Holly nodded miserably. “Pardon me.” She rushed up the steps as though she were on fire instead of only slightly gummy.
“Here,” Her Grandmaman said, glancing at Persephone and pulling a chartreuse velvet rose from her dog’s collar. Nestled comfortably in her arms, he barely bothered to open an eye. “This will distract the eye and Chartreuse has not chewed this one yet.” She shoved the flower into Persephone’s cleavage. It tickled atrociously. Not to mention that it looked like a squashed moldering cabbage. That colour was not flattering on anyone, human or canine.
“It will certainly distract,” she allowed. She would have preferred Holly’s smear of raspberry jam. Her stomach growled.
“Goodness,” her grandmother remarked. “Quickly to the crumpets.”
Breakfast had been laid out on the terrace in order to enjoy the fine weather. The gentleman had returned from time in the excavation pits, for which Persephone felt a twinge of acid envy. Priorities, she reminded herself. She’d give up all of her time digging in barrows if it meant saving her friend’s life.
Tables were set up against the house, to shade the platters and plates heaped high with food. The Culpeppers kept an old-fashioned breakfast table, with coddled eggs, fried kippers and kidneys, chops with greens and a bakery’s worth of baked goods from brioches to biscuits to bread. An army of jarred preserve, apricot, plum, quince, raspberry, and strawberry shared space with three types of honey and herbed butter. Persephone helped herself to toasted bread with nutmeg and butter, eggs, a slice of pound cake and a cup of chocolate. She needed fortification.
She couldn’t help but think on what the ancient Egyptians might have eaten for breakfast, likely dark bread with leeks and onions, figs, dates, and beer. Her grandmother jostled her with an elbow. “Pay attention, darling,” she murmured before taking her seat to let a footman serve her. “You can’t hide in the shadows forever.”
In point of fact, she could. It wasn’t so bad. For one thing, she wouldn’t have to share her pot of chocolate. She turned with a sigh. Lurking wasn’t all the thing, not on the Culpepper terrace. The guests drank their tea and ate their food, silver cutlery flashing. There was an empty seat next to Lady Louisa, who would stiffen her spine and sniff as if Persephone’s reputation was catching.
Or she could sit next to Conall.
She was surprised at the thrill of anticipation and the tiniest bit of fear. The way he was looking at her was not genteel, not mild. He was angry that she had escaped him last night, that much was obvious. But why was he staring so directly at her, dark eyebrows slashed down in warning. And why was he lunging from his chair, right at her?
Really, that was too much.
Someone shouted. Everything seemed both too fast, and too slow, as though she were moving through honey. An egg slid off Sir Barton’s spoon with a plop, his eyes comically wide. Lord Fairweather was on his feet. Her grandmother was strangely pale. Chartreuse barked once, piercingly. There was a sound, like stone grinding on stone. Persephone couldn’t place it.
And then Conall reached her, shoving her against the wall and pressing his entire body against her. Her breath caught in her throat as the world whirled around her.
A huge urn, easily as tall as she was, crashed from a third-floor balcony, shattering into sharp shards.
The flagstone cracked. A pot of tea tipped over, splattering the white cloths. Conall caught her stunned gaze. “Are you hurt?” When she only blinked at him, registering the confused and frantic babbling around them, he repeated the question. “Persephone, are you hurt?”
She finally shook her head, taking inventory of herself. A bruise on her elbow perhaps, a few cuts on her leg from the shards. Nothing, all told. “You saved me.” She realized he was still covering her and shifted. He stepped back, reluctantly. His hands curved around her shoulders, warm and steady, as he looked her over. He scowled, noting the blood on the hem of her skirts. “Get the doctor,” he snapped at a nearby footman, shaking like jelly. “At once.”
“It’s nothing,” she assured him. Chartreuse was barking in earnest now. “A scrape or two.” She stared at the broken urn, the mess of stone and dust and spilled tea. It would have crushed her if Conall hadn’t been so quick. She swallowed, feeling odd.
“Percy!” Her grandmother was trying to stand up, but she was flustered, too pale.
“I’m all right, Grandmaman,” Persephone called out, making her tone as cheerful as she could, under the circumstances. She turned to Conall. “Are you well?” She could see a rip in his sleeve. “Your coat!”
He shrugged. “I have more coats.”
“I was more concerned with the bruises underneath,” she pointed out, drily as the others converged upon them. Someone was chattering hysterically. Several ladies clutched at Conall, running their hands down his arms and over his shoulders to see if he was hurt.
Conall ignored them, meeting the eyes of the stunned butler over their heads. “Secure the room and the balcony where the urn came from. No one goes in or out but myself.”
Lady Culpepper fanned herself violently, the lace trimmings flying with enough speed to do her eyes permanent damage if she flicked her wrist any harder. “An accident,” she said. “I’ll have the responsible maid or footman turned out immediately.”
“I should like to speak to them first,” Conall said darkly. “I don’t take kindly to an accident that might well have killed my fiancée.”