“More orchids?” Tamsin teased. “Are there any left that you don’t already have? I should think the South Americas are plucked bare.”
“I could buy paints,” Meg said. She could, but she wouldn’t. It was nearly winter, and she needed to save the money for something practical, like potatoes for the tenants. But it was nice to think of proper pigments and drawing paper and new pencils. Or, best of all, a watercolor set from Ackerman’s in London. “What about you, Clara?”
“I should like to finally have a beautifully bound copy of Childe Harold,” she admitted. Although Byron was fantastically popular, he did seem rather risqué for Clara—both his reputation and his poetry. Neither of which were the reason Meg, Tamsin and Priya all paused with identical expressions: narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Clara’s eyes widened. “What did I say? I know it’s frivolous but—”
They replied as one, firmly, acidly. “We do not read Byron.”
Clara was momentarily taken aback. “Why not?”
“He’s a self-indulgent git,” Tamsin muttered.
“That’s hardly news.”
“And he was rude to me.” Also, not exactly news about a man known for his temper and his dramatic outbursts.
“Ah.”
“Very rude.” Tamsin did not elaborate. Clara did not press. Meg changed the subject entirely. “What will you do with your ill-gotten gains, Tam?”
“I have my eye on a haunted artifact.”
Clara shuddered. “How gruesome.”
“I agree.” Priya wrinkled her nose. “I prefer orchids to ghosts.”
Tamsin shrugged cheerfully. “I like the idea that we’re not alone.”
After a breakfastof toasted muffins with honey among a dozen bleary-eyed guests, Meg, Priya and Tamsin cornered their godfather in his study. He was drinking coffee and reading through a stack of letters. A fire burned cheerily in the grate and fog pressed against the glass.
“This is cozy,” Tamsin said, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. “And you look fresh as a daisy. The others are positively haggard this morning.”
“Bah, the younger set can’t hold their drink.”
This from a man who had been acting like an elderly grandfather just last night. Meg regarded him steadily. “You tricked me.”
He sucked in an offended breath. “I would never.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You never told me the collection I’m to draw for you belongs to the Duke of Thorncroft.”
Tamsin sat up. “You’re staying with Thorncroft?”
“Apparently so.”
Tamsin grinned at Pendleton. “Well done, Your Grace.”
He looked both proud and perilously close to sulking. “It wasn’t a trick. Is it so wrong to want you to have the same happiness I had with the late duchess?”
“No.” Meg softened. He still missed his late wife terribly and she had died seven years ago. “But you have to be realistic, Your Grace.”
“I want my girls married,” he insisted, stubbornly.
Meg laughed before she could stop herself. “I’m not marrying Dougal.”
“Dougal, is it?”
“He’s a duke.”
“And thus nearly good enough for you, my dear.”