How to Marry a Duke (A Cinderella Society 2)

“Curious mice.”

“It would seem so.”

“Hmm. Mice looking for treasure?” She wondered out loud. “I have already noticed an increase of gentlemen and ladies who do not seem to care about the gardens wandering about.”

“I noticed that too.”

“I still only managed to chase a debutante and not a hunter out the window.”

“Might they not be the same?”

She nodded. He had a point. They investigated the holes and the crannies but found only bits of nuts and shredded paper, treasures of mice, not men. No coins, no candlesticks, no jewels.

“I suppose it would be too much to expect it to be that easy,” Meg grumbled.

They finally found themselves back in the main part of the house, with its arching windows and fluted columns. And Charlie. She scowled at Meg. “What’s going on?”

“I’m getting the grand tour,” Meg replied, ignoring both the scowl and the warning look George sent in its direction.

“You should join the other ladies who poke about our house and steal things from my brother’s bedroom.”

“Charlie,” George said. “Miss Swift, I do apologize.”

“No need,” Meg hurried to say. “It must be frustrating,” she added to Charlie. Charlie shrugged one shoulder.

“You know, of course, that Thorncroft was an abbey before it was turned into a family estate. Franciscan,” George continued pointedly. “I like to imagine monks praying at night. Sometimes, I fancy I can still smell the incense.”

She could see it perfectly. Painting the glowing light of the candles would be the trick of it. A little white, a little cadmium yellow. The softest hint of gold along the columns.

“Miss Swift?”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Williams, I was painting inside my own head. Terrible habit. Do go on.”

Charlie was scowling again but Meg could tell she was concerned that Meg might hurt George’s feelings. Since she had no such intention, nor ever would, she decided she rather liked the scowl. Charlie was protective of her family. She couldn’t fault her for that. Even if she had suddenly joined the house tour, wedging herself between them.

George continued, calm as ever. “When King Henry the Eighth decided to take over the church for love of Anne Boleyn—”

Meg snorted. He tilted his head. “Not for love?”

“Not for love.” Seeing as Henry had chopped Anne’s head off, Tamsin had had a lot to say about it over the years. Meg knew more about Anne Boleyn than she did most of the people on her own family tree. “Maybe at first,” she allowed. “A little bit. If I am feeling charitable. But mostly, he liked getting his own way, I think.”

“So, you are a historian, after all.”

She grinned. “No, but my friends are dedicated enough on my behalf. One can’t help but listen. I can also discuss the sand composition around the pyramids and how the new modern Roman-inspired ballgowns have got it all wrong. The Duke of Pendleton considers it a tragedy of epic proportions.” She winked. “I shall spare you, Mr. Williams, as I was never spared.” She trailed her fingers along the leaves carved into the windowsill. “Do we know what the first duke did to gain Henry’s favor? Something suitably heroic, I hope?”

“Like the Duke of Norfolk, it was reward for services rendered at the battle that killed James IV.”

“Not nearly as dramatic as I’d like,” Meg teased, “But I suppose it will have to do.”

Henry had created titles to build a wealthy aristocratic army in his favor, just as he had seized the properties belonging to the Church, both to claim their assets and finally have the divorce he was so desperate for.

“The abbey lay in ruins before it was claimed by the first duke. Apparently, the locals had carted away most of the western wall, as it had the best stones.”

“Is that why it’s such a delightful hodge-podge in here?” And why the treasure might be long gone already.

“Yes, I think so. They were a small abbey and one of the first to be dissolved, though I hear they resisted at first.”

“Oh good, I do like a troublemaker.”