How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

“Yes, I believe you can.”

She felt better able to concentrate on the exhibit, with her brain no longer circling like a rabid ferret. Her grandmother was safe. She had help clearing Henry’s name. A large garden urn had not, indeed, fallen on her head. All in all, it was in hand.

She noted the first cabinet on the left, checking off each item from her list. She had already inspected them and knew them to be authentic. Nothing to help Henry there, though plenty to help the festival. “Can you tell a forgery at a glance?” Conall asked.

“Sometimes. Certainly, upon careful examination.” She lifted her chin, too accustomed to this particular conversation. There was a reason she helped the British Museum anonymously. “I’m very good at what I do.”

“I’m not doubting you.”

A refreshing change, that.

After an hour’s work she had sorted through what felt like bushels of faience beads. She stopped in front of a painted pottery urn with traces of gilt put together so clumsily it made her back teeth hurt. Not a forgery but an affront all the same. She plucked it off the shelf with care. “Honestly, why bother at all if you’re going to make such a muck of it,” she muttered.

She glanced inside for good measure, just in case. Nothing. Well, not nothing. There were gloppy dried bits of glue.

“That bad?” Conall asked, amused.

“Worse. I could hamstring the—.” She stopped abruptly.

A piece of white marble had caught her. It was new.

And Egyptian.

Conall followed her gaze. “Found something?” he asked quietly.

“That wasn’t here yesterday,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was paying attention. John stood alert by the door and the other workmen were occupied taking apart an empty crate.

The artifact was skillfully carved into the shape of a duck, with its head turned to look over its back. Ducklings and leaves were scattered over her, and her feet were cleverly tucked to the side to give the whole piece more stability. There was a large crack over the top end, nearest to her neck where a lid slid open to reveal the concave belly. It would have held cream or ointment at one point and nothing at all now.

Persephone shook her head. “It’s empty.” She ran a finger over it, and then turned it over as carefully as if she’d been lifting a baby. “It’s Roman Egypt, not the usual subject matter,” she explained. “But not a forgery.”

“We’ll find it,” Conall promised her, eyes glittering.

She nodded because he was right. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, countenance anything else. “Still, it’s not here.”

“Is this everything?”

“Is anything amiss, my lady?” John asked, frowning. “His Grace set more footman to guard the hall after the burglaries.”

Persephone sent him a sunny smile. “Not at all, John. Merely taking inventory.”

“All of the other crates have already been sent ahead to the duke.”

“Of course. Thank you, John.”

“That ought to make things easier,” Conall murmured.

If it wasn’t for the scores of the Beau Monde she would soon have to navigate, Persephone might have agreed. With a last longing glance at the long gallery empty of people and full of treasures, she followed Conall outside.