He did not believe in coincidences.
Not in matters such as this one.
A cart rumbled by, packed with thick cuts of raw meat from the butcher. From the sheer amount, it was likely headed to the duke’s kitchens. The slabs were wrapped but Conall could smell the blood, imagine the red raw flesh. He had to duck into the shadows between the buildings. His body wanted to run, felt like it had already been running for hours, even as he stood preternaturally still. The smell of residual gunpowder, the blood staining the grass. He didn’t have to imagine them, but he could imagine all too well the panicked cries of the men as they fell. His breath stuttered and he forced air through his nostrils, held it, released it. He had to get a grip on himself.
Persephone was not here to distract him, both by falling on him out of nowhere and kissing him gently, cautiously. As if she was afraid he might shove her away, when all he wanted was to get closer. He had no business remembering the feel of her in his arms, not now. And his breeches had no business being so uncomfortably tight. This was no time for a cockstand. Not for a woman he was suddenly no longer convinced was not a traitor. Or at least working in cohorts with one.
A pity.
More than a pity. The disappointment he felt was both keen and surprising. He’d liked her. She was clever and funny and had tried to save him and his reputation. He could perfectly call up the scent of her unusual perfume, a touch of roses over something rich and spicy. It soothed him, distracting from blood-soaked memories. She smelled like incense, like something secret. Apt, he supposed.
At least this uncomfortable awareness of her allowed him an edge. He would have to use it to his advantage. Everyone else seemed content to overlook her entirely but he saw the bolstering smile she used to convince herself that it didn’t matter. Her self-deprecating humour when she found herself in one unusual situation after another. The way she’d clutched at him when he kissed her back.
The way she swallowed nervously just now when he surprised her.
He knew in his bones she was hiding something. Perhaps it was something innocuous, innocent. Utterly unrelated.
He wished for it fervently enough to surprise himself.
Sneaking out ofthe house was harder than it looked.
Lady Culpepper had a veritable army of servants, as many as the duke’s household. Mostly because she counted the exact number of the duke’s staff and made certain she was not lagging behind. Lady Culpepper had standards.
She also had a poor footman stationed by the front door in case a guest should have need of him. Currently, he was propped against the wall, eyes closed. He didn’t stir when Persephone picked her way carefully across the marble floor. An oil lamp burned low, saving her from a stubbed toe and what would have no doubt been a very unladylike yell.
And at Halcyon House Persephone knew where the kitchen cat, Bast, was likely to be. The Culpepper cat was white and fluffy with a very dashing silver collar. And he scared five years off her life. At home, she knew which of the steps creaked, and which of the windows offered easy access to the terrace instead of a rosebush.
A very thorny rosebush.
Currently taking liberties, one might add.
The cat had startled her so thoroughly while she opened the window that she leapt through the opening before suitably inspecting where it led. Really, it was no wonder she was thoroughly on the shelf. Who would choose to marry a walking disaster? She rolled out of the garden bordering the house, petals in her hair and up her nose. Scratches stung the back of her hands. That, at least, would be easy to explain. An antiquarian’s hands were not as soft and manicured as an earl’s daughter’s hands ought to be. And if worse came to worse, she would blame it on the cat.
Who named a cat Lancelot? Bound to give him airs.
Persephone scrambled to her feet and tried to feel more like a dashing spy and less like a clumsy miss straight from the schoolroom. Or the circus. Of course, an acrobat would never have botched the landing the way she had. It was too hard to stay calm, to still the trembling of her hands. She was off to find that canopic jar, to help protect her oldest friend.
To have an adventure.
She kept close to the house, in case one of the guests chanced to glance outside on their way to use the necessity. Then she darted from tree to tree until she was reasonably certain she would not be noticed. The late summer night was warm, and the moon was bright. It would be full come the festival, as they’d planned. It made it so much easier to dash about the countryside, whether in a carriage or on foot. She’d put on her dark blue digging dress so as not to catch further attention. It was a bit of a walk from the Culpepper estate to the village, but it would wake her up. And the sun would be coming up on her return, so if she got caught, she could claim early-morning exercise.
It felt good to do something, instead of writing cheerful letters to Henry and hoping they would not get lost en route or that they had any hope of bringing him a moment of peace. It seemed silly to write about the swallows in the barn, the hedgehogs the gardener chased until he was red-faced and puffing, and her own hours in the barrows. Henry said it helped.
She hoped this would help a great deal more.
A meadowlark trilled as she tested the inn’s front door. It swung open, revealing the smoky dark interior. It smelled of yeast from beer and bread and decades of stews bubbling away in the kitchen. There was a clatter of dishes from that kitchen and a murmured curse. Someone was up before dawn, stoking the fire and putting the kettles on to boil.
Persephone darted silently up the side stairs leading to the hall. Any guests would use the main staircase from the bedrooms. And the door linking the bedchambers to the rest of the floor was already locked, from inside the hall.
Where at least one footman was already on guard. There would be up to five when the festival truly got underway.
Henry was trying to capture a traitor and hold him accountable; all the while being framed for those crimes. After surviving years of warfare on the Continent. Surely, she could maneuver around a single footman.
It was her duty as a friend. As an Englishwoman.
Suitably bolstered, but still without an actual plan, Persephone hesitated. There was no use in pretending to be a maid, all of the footmen knew her. She crouched and waited for the one currently on guard left to relieve himself. It took far longer than she would have liked, and her thigh muscles were screaming by the time she could risk coming out of her crouch.
She found a small window, easily opened from inside the card room. She’d have to mention it later and make sure it was properly secured. For now, she allowed herself a small smug smile.