How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

She knew something was amiss. Ivy’s furtiveness and nervousness were palpable.

Their reason, however, was not quite what Persephone was expecting.

She imagined one of the first rules of espionage might have something to do with expectations.

Less about two women locked in a passionate embrace.

Ivy was definitely hiding something. But it had nothing to do with Henry. Or the crown.

Perhaps she ought to have been shocked, but she only felt a mild embarrassment for having intruded on a private moment. There were always ladies who had affection for each other, or who lived together and called it practical. But love wasn’t practical. She knew that, if nothing else. The feelings she had for Conall burned in her chest and there was nothing she could do about it. They were anything but convenient.

And at the end of the day, who Ivy Jones kissed simply wasn’t any of her business. It would not save Henry or falsely condemn him. Persephone eased back around the corner, her heart hammering in her chest. She’d been so certain she was onto something. And she had been, in an accidental roundabout way. It hardly spoke to her skills of deduction and reconnaissance.

And more to the point, it wasn’t her secret.

It was a kiss that spoke volumes. There was clearly love and devotion between the two, certainly more honesty than there was between Conall and Persephone’s pretend engagement and yet Ivy had to hide, fearing for her reputation. And her dignity surely if her odious brother discovered them. Which he might yet do, seeing as he was heading in their direction even now.

“Sir Jones,” she said, loudly. Very loudly. “Are you not joining my grandmother for tea?”

“Eh?” He stopped abruptly, blinking at her. “Have you seen my sister?”

“Yes,” Persephone replied. “As a matter of fact, I have.” She heard the softest scuffle of silk slippers and took Sir Jones’s arm hastily. “She was taking tea in the drawing room. You may escort me.”

“It’s like that, is it?” He puffed up his chest. His cologne was eye-watering.

“Yes,” Persephone replied, trying not to choke on either her words or his scent. “Shall we?”

Persephone took advantageof the last moment of solitude she was likely to see for at least a week and padded quietly down the carpeted stairs. The festival started first thing in the morning and excitement found a small space to put down roots, even in a garden fraught with worry over Henry. The new gossip was concerning. It meant either he had landed on British soil and was even now trying to prove his innocence or else it meant… she couldn’t even think it.

She must hold onto hope with both hands. It would serve him better than giving into black moods and despair. As tempting as it may be.

Thousands of years ago, women hired themselves out to funeral processions as professional mourners. They ripped their clothes and smeared ashes in their hair and wailed as proof of everyone’s grief.

Definitely tempting.

But hardly practical.

She stepped out into the hallway where John stood outside her grandmother’s door. “Do you not sleep?” she asked him.

He shrugged one shoulder. “We take shifts, my lady.”

“Can I get you some tea? I’ve just had a tray brought up. It’s still hot.”

“No, thank you,” was his predictable reply.

She narrowed one eye affectionately. “One day, John. Mark my words.”

“As you say, my lady.”

She darted back into her room and brought out the tray with the silver teapot and a clean cup. There was also a wedge of lemon and a dish shaped like a castle filled with sugar. “I’ll leave this here then,” she said, putting the tray down on the table between her door and the one he guarded. “With these biscuits.”

He nearly smiled.

Strains of violin music interrupted them before she could latch onto her success. It swirled and swelled from under Conall’s door. It was beautiful, fervent before ebbing to gentle and fainty melancholic. He had not lost the knack of playing. The sound of it still sent tiny shivers across the back of her neck. John very carefully did not look at Conall’s bedroom door, nor at herself. He likely thought she’d been about to sneak into his room. Hardly unusual for a betrothed couple. She decided she would not blush.

Someone forgot to tell that to the red splotches on her cheeks.

“I’ll leave you to it then, John,” she said, lifting her candle and hurrying down the hall, away from Conall’s bedroom. His music followed her, tempting.