Chapter Twelve
The Duke of Pendleton had outdone himself.
Guests and gossip columnists would talk about the Little Barrow Antiquarian Festival opening ball for months to come. The ballroom glittered with candelabras set with beeswax candles, and oil lamps that heated and scented the air with honey. Music was provided by an orchestra hidden behind a screen. That was where the similarities ended. For one thing, the screen was painted with mummies and turquoise scarab beetles.
Meg had finished her murals and the stunning artwork reflected the Roman countryside and mythical figures on the right and the pyramids and Nile and mysterious hieroglyphs of Egypt on the other.
The footmen were outfitted with leather tunics such as centurions might have worn, causing more than one appreciative murmur. The costumes did not end there. The female dancers hired by the duke wore traditional sleeveless chitons, caught at the shoulders with fibulae brooches. They were ornamented with gold snake armbands and gold-painted sandals. They stood between columns decorated with flowers, holding yet more candelabras. At some secret signal known only to them, their postures would change, like living statues. They offered bowls of wine like Vestal Virgins, fainted upon couches as though at a feast, stayed still as the marble columns of the Parthenon. They were paintings come to life.
On the other side of the room, more dancers posed: Isis with her wings, Cleopatra with her golden hairpiece and kohl-lined eyes, Anubis in a dark kilt with the plaster-head of a jackal. Persephone could all but feel the hot sand under her feet, and the sun on her head. She couldn’t stop smiling, even though she knew one was supposed to act with casual ennui at all times. It simply wasn’t possible, not with such a feast for the eyes. They were unique and breath-taking and quite pulled focus from the excellent canapes circling on silver trays and the glitter of diamonds and pearls and gold pocket watches. Elegant gowns and starched cravat points seemed so very dull in comparison.
“This is madness,” Tamsin said, popping up behind her. “Beautiful, brilliant madness. I think Julius Caesar just offered me an onion tartlet.”
“Never mind that,” Meg added, joining them. Her gown was embroidered with vines of delicate green leaves and lush red peonies. Her cheeks were rosy and already less gaunt than when she’d arrived a week ago. She’d woven a green ribbon in her hair in case Persephone’s grandmother forced one on her again. “Isis nearly poked me in the eye with her wing.”
“It’s even better than I could have imagined,” Persephone sighed.
“If you walk down there, perhaps a goddess will poke out your eye too.” She handed Tamsin a yellow ribbon. “Lady Blackwell instructed me to give you this.”
Tamsin groaned. Persephone wrinkled her nose. “You know how my grandmother is.”
Tamsin tied the ribbon around the top of her left glove with a rakish bow, muttering under her breath all the while. Persephone searched the stylish and sophisticated crowd for a glimpse of Conall. She saw oiled hair, flounces of lace, flashes of jeweled hair bobs. Older men with whiskers, younger men with spots. “I’m too short,” she muttered. “Meg, can you see Conall?”
“Conall, is it?” Tamsin teased at her casual use of his given name. “How scandalous. The old men will choke on their cravats.”
Meg, being the tallest, rose on her tiptoes, surreptitiously scanning the guests. “I don’t see him.”
Persephone told herself not to worry. He’d survived the war. Traitor or no, he’d survive a summer ball. John stood behind, sharp-eyed. She turned to ask him if he knew where Conall had gone, but he shook his head before she could open her mouth. He didn’t look worried. Of course, he never looked worried so that was hardly telling.
As her grandmother led the first dance, a cheerful round lime on the arm of the dignified duke, Persephone accepted a flute of champagne. A viscount in a red coat asked Tamsin to dance the quadrille and she accepted. The viscount would have to work to keep up with her. Meg’s time was claimed by an older gentleman who smelled like clove oil. Persephone watched the dancers whirling and laughing. She couldn’t suppress an anxious feeling that tightened her muscles and made bones her feel itchy. She circled the room, trying to enjoy the attention the exhibits were receiving. A conversation between a small group of guests floated toward her.
“An earl’s son, can you imagine? Written up in the newspapers.”
“His father won’t even vouch for him.”
“Henry always was a little odd, you know. Hated life in Town.”
“That hardly makes him odd.” The last was delivered by Persephone, in a tone generally reserved for pharaohs and annoyed governesses. The gentlemen straightened and blinked down their noses at her. “Have we been introduced?” One asked in a tone he likely thought was cutting. It did not hold a candle to her pharaohs and governesses.
“No,” she replied blandly. “Thank God.”
She was rewarded with three identical sniffs of surprise.
“Percy, there you are?” Priya interrupted. She was beautiful in a white gown and gold braid wound through her hair. She curtsied at the gentlemen and drew Persephone away. “Do you know who they are?”
Feeling mulish, Persephone shook her head.
“The worst of the gossips.”
“They were talking about Henry.”
“I hazarded as much.” She tugged Persephone until they were promenading, two genteel ladies with nothing to worry beyond the state of their slippers and if the weather would be fine enough for riding in the morning. It was an illusion Priya was adept with. Persephone wasn’t used to being seen at all and it still took her by surprise. “Let’s have a glass of canary wine.”
As she accepted a glass of the amber wine, Persephone’s temper cooled. “I’m worried about your brother. I haven’t seen him.”
“He can look after himself,” Priya assured her. “I promise you”
“I suppose.”