Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) Read Free Page A

count as guessing.”
     
    * * *
     
    Imogen thought that Mr. Bittlesworth appeared far too smug. It would do him good to be brought down a peg or two. She looked at him, really looked at him, as she didn't often with people. She usually didn't want to see too much. But this man, with his smirk and information he only could have received from Violetta during the supper, had pushed her too far. As they separated again during the dance she kept her eyes trained on him, endeavoring to see him, see into him. It had been so long since she had attempted to do such a thing she wasn't sure it would work. But it did. And what she saw made her falter and collide with another dancer. 
    Seeing her distress, Bittlesworth made straight for her and whisked her off the dance floor. She was torn between a desire to struggle away from him and console him. Death. So much death around him. She shouldn't have looked. She wrapped her arms around herself and focused on pulling in her perceptions.
    “Give her air, please,” Bittlesworth said, holding his hand up to some well-meaning guest that fluttered nearby. His tone was sharp, commanding. A man used to giving orders. 
    No, no, no. Stop observing. Stop trying to read him . She closed her eyes tightly and rocked from the waist, her arms a protective shield. The images had flit by so rapidly she hadn't been able to see a pattern, just blood. She had smelled offal and the sweat of desperation. The vision had been overwhelming, but underneath it she had sensed him. His grim determination. His stark sense of justice.
    Now she heard his voice sharply in her ear. “Breathe.”
    His tone cut into her reverie. She took a deep breath and realized they were outside. Her eyes popped open in surprise. They were in the gardens. The scent of roses and gardenias laced the air. She didn't see any other guests around them, and suspected the foreboding glare Bittlesworth gave their surroundings was the cause of it.
    “Were you a soldier?” she asked.
    He turned his attention back to her and frowned. “No.”
    Her mouth was quite dry and her tongue felt thick. “Then why have you killed so many people?”
     

Chapter Four
    Robert felt every inch of his skin erupt in tingles. As a green lad he had been snookered in cards once. It wasn't a mistake he made often, placing a bet he couldn't afford to lose. A bet he wasn't certain, beyond doubt, he would win. There had been that card game, and now Miss Grant's game. He schooled his expression into one of polite perplexity. “I'm sorry? You think I've done what?”
    Her aqua eyes regarded him solemnly. Her eyes seemed ancient. Fathomless. She didn't bother repeating her question, merely took another deep breath and squared her shoulders.
    “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Bittlesworth.”
    And then she walked away, back to the lights and gaiety of the ball. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, demand why she thought he had killed anyone. He would study her dossier in detail again tonight. It stood to reason, with her connections and ease of international travel, that she might be an agent. But why boldly ask him about the men he had killed? Why the pretense of a near fainting spell? Nothing about this made sense. Robert didn't like things that didn't make sense.
     
    * * *
     
    Imogen had recovered from her evening and enjoyed a morning playing with Violetta's sons. Then the butler arrived with a silver salver, bearing a fancy note addressed to “Miss Grant” and sealed with wax. She noted the wax had been pressed with a stamp of crossed swords. Raising her brows at Violetta, she broke the seal and opened the missive.
    “And?” her cousin asked impatiently.
    “It's an invitation,” Imogen murmured, reading through it.
    “To what?”
    “Tea. With the Duchess of Beloin.”
    “When?”
    Imogen looked up. “Today.”
    Violetta chuckled. “The duchess is quite unorthodox. What did you do that garnered her attention?”
    “I'm sure I don't