Yet these girls knew who she was and were cordial with no ulterior motive. They showed no inclination to underhandedness. Preshea wobbled on unstable ground. Her instincts screamed to protect herself, to ward off kindness for the cruelty that inevitably followed.

She remained aware of Captain Ruthven, as one might be conscious of the warmth of a fireplace. Crikey, I’ll be toasting bread over him next. How could one not be aware of the man – he took up so much space.

In consequence, she directed the bulk of her remarks to Lady Flo and Miss Pagril. She experienced unexpected pleasure, watching them blossom under her interest. They valued her opinion. Or they simply didn’t want to be poisoned at supper. Lady Villentia’s reputation included her preferred methods. The last rumor she had heard mentioned her love of a certain ring. She was wearing it now, under her black gloves, an unassuming onyx-and-silver trinket. It wasn’t filled. She never used a poison ring for actually poisoning anyone – too obvious. She used it to remind people that she could.

Preshea rubbed the bump of it with her thumb. When they know more of men, when they are fully out in society, they will not wish to know me. I would hurt their prospects with my sophistication. Poor little things, they had no means of protecting themselves, no resources at all. She might not have friends, but at least she had training.

I’m going soft in my old age, thought Preshea, and then, there is definitely someone out in the garden.

She swiveled to check on the duke. He sat well away from the windows, thank heavens. Out of shooting range. Of course, it would take a truly excellent marksman to kill a single person amongst the group sitting in a drawing room, near a window or no. The man in the garden was only watching, waiting for them to leave the house. If I were a hunter, I should plan around an outdoor activity, one that spreads the party out. Like walking. Or riding. Nevertheless, I shall check that everything is locked down this evening, after the house is abed.

As to her other assignment: she had put the idea into Lady Flo’s head. That a grand romantic gesture, involving something risky, like a dirigible, was the thing to win a girl over. Now she must see that idea spread to Mr Jackson.

Knowing the duke’s lack of subtlety, he would ensure Preshea was seated next to Mr Jackson at supper. She would take that opportunity to begin working on him, encouraging ridiculousness. At the moment, he was waving about a fern frond as if fanning himself. She was inclined to think it wouldn’t be difficult.

* * *

Preshea was indeed seated next to Mr Jackson, precedence be damned. Over the mock turtle soup, she intimated that a grand gesture was just the thing to set true love aflame.

“Take a stance, you think?”

“Don’t you?” It was always best if a gentleman felt an idea were his own.

“She does love flowers.”

“My dear boy, she lives in the country, surrounded by gardens.”

“Yes, of course. Something more exotic? What about a lobster?”

“A lobster?” Preshea, unflappable though she might be, was flapped by this suggestion.

“She was saying earlier today how fond she is of lobster. Perhaps a brace of lobster? Is brace the right word?”

Preshea hid a smile in her napkin. “Perhaps not a gift, but more of an action? Lobsters might be considered ambitious.”

“Quite right, quite right. Show her I am a man of deeds, not lobsters, what?”

“Exactly so.”

“I must ponder further.”

“Ponder away, dear boy.” Preshea knew her normally cool eyes were bright with merriment; what an absurd fellow.

Mr Jackson’s wide mouth relaxed out of its perpetual smile. He squinted in thought. Clearly, devising non-lobster gestures of affection taxed his mental capacities.

A lull descended over the guests as the soup was removed and cod in supreme sauce brought out.

Until that moment, the table had included an empty chair, its place unset. The sun now below the horizon, that chair began to fill with the ghostly form of the deceased daughter, Formerly Constance Bicker-Harrow. The family encouraged their guests to refer to her, rather coarsely, as Formerly Connie.

The ghost, from what one could see of her in the bright candlelight, looked much like her sisters, although thinner and more somber by way of general expression.

How novel – a dour ghost.

Formerly Connie was, naturally, not served. She was included in conversation, however, and seemed fresh enough in her ghostly state to follow most of it. Her voice was breathy and she was wispy about the hair. Preshea was inclined to regard this last as carelessness, or perhaps Connie had been flighty when alive.

The company was impressed by the novelty. Few families could boast a ghost. This daughter must have been quite creative to linger so. It had been thoughtful of the duke to bury her nearby, where she might interact with guests. Although, Preshea wondered if it were not kinder to consign her to a proper graveyard, where she might enjoy the company of other ghosts going through the same experience. After all, no one at the table knew what it was to be dead. In consequence, Formerly Connie had little to add to the conversation.

The company was disposed to be equally impressed by the food. So it goes. If you are careless enough to die, your merit shall be weighed against the pleasantness of a meal. Could be worse, I suppose. It was delicious. Preshea was hard put to stick to her regimen. She didn’t like to overindulge, but the Snodgrove cook was excellent. There was beef stewed with pickles, stuffed loin of mutton, and roasted teal with sea kale. The afters were equally glorious, comprising apricot venetian creme and almond blancmange, with Stilton for those who preferred savory.