Thinking of it, Lady Armitage had sighed again, melancholic. And Signor de Luca had reached over, one strand of hair falling across his eye roguishly, and patted her hand with gentle sympathy.

“Do it,” she’d said, staring at his long, swooping lashes, his curving lips. “Kill the girl. And then we’ll deal with Darlington.”

He’d laughed and drunk a toast to her brilliance, and she’d spent that evening sewing rosettes onto a garter and dreaming of the Italian hills bright with summer’s sun as she toured them on her (fifth) honeymoon.

The very next day, he’d set her plan into action. And it worked! Lady Armitage watched with bated breath, but after the dust of the explosion settled, she could discern no movement from the Darlington drawing room. Maybe a twitch of the drapes, but that would only be natural considering the great rush of air. On the street, neighbors were gathering in a state of panic, not so much from the explosion as from the realization that there were two pirate houses in their midst, but Lady Armitage had no interest in them. After all, pirates did the civic thing by displaying a black flag from their roof whilst going about pillaging and blowing things apart. If the public failed to look up, whose fault was that?

She turned away from the window, allowing herself a satisfied nod. Poor Cecilia, dead so young. And yet, the chit had been half a ghost already, pallid and quiet: a faint remembrance of her mother.

The thought tossed a memory up with it, a vision of bright billowing hair, flashing eyes . . . and a sword-pierced breast soaked in blood. Lady Armitage shuddered.

Then smiled. This was no time to be maudlin. She’d just killed a girl! Already the air seemed brighter (if literally darker, due to smoke from the bomb). Sweeping herself down upon a pink velvet divan, she reclined sensuously to await Signor de Luca’s arrival.

A moment later she sat up to be sure her stockings were taut before easing back once more. With a careful hand, she smoothed the high plume of her snow-colored hair (it is entirely possible snow in parts of the north country could be gray) and settled her expression into elegance.

Several minutes passed without action. Lady Armitage was yawning, scratching at an itch within her ear, when her butler, Whittaker, finally ushered in the pirate.

“What took you so long to get here?” she demanded querulously.

He bowed. “I beg your pardon. I had to climb a drainpipe to reach the front door. It seems your house is currently sitting atop the roof of another.”

“We are experiencing minor technical difficulties.”

Ever since her lady’s maid had thrown all good sense to the wind and run away to become a librarian, Lady Armitage had been forced to fly the house herself. Clearly, however, her brilliant mind overpowered the ancient flight incantation. Last month, she’d bunny hopped the house into the Avon River and had to replace all her carpets; this week she’d aimed for Chesterfield Street and ended up on a rooftop instead. Alas, the perils of genius. A town house was simply too light; no doubt some castle or cathedral would better contain the forces of her great intellect. Besides, she’d always fancied having one of those portcully thingies at her front door.