How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

He blinked again, this time far more rapidly. “Blerg.”

She was fully aware that not everyone shared her fascination. “Give it here, if you please.”

He passed it over eagerly. She pretended not to see him wipe his palms on his trousers. It was in remarkably good condition, only cracked along the top where the lid had crushed down into the jar. It was carved into the likeness of a falcon’s head, with a pointed beak. “Definitely intestines,” she said. “This is Qebehsenuf, one of the sons of Horus. He was said to protect the intestines. If it was Anubis, it would be the stomach.” She stroked the beak. “It’s beautiful.”

“If you say so, my lady.” He did not sound convinced. Queasy, definitely. Convinced, no. But ghoulish or not, it was a beautiful piece of art.

And it was a forgery.

Authentic canopic jars were made of pottery, but more often limestone. And the shape of this one was wrong, if only subtly so. It was slightly too squat at the bottom, meant to flare up from a slender base and it was marble, faintly Romanised.

Anxiety thrummed down her arms and into her fingertips. Her skin prickled painfully. Was this one of the items Henry had sent home? She couldn’t open it now, not with all of the workers around her and John keeping his careful watch. The itch to lift the lid was painful. It was even more painful to put the jar down as if it wasn’t suddenly the most important artifact she had ever held, fake or not. She glanced at the open crate it had come from. “Whose collection is that?”

“A Mr. Bouchard.”

She’d never heard of him. In all likelihood, neither had Henry. He’d chosen his unknown deliverers at random, only the destination remained the same. The festival. She’d have to wait until tonight to retrieve the jar and take out Henry’s letter. Assuming there was one. And if Henry didn’t come home soon, she’d have to find out who to send it to. She hoped not to involve the duke but it might come to that. Until then, she would do what she could on her own. It was too dangerous. Too volatile. Even the Cinderellas could not know.

She reached for the lid. Surely no one would notice a quick peek. It was entirely within character, after all.

“Lady Persephone.”

She jumped a foot at the sudden voice behind her, gravelly and delicious.

Obviously, she’d have made a very poor spy, her ability to go unnoticed notwithstanding.

She whirled around. “Conall! That is, Lord Northwyck.” Without really thinking about it, she let the hand holding the canopic jar drop to her side.

“Here now,” John shouldered between them. “You’re not to bother the lady.” He glowered at Conall. Conall, in return, only smiled slightly. He didn’t look remotely concerned, despite the fact that John outweighed him by two stone. Still, there was something about the way Conall moved that would have encouraged Persephone not to underestimate him. She touched John’s shoulder gently. She could barely see over it. He was that large. And she was that short.

“Thank you, John. No need for concern. This is the duke’s godson, Lord Northwyck. Lord Northwyck, may I present John Goode.”

Conall inclined his head as though footmen were introduced to earls on a daily basis. “My godfather set you here, did he?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Conall nodded. “Good man.”

John waited a beat before nodding in return. “Sir.” He stepped back to his usual position by the door.

Persephone didn’t want to let the canopic jar out of her sight, but she also didn’t want Conall or anyone else to notice her interest. And Conall noticed everything. She shifted, placing the jar back into the crate and blocking it at the same time. She made a show of peering into the next crate where a slab of broken stone was being unwrapped.

It didn’t work.

Conall strode forward in that way of his, all confident ease, and focused immediately on the jar. He lifted it out of the box and then tipped it alarmingly to observe the base.

Persephone squeaked.

Loudly.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “That is a sound generally reserved for irate mice.”

She snatched it from his hand. “My lord!”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Only that this jar is several thousand years old!” she returned sharply. Never mind that what it held inside was priceless. “And it does not belong to you.” She replaced it in its packaging, gently, reverently. “The duke has been granted a loan from several well-known and well supplied collectors. All with the promise that the utmost care would be taken at all times.”

“I am starting to feel like I’m about to get my knuckles rapped by the governess.”