How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

She’d found something.

She stood facing a shelf with unpacked items. There was a parchment with one of her endless lists in her hand. He crossed the floor toward her, unhurried, stopping to help a footman with a crowbar and a particularly stubborn wooden crate lid. “Which one?” he asked quietly when he’d reached her side. Her breath trembled but her expression was calm.

“The flask.”

It was an earthenware jar with a rounded belly, two handles, and a narrow neck. It looked old enough, with the same reddish sandstone hue he had come to associate with ancient Egyptian findings. Blue lotus flowers were painted in a ring around the mouth. “How can you be sure?” She glanced at him, one eye narrowed. He lifted a hand. “I’m not questioning your talents, I’m honestly curious.”

She made a smug little sound in the back of her throat which he should not have found adorable. “It’s a fair forgery,” she said. “But see these birds here, along the bottom?”

“Yes.”

“They are meant to be Ibis birds, which were sacred and therefore common as decoration.”

“But?”

“But an Ibis has a very distinctive curve to its beak. See the ones Meg painted there? Nothing like this sad example.” She clicked her tongue like a disappointed governess. He couldn’t help but grin.

She picked up the flask as casually as she could, which would have been more casual without the tense line of her shoulders. “Easy,” he murmured. “No one here has any cause to suspect anything.”

She nodded. She tilted the jar, peering into the opening. It was dark and not especially forthcoming. She cursed. It was vicious enough to have him lift an eyebrow. “I had no idea your vocabulary was so extensive.”

“I can’t reach inside,” she said. “It’s too narrow. I need a pair of tweezers.”

“You’re in luck,” he said, nodding to the next shelf down. A set of tweezers sat in a box with several needles and a collection of glass beads.

She stared at him. “Those are probably three thousand years old,” she pointed out, truly horrified.

“They look sturdy enough.”

“Absolutely not.”

The clock by the door assured him it was nearly teatime. By the time he returned, the ballroom should have emptied, especially as the crates all seemed to have been opened. He already knew, without being told, that the only ones allowed to touch the artifacts from here on in would be Persephone or the duke. John was at hand and Persephone would be safe. “I’ll fetch something more suitable,” he assured her.

“Thank you,” she replied primly.

It took no time at all to secure tweezers from his valet and a sewing kit from an upstairs maid. As predicted, the lure of tea and cakes had cleared the room. Only Persephone remained, making notes on her lists, and John in the hall. When he reached for the flask, Persephone stopped him. “I’ll do it,” she said. “My fingers are smaller.”

The way she bit her lower lip when she concentrated made him want to bite it too.

“Almost there,” she breathed. A lock of hair fell into her face and he brushed it away. He was gratified at the small hitch in her breath when he let his fingertips trail down her neck. “Got it.”

She pulled a soft piece of paper out and it tore, ragged edges releasing. Cursing, she fished out the remains and spread the pieces out on the floor. He crouched beside her to examine them. They were ruined. Sodden, ink running, disintegrating even as she smoothed them down.

“Botheration,” she muttered.

“Can you make out any of the words?” he asked.

She peered closer. “Ship,” she pointed. “And this looks like a name.”

“Which name?” Everything snapped into focus as if he could will the ink back into place.

She shook her head. “I can’t make it out. It’s too smudged. But it is Henry’s writing, of that much I am sure.” Her mouth turned down with disappointment. “We were so close.”

“There’s one more letter.”

“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. Anything could have happened to the forgery. It could have been broken or stolen or fell behind a stack of crates.”

“Or it could be here.” He put the tatters of the letter into his pocket. He didn’t want the traitor searching Persephone’s rooms, as he’d searched her hermitage, and concluding that she knew more than she did. If he wished to reach such conclusions about Conall, Conall welcomed them. He hoped for them in fact.

Let the traitor come at him.

He was ready. Eager, in point of fact.

Not just for the men lost on that battlefield, but for her.

For Persephone.