Chapter Two
Persephone spent the rest of the morning attending to the myriad details caused by the imminent arrival of dozens of priceless artifacts, not to mention the early influx of the Ton arriving for several house parties preceding the festival. One of which started in a few hours and was the only reason she was heading back home to Halcyon House.
She wished dearly that she could avoid the party, but it was being held by their neighbour, Henry’s grandmother, Lady Culpepper. Lady Culpepper barely tolerated her, and only for her grandmother and Henry’s sake. As it was more than she felt was necessary given their connections, she expected Persephone to attend as the only female antiquarian. She could finally be an interesting novelty, like a strange beetle in a naturalist’s collection.
The duke had insisted his carriage see her home and she suspected, had ordered the driver to slow down as he passed through the village so that all of the gossipmongers might catch a glimpse of her. At any rate, she was glad to be home, if only for a respite.
The red stone building sat in a patch of bright sunlight ringed with oak trees, hawthorn, and wild gardens. Down the hill behind the herb patch was the hermitage, a space of her own for her work. She hadn’t had a chance to visit in days. She missed it as much as she missed Henry. A friend was a friend, after all.
She thanked the driver and climbed up the front steps. Her knee barely protested, to her great relief. It would not stop her from excavating her own trench this afternoon. Lady Culpepper had invited the few antiquarians with impeccable bloodlines or, at the very least, considerable fame, to exhume the barrows and ring fort in the fields of her estate. Little Barrow was aptly named, surrounded by such curiosities.
Persephone frowned when she stepped into the front hall and Mrs. Bell, the housekeeper, was nowhere to be seen. Usually, she had a preternatural sense of Persephone’s arrival. There wasn’t even a footman in sight. Even her grandmother’s spaniel, Chartreuse, was hiding.
Dread iced her stomach.
She took a tentative step forward. There was only one reason why the staff would have deserted their posts as one. Only one reason behind this sort of silence.
Mr. Erstwhile Asher.
Just the name sent a foreboding shiver down her spine. She didn’t consider herself particularly prone to psychical warnings, but facts were facts. Erstwhile Asher was here.
Not only here, but running naked down the stairs, the chandelier rattling over his head.
“Gah!” Persephone slapped a hand over her eyes so fast she nearly put one of them out entirely. “Mr. Asher!”
Mr. Asher paused, blinking owlishly. He wasn’t even wearing his spectacles. “Matilda, is that you, my dear? I thought you were going to hide with the cupcakes.”
“Grandmaman!” Persephone wailed in response, peeking between her fingers. “I told you I’d only be gone for the morning!”
“Miss Blackwell!” Mr. Asher said primly, as if she were the one naked on the Turkish carpet runner. “I say!”
Lady Matilda Blackwell, dowager countess and thirty-seventh in line to the throne of England, stood in the doorway to the main parlor wearing nothing but her own considerably wrinkled skin and her best wig. It towered like a giant pink cake with roses made of buttermilk silk frosting accented with spangled birds. “Persephone, you’re early.”
“I’m not! You’re naked!”
“Yes, dear.”
“Again!”
“Yes, dear.”
“You promised.”
Matilda shrugged unrepentantly and sighed up at her devoted squire. “The children of this generation are terrible fusspots, aren’t they, Mr. Asher?”
Mr. Asher bowed, jiggling alarmingly. Persephone fixed her gaze very firmly on the crown moulding, suddenly manifestly interested in the plaster grapes and cherubs. She’d always found them cloying and pedantic. They were positively beautiful to her now.
“I remember when I was your age, Percy, women welcomed men into our boudoirs to help us dress, just like Marie-Antoinette.”
“Grandmaman,” Persephone said, torn between a laugh and a shout. “Go away.”
She waited until the sound of footsteps retreated, then a few more minutes to be safe, before daring to look away from the fat cherubs. The one on the left had a chipped nose.
“Oh, Miss Persephone, thank the Good Lord you’re home again,” Mrs. Bell said fervently, bustling down the hall from the kitchen. “I expect you need some tea.”
“Yes, by all means, fortification.” She paused in the parlor doorway. “Is it safe, do you think?”
Mrs. Bell attempted to look unflustered, dark dress straining proudly over her ample bosom. “There is marzipan tucked into that statue and champagne spills in the green parlor, Miss. But I don’t think your grandmother was long in this drawing room.”