How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

“Oh. Um. We haven’t decided yet.”

“Town?” the duke scoffed. “Why would you go there when I have a perfectly good chapel? It was built in 1215, you know. Robin Hood himself might have passed through it.”

“We are a ways from Nottingham,” Persephone smiled.

“Bah.”

Some of her smug pleasure dimmed when the duke set his newspaper down near her elbow. He thought she pored over the pages for news about archaeological discoveries, but really, she was searching for Henry’s name. And every time with the same prayer in her head: not today, please, not today.

She skimmed the announcements section, articles on the war and then indulged in a small sigh of relief. Nothing about Henry. No ships run aground or lost at sea, no shouts of treason.

Except.

Her blood ran cold so abruptly she fumbled her teacup and nearly ended up wearing the contents. “Easy on the reins,” the duke said amiably.

There was a name she recognized. Peter Oliver. She knew him from Henry’s letters. He’d been a friend, a confidant. As well as being the other man who knew the traitor’s name and the details of his plot.

And now he was dead.

Found floating face-down in the Thames. No suspects, no motive given, only that every item in his pockets had been taken by the mudlarks. Not just the mudlarks, she’d wager. The traitor too. Had he traveled to London? Did he have accomplices? Had Henry been with him?

When Persephone caught a glimpse of Conall striding down the hallway, she turned to the duke, newspaper in her hand. “May I keep this, Your Grace?”

“Of course.”

She nearly bowled over the footman stationed near the door in her haste to reach Conall. He paused down the hall and turned to look at her over his shoulder. He smiled slightly. He thought she was chasing him because of what he’d done to her the night before. Because of what they’d done to each other. “Idiot,” she muttered.

He blinked, nonplussed. “Percy?”

She nudged him out of sight and out of earshot. He let himself be herded. “I have an appointment, I’m afraid. I cannot linger.”

An appointment with her, in point of fact.

She waved the newspaper at him. “Have you read this?”

“I haven’t had the time yet.” He frowned at her pale face and her flushed cheeks. She probably looked feverish. Fear made her skin hot, her blood cold. “What is it?”

“Peter Oliver, whom Henry mentions in his letter, was found in the Thames last night.”

Conall cursed once, viciously. Then his hands closed around her upper arms, firmly. His grey eyes snapped onto her. “Which means Henry is still alive, or he’d have been found there as well.”

It wasn’t precisely true—anything could have happened to Henry—but it was true enough that she found she could catch her breath again. If anything could have happened, then it went to reason that anything good was therefore also possible. He might be in hiding, or still on a ship. He might right now be on his way home. She took another breath.

“Better?” Conall’s voice was soft, even the edges were comforting. He might have different motives, but he was as determined to find Henry. That helped too. She nodded.

“I apologize,” she said.

“Don’t,” he replied. “Don’t ever apologize to me for being honest. Don’t hide from me.”

The timbre of his tone should not have felt like a caress.

But it most certainly did.

“Unfortunately, I really must go,” he said. “I’ll find you as soon as I can.”

She narrowed her eyes. What was good for the goose, was good for the gander. Clearly, he needed a little reminder. She widened her eyes again, trying to look innocent. “Of course, my lord,” she said, sweetly.

If he’d been paying attention, he might have been terrified.