How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

“I don’t hate yours.”

“You hate mine,” Tamsin pointed out cheerfully.

“Because yours is disgusting.”

“Lord Northwyck,” Persephone bobbed a small curtsy, knuckles tightening around her books. He glanced at the titles. Ancient Egypt. Of course. Priya noticed him noticing and rolled her eyes rather aggressively. She might need a poultice later.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said. He smiled lazily at Tamsin, a rake’s charming salute, because he knew it would needle her and she would not take it seriously.

“Oh, cease and desist,” she shot back, though she slipped her arm fondly through his. “Before you do yourself an injury.”

There were women, he was told, who found him irresistible.

When he mentioned it, Tamsin laughed so hard she nearly did herself an injury.

The oak trees gave way to green fields and a wide creek full of silvery stones. Halcyon House nestled in a valley, ringed with more oak trees. As they approached, gardens of hollyhocks and larkspurs and red roses waved bright blossoms at them. Conall saw Persephone’s shoulders visibly relax. She took a deep breath, much the way he imagined she must when casting off her corset at night.

Which naturally led to imagining her casting off her corset at night.

“My lord, are you well?”

He cleared his throat. “Of course.” Mortified and shifting uncomfortably in a way he hadn’t done since he was a lad, but otherwise fine.

“I can call at the house for tea, if you’d like,” Persephone offered.

Priya waved her off. “Don’t bother. I’ve had so much tea this week already I could fairly float home down the Thames. Basil still doesn’t think ladies should drink brandy.”

The hermitage was a small stone building tucked into yet more rose gardens. The door was arched and set with massive iron hinges, much like a dungeon. It was old and crooked and faintly ominous. Persephone beamed. Conall couldn’t help but wonder what a man might have to do to get her to beam at him that way.

She used a key from the chatelaine clipped to her dress and led the way inside. The museum was small and filled with light from the many Tudor-style windows. A wall was painted with Egyptian hieroglyphs in ochres and black, no doubt thanks to Meg. It had the warmth of a well-loved place.

It was also a disaster.

The shelves had been thoroughly tossed about. Flints lay scattered on the floor like rushes in a medieval castle, next to pages ripped from sketchbooks. Spear heads and rotted sword scabbards were jumbled together with delicate faded fabrics and tiny bones. Meg stifled a small gasp. Persephone didn’t make any sound at all.

Conall stepped inside, shielding the others. “Wait in the garden. The thief might still be about.”

“There’s no one here.” Persephone crouched to lift the broken halves of a crystal egg. “This belonged to an Anglo-Saxon queen. My father found it in a barrow.” She was like a doused flame. Fury made a swift and surprising attack. He felt it in his bones.

“What’s behind that door?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

She didn’t look over her shoulder. “It’s still locked. No one is in there.” She rose, still cradling the cracked crystal. Her eyes glittered.

“Don’t cry,” he said brusquely. “We’ll find the culprit.” He must already be hunting the bastard. It strained credulity to believe there was no connection with the antiquarian he sought, and a private museum being ransacked.

“Oh, let her cry, Con,” his sister said. “She deserves it.”

“I am not weeping,” Persephone said very clearly. “I am incandescent with rage.”

“Good,” Tamsin said. “Rage is so much more effective.” She was already pacing furiously, hands in tight fists.

Meg stopped to gather the pieces of a broken clay tablet and gently lay them back onto a shelf. “You can fix it, Percy. You’re good at putting things back together. And I can help.”

“Who would do this?” Priya demanded, staring at Conall as if he should know. Or as if he’d done it himself. Well, she was right about one thing. He bloody well ought to know who was behind this. “Another antiquarian?” Priya pressed. “A cruel joke?”

Persephone squared her shoulders, her chin titled stubbornly, like the Anglo-Saxon queen buried with her crystal egg. “At least nothing is missing.”

“Are you sure?” Conall asked, prowling the room. He felt like stew about to boil its lid right off the cauldron.