How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

Mrs. Bell shook her head. At least the younger mistress of the house kept her clothes on in the parlor.

The letter wasnot from Henry.

Frustration and worry sizzled in Persephone’s belly. She’d been hoping he would send word that he was back in England, if unable to come home directly. Or better yet, share with her the evidence that had put him into this predicament in the first place. But he wanted to protect her. It was maddening.

According to his previous—and far more regular—letters, Henry and a fellow soldier, Peter Oliver, had accidentally discovered a traitorous plot between one of his commanding officers and a peer of the realm. It centered in Egypt where Henry was stationed. That was not a lot to go on.

And instead of telling Persephone more, he hid letters in forgeries on their way to British parlors—and likely, the duke’s festival. They were randomly placed to avoid detection as he feared he was being watched. He planned on reaching England first, with his tale to tell, and have the letters as security, as assurance that should something happen to him, the truth would still be told.

Which would have been an entirely more reasonable plan if he’d told her where the bloody letters were hidden. She knew how to spot a forgery from a mile away, after all. Artifacts were her life. As was the festival. And just as soon as he was safely home, she planned on bashing him in the head with something heavy.

She’d written him reams of paper for months now, telling him all about the festival. Any collector worth their salt would be sharing their treasures with the Duke of Pendleton. And the others would covet an invitation, likely publicly enough, that she could convince them to extend her an offer to tour their home displays if necessary. It was hardly a foolproof plan, but it wasn’t bad as far as panicked last-minute secret plots went, especially without any help from Henry. She hoped desperately that her plots would not be necessary at all. They were meant as contingency plans in case Henry didn’t make it home.

He should have made it home by now.

Fear for him scraped inside her chest, like iron. It wouldn’t do him any good if she flew to pieces. She had to stay calm. She read the newspapers regularly enough to know that the soldiers’ return home could be delayed for any number of reasons, even when that soldier was an earl’s son and even if he had nothing to report to the War Office. His ship could have missed the tide, could have been taken off course by the winds, attacked by pirates. Anything.

She could not save him from the vagaries of the sea, but she could damn well save him from being wrongfully accused and convicted of a crime which resulted in the death penalty.

It would have been easier if his father, the Earl Culpepper, could have been depended upon to help. But the earl had a volatile temper, and a runaway mouth when he drank brandy. And he drank enough brandy to cause a drought in the French court, even when such spirits had to be smuggled into England. Henry’s grandmother, Lady Culpepper was certainly daunting but making debutantes cry was hardly helpful under the present circumstances.

And so, it was up to Persephone for the foreseeable future. She would take a tally of every single item in the assembly hall, inspect them carefully for hints they might be forgeries, and then continue on to the crates which were even now being delivered to the duke’s ballroom. If the other letters were in Little Barrow, she would find them.

She had to find them.

It was as simple as that.

The sun cameout in full, proving that even the English weather was mildly terrified of Lady Culpepper.

The garden party was in full swing by the time Persephone and her grandmother arrived. For a lady who insisted on parading through the parlor naked, the Dowager Countess Blackwater also insisted on unique fashions. She wore a dress in pale aubergine with yellow trim and a turban of silk flowers so tall it resembled a marzipan hedge. “One must be cheerful,” she reminded Persephone adding another flower to the lacing of her bodice. “You can’t wear dark brown all of the time, darling.”

Persephone had only escaped similar decoration because she would be descending into her barrow. She wore her usual riding habit she had altered for ease of movement. It was smart enough that Lady Culpepper sniffed in surprised approval. Besides, dark brown hid dirt the best. The pink ribbon at the bodice was in deference to her grandmother.

“Darling Adelle,” Lady Blackwater bent to kiss Lady Culpepper’s cheek, then thought better of it when her hair piece wobbled.

“Matilda, do sit down and have some cake.”

“You know I shall.” She joined a collection of older ladies at the table dripping with lace cloths and groaning under silver platters of iced cakes, biscuits, and delicate pastries decorated like colourful baubles. Ribbons of frosting looped between them, scattered with violets and sugared rose petals. The ladies were equally festooned in ruffles and ribbons of mint green, lavender, and every shade of blue. Pale flowers twined around the supports of the painted tent that shaded them from the attentions of the sun. The entire tableau might have been at home in a confectionary’s display window. Everything around Persephone might have been mistaken for a cupcake. It was beautiful.

She itched to be in the dirt.

She curtsied politely. “Lady Culpepper.”

“Mmm.”

The other ladies paused in their conversation, exchanging glances over their china cups. Lady Culpepper had issued the invitation to the house party, but her personal welcome would dictate the way the others received Persephone.

“My Percy designed that dress herself, isn’t she clever?” Matilda asked, sounding as frothy as champagne. “The duke himself commended her on it.”

Frothy champagne still had a kick.

“Indeed,” Lady Culpepper replied. She might be snobbish and sharp, but her affections for Persephone’s grandmother were true. And being a Duke’s goddaughter did offer Persephone some protection, after all. “Lovely. You may join the others at the barrows.”

“Thank you, Lady Culpepper.”

Persephone fled before anyone could say anything loud enough that she couldn’t pretend not to hear them. Whispers boiled behind her.

“That’s her?”