Tamsin kissed his cheek. “You’re sweet, Uncle Atticus. But I’d rather be a crow.”
As a duke’s daughter she was comfortable with a far more informal form of address than Persephone would have presumed, godfather or no. And no one dared quarrel with him half so well. Especially when he added, “But who will marry a crow?”
“I don’t need to marry,” Tamsin said airily. “Isn’t that the entire point of being related to so many dukes?”
“You need a good match. Someone steady,” The duke insisted. “You all do.”
“For my part, no thank you,” she said, tugging on his queue of white hair.
He harrumphed. “How goes it in here, you ungrateful hoyden?”
“Persephone is muttering under her breath about coins and Meg won’t talk to me at all.”
“Despair,” he said. “Meg, my girl, your painting skills have grown even more exquisite.”
She smiled, pleased. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I wanted her to paint the lions in the Coliseum. A good maiming always makes for good art.”
“But rather less festive for a ball.”
“I suppose.”
“How’s your tosspot uncle?” The duke asked Meg.
“Still a tosspot,” Tamsin interjected.
Meg studied her brushes. “He was vexed he did not receive an invitation.”
The duke’s laugh was sharp and smug. “Good. Never did like the man.” He peered over Persephone’s shoulder and clucked his tongue in much the same manner as she had. “Who would put that little black cat on the Rome side?” He shook his head. “I may have to ask the staff to attend some of the lectures we have planned.”
“I found two Romano-British coins in with the Roman ones as well. Iceni, I think.”
“Scandal! What would Queen Boudicca say?”
She grinned at him. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Well, you look like you have everything in hand here. I’m off to visit the lecture hall. Where’s Priya? It makes me nervous when she’s off alone,” he muttered, stalking into the hall where the footmen scrambled to attention.
“Where is Priya?” Persephone asked.
“Being sneaky with her brother,” Tamsin waved a hand. “You know how she is.” She tilted her head. “Speaking of which.”
“Priya?”
“Conall.”
His name sent a bolt of awareness through her. She must never admit to it. Never. Tamsin would be relentless. She kept her eyes on her work. “What about him?”
“He danced with you.”
She snorted. “Conall dances with everyone.”
“He never used to.”
“True.”
“And he was different with you,” Meg pointed out. Traitor. “Serious. With all the other ladies he’s all smiles and charm.”