The maître d’ took their names—Lord Albert, the Viscount Lumines, and his wife, Lady Victoria, who were not on the guest list by some unforgivable error for which the maître d’ was most apologetic, and would they please accept a complimentary bottle of wine in lieu of complaining to the management? Lord Albert was most displeased, but Lady Victoria persuaded him to forgive, and after he handed over his hat they were ushered to a white-clothed table beside a window overlooking the park. A menu was brought, and the wine, and Lord Albert ordered two servings of cod with oyster sauce, followed by a Russian salad, duck, lemon sorbet, and assorted cheeses, while his wife gazed out the window at the moon rising over the dark gardens.

“Something to remember,” Ned said after the waiter had left, “is that the Wisteria Society are not any regular women and men. They are strong, smart, dangerous. I wouldn’t want to be the one trying to manage them.”

“How did he even succeed in capturing them?” Cecilia asked, still staring at the moon as if it was a great white house she could hijack and fly to her aunt’s rescue.

Ned took a breadstick from a basket at the center of the table. “Trickery. Afternoon tea in the village, away from the houses. A sleeping draft in the tea. All organized by a traitor in the Society’s ranks.”

“A traitor? Impossible.”

Ned shrugged. “Nothing’s impossible if you can pay enough.”

“No one would help steal the houses of their fellow Society members,” Cecilia insisted.

He gave her an amused frown. “Why not? Half of you are trying to assassinate the other half.”

“That’s different.”

Ned was quiet, trying to work out the difference on his own, then gave up and took a bite of bread.

“Who was the traitor?” she asked.

Ned chewed his mouthful, and she watched him impatiently. He rolled his eyes, trying to eat faster, and nearly choked on the swallow. Coughing, drinking wine, attracting disapproving attention from the neighboring diners, he finally managed to say, “Miss Fairweather.”

“I knew it!” Cecilia took a breadstick of her own and snapped it in half. Crumbs flew. Ned stared wide-eyed, then set down his wineglass carefully, as if any sudden movement might set her off. “Jane always was a sneak,” she said. “Her poor grandmother.”

“I don’t—”

“When is the food coming?” She frowned toward the kitchen door.

“We only just ordered. I appreciate it’s hard to wait until tomorrow, but at least know that Morvath doesn’t plan to kill the ladies.” Not right away, he added silently. “Why don’t you have a drink, try to relax?”

“I am relaxed,” Cecilia said, snapping the breadstick again. But then she laid it down on her plate and began brushing the crumbs from the tablecloth into her hand. “He told you he would not kill them?”

“Absolutely,” Ned lied.

She sighed and tipped the crumbs onto her plate, then laid her hands together on her lap. “Please excuse my shocking behavior. It has been a most exerting day.”