Elswyth stared at him and then shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to react to his jest. Percival Devereux was not what she expected for a high lord—certainly not a member of Parliament. Her uncle blinked twice, then cleared his throat and straightened his cravat.
“So. You killed all of these animals?” Elswyth said.
Percival nodded. “Over the years, yes.”
She turned to the wall, where an enormous rifle hung next to the lioness.
“And what is this?”
“Ah,” her uncle said, “that is the rifle I hunted them with.”
It was twice the size of any firearm she’d seen, double-barreled, with a stock of polished black wood engraved with the three gold lions of the royal arms.
“Large enough to fire elephant rounds, but she’s not much more than decoration now. I know it’s rather silly, keeping all these trophies, reliving past glories. I am no longer an explorer, after all, but a politician. Someday, I hope, Kehinde and I will return to Africa. But for now I just can’t seem to let them go.”
“There is still prey to be had in England, is there not?” Elswyth said. She chose her words carefully, watching her uncle’s reaction. “I imagine it must be difficult. Leaving that sort of thrill behind.”
Percival smiled thinly. “I’m afraid I’ve had my fill of killing. Ah, there’s the kettle. One moment.”
He left for the kitchens and returned with a silver tea set. Elswyth sat. The tea was a variety she’d never tasted—oolong, Percival explained, an oriental novelty taking London by storm. Whole factories were popping up in the East End, filled to the brim with floromancers from China fabricating tea day and night. Elswyth closed her eyes for a moment, reading the shape of the leaves in her stomach. A constellation of light appeared in her mind’s eye—the tea plant’s unique essence.
Percival sat back with his saucer resting on his stomach and appraised her. Elswyth examined the dead animals, unsure what to say.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “I don’t know where to begin. I suppose with condolences. I am so very sorry about your sister,Elswyth. And know that I did want to come to her funeral. Your father… well, suffice it to say I was unable to attend.”
Elswyth bowed her head. “That is appreciated, Lord—UnclePercival. I miss her deeply.”
“As do I. I am lucky that I got to know her, in the brief time she was here.”
Her uncle looked at her with a sincere expression. When she’d asked him whether or not he missed hunting, she’d been hoping he would reveal some bloodlust that might indicate an involvement in Persephone’s death. In truth, Percival Devereux did not seem like the type of man that killed women.
But Elswyth had never been as apt at reading people as she was at reading books. And people always found reasons to hurt each other, didn’t they? If women reallyweremostly murdered by the men closest to them, as she’d read, then Percival Devereux would be the first place to look.
Elswyth tapped a finger on her teacup. “I suppose I can only hope that her last days were happy.”
Percival smiled weakly. “She was the diamond of the season. Everyone said so. It surprised all of us that she had not found her match by autumn, although she had no shortage of offers. Perhaps that troubled her. But I don’t doubt that, come this year’s season, she would have had her pick of the young lords. She had her moods, of course, but they always passed.”
That was curious. Nothing in Persephone’s sparse letters from London implied she had been unhappy. In fact, she sounded happier than ever before—at least until a few weeks prior to her disappearance, when she’d stop writing entirely. And whyhadshe not agreed to any of her proposals? From her letters, very favorable matches had been offered. She had not known about her father’sillness, that was true. Had she been waiting for something better? That certainly did sound like Persephone. “What sort of moods?” Elswyth asked.
“Well, I’m sure you are already aware. Certainly she wrote you, did she not? I understand you were close.”
“In our way,” Elswyth conceded. “In the way that all sisters are. The sort of love, I think, that does not require constant reassurance for both parties to know it exists. Persephone had her interests, and I had mine. If she wrote me every day about this suitor or that, I would surely die of boredom. Likewise if I sent her treatises on the functional uses of swamp moss. That does not mean we did not love each other. Quite the opposite, I think.”
“I suppose. I only wish I had written Cerise more when I was abroad. You never know when someone will… Well, I suppose you do know that, now.”
For a moment, something passed between them. An uneasy companionship. They shared a specific circumstance, after all. They were both people who had lost a sister before her time. Percival stared at his cooling tea and then endeavored to say something. “Perhaps more tea—”
“Please,” Elswyth said, “if my sister was distressed before she vanished—before she died—I would like to know. It would… ease my grief. To understand her better.”
Percival exhaled and slumped his shoulders. “The pressures of a young woman in society are vast, and fits of melancholy are common… But Elswyth, perhaps this isn’t the time. There is no need to trouble you with such dark things. Not with the season just around the corner.”
Elswyth kept her face impassive, noting Percival’s quick change of subject. “Of course. The season.”
Her uncle examined her, smiling slightly. Her distaste must have been plain on her face. “Forgive me for saying so, my dear, but you do not seem very excited by the prospect.”
“It is not a matter of excitement but a matter of duty, I’m afraid.”
Percival nodded, sipping his tea. “I won’t pretend to understand your predicament, although your father, however reticent, has explained the broad strokes. On one hand, I think it’s very noble of you to forgo your acceptance to Oxford in order to help provide for your family.”
