“You really haven’t.”

“Then what is this ‘hangover’ of which you speak?”

“An illness caught from eating seafood.”

She gasped. “We had seafood for dinner!”

“We did!” he said as if suddenly remembering.

“But you are not unwell.”

Ned shrugged. “After several bouts of hangover in my youth, I’ve developed an immunity.”

She sighed. “It matters not. I must rescue my aunt, regardless of how I feel. Now, unhand me, sir. You may quote my family history all you like, but you forget we have still not been properly introduced.”

He frowned in amusement. “We shared a bedroom last night. After I undressed you. We’ve been on speaking terms for several days. You have stolen many small items belonging to me”—including my heart, he added silently—“and furthermore you are in my official custody.”

“Even so.”

“Fine.” He stepped back, releasing her, and performed a deep bow. “Miss Bassingthwaite, may I beg the honor of introducing myself?”

“You may,” she said, rocking slightly and pressing a hand against her brow. “Only do it quietly.”

He grinned. “Ned Lightbourne, Miss Bassingthwaite. Captain of Her Majesty’s secret police brigade, at your service.”

“So you say.”

He blinked, taken aback. “You don’t believe me?”

“Of course not,” she replied with a dry laugh.

“Very well.” He bowed again. “Ned Lightbourne, Miss Bassingthwaite. Tired man trying to do the right thing.”

Cecilia acknowledged him with a nod. “Captain Lightbourne, I have heard so much about you. It is a pleasure to”—she held up her hand, and they both waited while her stomach contemplated whether it wished to join in the conversation—“to make your acquaintance,” she concluded, and turned to vomit over her corset on the floor.

(As a feminist statement, it was ambiguous at best.)

“Oh dear,” Ned said sympathetically. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”

“I am fine,” she averred, wiping her mouth with her gloved hand, and then departed for the bathroom. Ned heard water running and teeth being scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. Several minutes later she returned, fresh albeit gloveless. She waved a hand at Ned. “Hurry up, stop this loitering, we must be on our way at once!”

Ned opened his mouth to argue, then smiled instead. “Surely a decorous lady cannot go out in public with neither corset nor gloves?”

Irritation and disdain formed an unlikely union in her countenance. “Another word, sir, and you shall go out in public without teeth.”

(Whereas that went more to the point.)

And there it was. She might have a shady heritage of Romantic intellectualism, but she’d been raised pure pirate. Ned bowed to her again, smirking, and then followed her to the door. She opened it, and they stared at the distinguished couple and porter standing on the other side of the threshold.

Ned immediately placed his hat upon his head. “We were sent to the wrong room,” he pronounced in Lord Albert’s ostentatious voice before anyone else could speak.

“This one is a travesty,” Cecilia added, sounding eerily like her aunt. “Someone has made an appalling mess which has been left uncleaned. We are going downstairs now to complain to management.”