Thorncroft Abbey didnot disappoint.
The bones of the house clearly belonged to an abbey, one only had to look as far as the pointed windows and the arched ribbed ceilings. Everywhere was soaring grandeur, from the marble friezes to the lush Rococo gilt wooden tables to the heavy velvet draperies tied up with gold ropes. And that was just what Meg could see from the front hall. The ceilings dripped with crystal chandeliers, set against paintings of complicated skies, angels battling, golden stars everywhere. Some of the paint was cracked. The mural of a medieval hunt with peeling unicorns and faded horses made Meg want to reach for her paints immediately. Before tea, even. Such disregard was criminal. The former duke had some answering to do.
She knew now why Pendleton had insisted she come.
“I haven’t been here in decades,” Lady Blackwell said. “Not since that house party where…. Well, never mind that.”
Chartreuse shot up and down the stairs in a frenzy of tyranny and fluff. He called the various members of the family from their chambers more effectively than any housekeeper or butler could dream. Meg heard the footsteps and turned slightly towards Dougal, lowering her voice. “Make sure to introduce your family to Lady Blackwell, not the other way around, if they haven’t met already. They might outrank her slightly, but she is older, a countess, and also the daughter of a duke.”
He looked briefly confused. “That matters?”
She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Devil’s arsewit.” He sounded so wearily disgruntled that Meg burst out laughing. Dougal’s ears went red. “I beg your pardon.”
“Not at all.”
A Black man with hair turned mostly white and a kind smile joined them from down the hall. He carried a pile of books.
“Lady Blackwell,” Dougal said. “May I present George Williams.”
George bowed. “An honor.”
Lady Blackwell inclined her head as far as she could without toppling her traveling wig. “Mr. Williams.”
“And Miss Swift,” Dougal added, sounding only a little as though the formality of it made him want to burn his cravat. “May I also present George Williams.”
“How do you do, Mr. Williams?” Meg asked with a curtsy.
“A right sight better now, Miss.”
“Ease off, you old flirt,” Dougal muttered. George grinned at Meg and she grinned back, already more comfortable here than she was in her uncle’s house and most of the houses she’d visited outside her godfather’s. “George lived with us in Manchester. Or, we lived with him, is more accurate.” He motioned to a younger version of himself coming down the stairs, with the same thick hair and blue eyes. “My brother Colin—Uh, Lord Colin Black, Viscount Henley.”
“A fine waistcoat, Lord Henley,” Lady Blackwell approved, for obvious reasons. Colin’s waistcoat was heavily embroidered green and gold thread leaves on crimson background. The buttons were covered in matching red silk.
Colin preened slightly. “Thank you, my lady.”
A sigh interrupted them from the doorway to what looked like a blue parlor. “You look ridiculous.”
“Charlie,” Dougal said warningly. “My sister, Lady Charlotte.”
Charlotte had thick brown curls like her brother’s, the same blue eyes, but her smile was slower and considerably more defiant. She wore a plain white gown and no jewelry at all. Lady Blackwell would have something to say about it. “Hello,” Charlotte said simply.
“Lady Charlotte,” Meg smiled.
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “It’s Charlie.”
Meg blinked at the vehemence in her tone. “Of course. I beg your pardon.”
Dougal caught his sister’s disgruntled gaze and shook his head once, pointedly.
Lady Blackwell stepped closer, all butterflies and bonhomie. “Oh, aren’t you a beauty? We’ll have you married in a thrice, my dear. You just need to wear a brighter gown. Something with color, to attract the eye. With a blue ribbon, perhaps.”
“Told you so,” Colin snorted.
Charlie paused and took a small subtle step backwards. “No, thank you?”
Lady Blackwell tilted her head. “No to the gowns or to a husband?”