How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

She nodded confidently. “Quite sure. I know my collection, even when it’s on the floor.” She frowned. “But that’s odd, isn’t it? That nothing was stolen? Why else would someone bother to do this?” She scooped up a handful of flints. “Not that there’s anything of true value here, certainly not to experienced antiquarians. And not with the kinds of collections we’re set to display in the village. Most of this is from my own fields.” She shook her head. “I suppose someone heard about the festival and thought they might find some treasures to sell.”

The other explanation was that Conall was an ass. He’d somehow led the traitor to Persephone’s door. He’d know someone was on his trail, or at least suspect. He might be trying to throw Conall off his scent. Or else he thought Persephone possessed information or some kind of item of interest. Which led to the next question: what was the item?

Whatever it was, Conall would be damned if Persephone suffered one more second over it. “Perhaps the local children dared each other?” he suggested, mostly to put her at her ease. There was no sense troubling her when he would find the culprit and feed him a fistful of iron.

“Still, I’m sorry for this,” he said softly.

“Be sorry for whoever did this,” Persephone promised, her eyes glinting.

“I heard one of the maids mention a burglary in the village,” Meg said. “A few coins, someone’s favorite brooch. It sounds like there must be a thief about.”

Conall wasn’t certain. He surveyed the space as they worked but the traitor hadn’t left a convenient calling card. Still, he could assume for the moment, that it was someone nearby. Someone at Lady Culpepper’s house party, even. It was a small step forward; but it was something. He made a mental list of the guests. A kind of hunger lifted the hairs on the back of Conall’s neck. He was close now. There’d be an outlet for this simmering anger and guilt.

“Con, there’s no need to break more of Lady Persephone’s collection,” Priya clucked her tongue, prying a slightly bent key from his grasp.

“I found that when I was eight years old,” Persephone said. “I was so proud of it, my father let me keep it. Technically, he ought to have turned over any antique metal to the crown but neither of us thought the king would mind very much if I kept it. My mother however, minded very much that I used to wear it on a velvet ribbon. I’d have worn it on my debut if she didn’t hide it in the chicken coop.”

“I remember that,” Tamsin said, grinning.

“I won’t ask how you found it again,” Conall said, amused. She was such a singular woman. She remained unbowed, even the sunlight showed more broken pieces of her treasures.

“You may as well return to the house,” she said, wearily. “I can get everything sorted.”

“We can stay and help,” Meg offered.

She shook her head. “Thank you. I need a few minutes.”

Priya’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare hide out all day. They’ll think they’ve won.”

Persephone forced another smile. “I stopped playing their game a long time ago.”

“Then they really will think they’ve won,” Tamsin added. “And that simply won’t do.”

“The thief is long gone.” Conall paused. “But I can stay, if you’d like.”

Persephone shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

Disappointment was a surprise. He decided not to read too much into it. She was an intriguing mystery, that was all. Especially when she hefted a centuries-old sword pockmarked and nibbled by rust. “Besides, I have this.”

He flashed a grin. “Woe to any intruder.”

“Precisely.”

Persephone waited untilthey had gone before she dashed to the locked workroom, fumbling for the key hanging from her chatelaine. The small space was undisturbed, rows of forged pots lining the shelves and her potter’s wheel sitting quietly in the center. Etruscan vessels, Roman amphorae, pots scratched with diagonal lines meant to hold the ashes of the dead—they were all hers and all safe. Relief was like a trickle of cold water on a hot day. Fury had made her feel as if she was eating fire. But now at least her workroom was still secret.

She’d taught herself to make her own forgeries, in order to better detect them in other collections. But it would be too easy for this workroom to be misinterpreted. In fact, it could ruin her far more successfully than a tumble with an earl’s second son. She cared about her professional reputation far more than her personal status. She’d made her sacrifices and she’d be damned if the rewards would be snatched away. She hadn’t exaggerated when she’d brandished her chipped sword. To have her hermitage tossed, her collection scattered. To have it all witnessed by Conall. The sword of some dead warrior seemed like the exact right response.

She shook her head, locking the door again. She allowed herself another turn about the room to calm her anger. She’d get new locks fitted for the doors; and she was seriously considering setting traps. Glue traps, steel leg clamps—even the kind of massive stones said to crush explorers who entered secret jungle temples uninvited. Something suitably bloody in any case.

“Now, there’s a smile to frighten Napoleon himself.”

She jumped, turning to find Conall leaning against the red bricks of the hermitage. There were rose petals on his boots.

“You didn’t have to wait,” she said as he fell into step beside her.

“I’m truly sorry about your collection, Persephone.”

“It’s hardly your fault,” she replied. Everything was roses and the scent of his bergamot soap. His strides were unapologetically hungry, eating up the ground. “If you truly mean to marry, shouldn’t you be at the house getting to know the young ladies?” Why did she keep bringing it up? Perhaps she needed the reminder, but he certainly didn’t. She was worrying at it like a rotten tooth.