“It’s the left hand of a hanged man, dried and pickled.”
“Revolting.” Priya made a face. “Serves me right for asking.”
“Why would you want it?” Meg asked.
“They’re very rare.”
“I should hope so.”
“They are part of our history and our folklore,” Persephone added. She couldn’t help but come to her friend’s defense. She might not care for the grislier items, but people regarded her interest in mummification practices with the same expression. Collectors of odd items needed to stick together.
“They say if you light a candle made from the fat of the hanged man and place it between the fingers of the hand, you can render anyone within sight motionless,” Tamsin added.
“With nausea, no doubt.”
“They were used by thieves.”
The dinner bell rang.
“And on that disgusting note,” Priya said. “Let us eat.”
The procession line came together like an army drill, executed under Lady Culpepper’s sharp gaze. Persephone had never met her escort and he offered his arm without a word or a single glance in her direction. He offered the bare minimum of courtesy, as everyone did, because they were scared of Lady Culpepper and the duke. But nothing more.
Except for Conall, who was still leaning against the opposite wall. He watched her as she passed by, with a kind of intensity that left her strangely breathless. No one stared at Persephone.
Not like that.
She couldn’t helpbut be aware of Conall throughout the many supper courses. She tried not to look at him over bowls of white soup, reminded herself not to stare over the steamed endives, and gave up entirely by the time the lamb was served. He was unlike any of the men of her limited acquaintance. Even those who considered themselves adventurers didn’t have his presence. He was a burning coal in a field of dry wheat.
She’d always had a fondness for him, but it had never before made her aware of the back of her knees or the heat gathering in her thighs.
The ladies at his side vied for his attention, both debutantes with large dowries. She wasn’t sure who had engineered the hopeful seating, Lady Culpepper, or their mothers. The countess had no doubt received many fine gifts from all the parents of unattached girls present. Persephone couldn’t help a fond smile at her own grandmother, blissfully ignorant as she skipped the meat course in favor of trifle.
Conall’s eyes met hers, the next time she lost the battle not to glance his way. She was as bad as the others. He held her attention effortlessly, while replying to some question asked of him by the lovely pale girl on his right. Persephone had never been pale a day in her life; she spent far too much time in the digging pits. She was freckled.
And ruined, mustn’t forget ruined.
Best to think about the festivals and the crates which would start arriving on the morrow. Not Conall’s lazy sharp grace, a contradiction that made her feel entirely too warm. She vowed not to eat any more hot soup. Back to barrows and graves.
She was glad of the distraction when Lady Culpepper announced that it was time for the fireworks display. She followed the others through the portrait gallery and out to the main terrace. Before she could locate her friends, the river of guests carried her out into the summer night. The servants were already on the back lawn, setting off blasts that flashed into the sky like exploding stars.
The crowd surged forward; heads tilted back to watch. Someone bumped into Persephone and her arm scraped the stone balustrade. Smoke wafted toward them, stinging the warm air. The fireworks continued, each louder and more impressive than the last. She couldn’t help a small worry that they were too close to the barrows and might endanger the excavation sites. She forced herself to focus on the flashing colours like a normal person. Until she was jostled again, this time more violently.
No one heard her yelp of surprise or saw her fall over the rail.
It happened too quickly; she didn’t even have time to catch herself. The fireworks spun like wheels above her as the crowd clapped and exclaimed. She was going to land on the flagstones and break something important. Like her skull. She was falling too fast to feel real fear.
And then she landed in Conall’s hastily outstretched arms.
“What the devil?” His hands clamped around her, her skirts frothing over his arms.
Relief and a sudden surge of adrenaline made her giddy. She had the inappropriate urge to giggle, especially at the expression on his usually composed face. Her pulse fluttered madly like a runaway horse caught inside her ribcage. He was close enough that she could see the portion of muscled chest where his cravat had gone askew. She hadn’t thought a peer, even a dangerous one, would tan in such a way as to suggest he often went around without a shirt. The image was strangely arresting. Something inside her tingled.
This was no time for tingling.
“Thank you,” she said, after clearing her throat.
He didn’t seem inclined to let her go. He smelled of bergamot and woodsmoke. She probably shouldn’t be noticing that. Certainly not while the other part of her brain was trying to decide if she was safe yet. She still felt as though she were falling.