Chapter Eight
Abetrothal, even a pretend one, was not enough to turn Persephone into the type of person who preferred a party to a crate of dusty old artifacts.
Especially when those crates were mere meters away in the ballroom, waiting for her.
She was wasting precious time and there was nothing she could do about it. Playing the part meant joining the others for a congratulatory afternoon tea ordered by the duke and held in the Avenue. At least she wasn’t trapped inside. And the Avenue was her favorite place on the entire estate, barrows included.
It was set in the center of the terraced gardens, wide gravel paths meandering between roses and larkspurs and feathery bushes. Pedestal columns rose at measured increments, crowned with marble statues gleaming white. Diana with her moon circlet, Apollo with his lyre, Mercury and his winged sandals. Between them, busts of unknown Roman citizens with curled hair, veils falling from carved diadems. A gentleman was missing an arm, a lady a nose. It did not detract from their beauty one bit. Persephone could easily mistake a stroll down the Avenue for a stroll in some Roman temple, or the Forum even.
Her grandmother presided over the tea table, smiling at all of the guests; both to rub it in their faces that her granddaughter was marrying a future marquess but also because the duke had no hostess. His sister often helped him in that regard, but she had refused to travel back from Paris for a festival of “the dusty and the dreary”.
There was walnut cake, scones with clotted cream, a mountain of cheese, sandwiches with salmon and cucumbers, macaroons, plates of lemon slices for tea and, also, champagne. And because her grandmother was her grandmother, sherry and brandy, despite Basil’s disapproving sniff.
“Are you catching a cold?” she demanded of him. “Have a care not to sneeze on me, Basil.” She never gave a fig about the rules governing the spirits which ladies ought to drink. “They only want to keep the whiskey for themselves,” she announced, accepting a delicate sherry glass filled with that same whiskey from the only slightly disapproving Basil. “Thank you,” she smiled. “It’s so much prettier in crystal, isn’t it? Instead of those ghastly tumblers.”
“Yes, your ladyship.”
“Good man.”
The party was relatively small, for which Persephone was thankful. Lady Culpepper had her own guests to tend to and the duke was mostly interested in the other antiquarians who had begun to arrive. He had set aside guest rooms for the ones he admired most; three of whom had arrived that afternoon.
“Well, you look miserable,” Priya joined Persephone at the feet of a rather impressively muscular Jupiter.
“I’m not miserable,” she protested. There was a raspberry floating in Priya’s champagne flute. Something about it distracted her. The color perhaps. It reminded her of something, but she couldn’t say what. It tickled at the back of her mind.
“And you’re a terrible liar,” Priya said, smiling wider. “I’ve always liked that about you. You’ll make a fine sister-in-law.”
Persephone hesitated. Had Conall told his sister the truth? Priya lowered her voice. “I know.”
She relaxed, relieved. “You do?”
“Yes, it’s why I’m here in the first place. We are all looking for the same traitor.”
Persephone eyed her consideringly. “You work for the War Office too?”
“They should be so lucky. I work with my brother occasionally, when his great fat head will allow him to see reason.”
She grinned slightly. “Ah. I might have guessed.”
“Allow me to give you a small piece of advice, Percy. Do not let him get his way all of the time. He will be insufferable. And don’t let him take himself too seriously.”
“Priya, we’re not….”
“Yes, yes.” Priya waved that off. “We’ll see.” She smiled at Meg, who joined them, carrying a plate of orange jam biscuits decorated with candied violets. “There you are.”
“These taste like perfume,” she complained, biting into a biscuit. “But I can’t seem to stop eating them.”
“They match your hair.”
“Lady Blackwell insisted she had just the ribbon for me.”
Persephone winced at the bright orange ribbon now woven through Meg’s black hair. “She does like a bit of colour.”
Meg smiled. “Even if it does clash horribly with my dress.”
“Take it off,” Priya suggested. “She’ll never notice.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. It might hurt her feelings.”