“I am nineteen!” Constantinopla replied; then, catching the eye of both Ned and Cecilia, she ducked her head. “In my heart, at least.”

“Your heart,” Tom echoed flatly. “I see. And what age is your mouth? And your . . . other physical features?”

Constantinopla muttered something, but Tom clearly heard, for he repeated it in a horrified shout. Constantinopla, falling back on her training as a lady and a pirate, looked up with a flash of anger and a tut-tutting of the tongue.

“Thomas Eames, we have been in the same society for years. If you can’t count, the blame hardly rests with me.”

Tom debated this in a heated tone, to which Constantinopla replied furiously, and in less than a minute they had swords drawn and were proceeding to duel over their mutually stolen honor. Ned stepped back, releasing Cecilia, and they exchanged a blank look. They then edged away from the angry couple.

“You have to admit,” Ned said, “she shows good form with a sword. Oply,” he called out. “Lift your hand more.”

“Why were you working as a fencing master at her school?” Cecilia inquired.

“It was the premier educational facility for children of the high-flying set—in other words, pirate girls. We supposed you would attend.”

“No, Aunty believes too much education corrupts the delicate mind of young ladies. I received only the basic instruction at home—reading, writing, horse riding, navigation, weapons handling, piano, harp, the principles of burglary, geography, arithmetic, anatomy, metalwork, confidence trickery, history, battle tactics, dining etiquette.”

“Do you ever feel the loss of a thorough education?”

“Sometimes. I should like to know how to cook, and to embroider my own gun wipers. She really does have good form. Oply dear, move your foot back a little. And thrust on a steeper incline if you’re trying to gut him.”

“I’m aiming for something lower than his gut,” Constantinopla replied.

“Understandable. So what is your real name, Captain Lightbourne?”

“God knows, Miss Bassingthwaite. I invite you to call me Ned. We are surely well enough acquainted by now.”

“I don’t know . . .”

He turned, catching her by the arm, smiling at her with the full power of his charm. “Madam—my dear—Cecilia—”

“Miss Bassingthwaite.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” She tugged her arm from his grip. “Or nothing at all, if you please, for we must end our association today. I will be attending to the rescue of my aunt and her friends, and you—well, that is not my business.”

“But it is,” he said, following her as she began to stride across the field in the direction the houses had flown. “The Queen herself ordered me to protect you—”

“Protect me,” she repeated dubiously, not looking back.

“Well, her exact word might have been neutralized, but—”

Cecilia frowned sidelong at him. “Neutralized? Why? What have I done to offend her? Apart from rob some of her institutions, but that is hardly a capital offense.”

“She and her advisers fear you may become like your father, and it was deemed prudent to forestall that by, um, disempowering you.”