefully the other person dies.”)

“Also bring biscuits,” Miss Darlington called after her. “The ginger ones. I could not eat a thing at Gertrude’s table—you never know whether people clean their kitchens properly or not. The dangers of an upset stomach are not to be underestimated!”

Ned sighed dreamily as he limped through Miss Dole’s downstairs rooms, filling his pockets with small valuable items and trying to ignore the pain in a certain part of his anatomy. If Cecilia Bassingthwaite hadn’t injured him, he would be having quite the opposite reaction to their meeting. So much for implacability! So much for delicate pallor! Fire ran through her veins! He’d felt it in her throat, pulsing against his knife. He’d felt it in her breath beneath him. She had witchcraft in her lips!—and hands, and knees.

Definitely in her knees, he thought, wincing.

Lady Armitage was right to want such a woman blotted out, although right for all the wrong reasons. Lady Armitage thought her only a means to an end. But Ned was beginning to suspect Cecilia was the heart of everything.