And then tossed it aside, reaching instead for a gown that would cause her aunt to faint, were she present. “You’ll perish immediately of cold!” Miss Darlington would certainly declare.

Now, Cecilia was a dutiful niece, but even the most responsible, sensible lady would be unable to resist lustrous silvery silk faille embroidered with roses, its scooped bodice trimmed with pearl-encrusted lace, its sleeves small and puffed in a fashion Cecilia had never before encountered but immediately wanted to experience. She wrangled herself out of her day dress and into the silk, managing to close most of the buttons at the back. It did not quite fit, but Cecilia decided she had no need to adequately breathe that evening.

She unbraided her mussed hair, brushed it through with her fingers, then coiled it into a knot at the back of her head. She cleaned her face as well as she could with a petticoat she found in the luggage. There were no toiletries, so she had to remain content with her natural scent, which was not entirely pleasant after all the exercise of the day. But the gown itself smelled of old roses, and that would have to suffice.

After transferring her gun to her garter belt and checking that her knives were in place, she still felt only half-dressed. There were long satin evening gloves to match the gown, but they left a two-inch gap of exposed skin between glove and sleeve. Cecilia lost courage, and she was turning back to the voluminous blue dress when the carriage stopped.

Looking out the window, Cecilia saw a large, elegant building set on a trim lawn above the drive where they had stopped. Its dozens of windows gleamed merrily, and gas lamps along the driveway led a shimmering route up to the majestic front door.

“Oh,” Cecilia said. This was not the modest roadside hotel she had been envisioning.

There was no time to change her dress now. The carriage door opened and Ned lowered the step, then held out his hand to assist her exit. Responding automatically from a decade’s rigorous training, Cecilia laid her hand upon his, lifted her skirt’s hem, and alighted gracefully to the pebbled drive.

“Miss Bassingthwaite,” he said in a low voice, bowing before her. “You look exquisite.”

Cecilia lifted her chin disdainfully. “I will brook no pleasantries from a scoundrel,” she said, and then winced as she heard her aunt’s tone in her own voice. “You look quite reasonable yourself,” she relented. “Would you help me with my buttons?”

She turned her back to him. There was a long moment of silence, and then Ned cleared his throat. “Of course,” he said, and began slipping pearls into their related holes. His fingers at no point touched her skin, and yet they seemed to stir the same breeze she had experienced on the road, cool yet electrifying. Cecilia swallowed dryly. Perhaps she was coming down with a cold. Miss Darlington was going to be furious.