George returned her grin. “As do I, Miss Swift. As do I.”
They had reached the portrait hall where the exalted Black ancestors peeked from between Roman gods with fine buttocks. Meg paused under her favorite painting, the one wearing a truly spectacular ruff and holding a ferret with an unnatural face that was more child-like than ferret-like. He held a ruby necklace with a pearl drop the size of an apricot.
“And what of him?” The discreet bronze plaque announced him to be Rupert Black, Lord Bartholomew. “Was he also very heroic?”
“Ha!” Lady Beatrice barked from the balcony. “He was a third son, and he slept his way through half of the aristocracy and then died of syphilis.”
“Oh dear.”
“But that necklace he holds was said to have belonged to Queen Elizabeth,” Marigold added, coming down the stairs to join them. She wore yellow again, this time with layers of flounces and ribbons best suited to a cake. “It went missing. There are ever so many stories about it. Some say it might still be in this house somewhere. Perhaps that’s your treasure.”
“Queen Elizabeth, so, the latter half of the sixteenth century?” Meg asked George. “Or thereabouts?”
He nodded. “I can see what improvements were made to the building around that time. I’ve found some family diaries and a few more books about the area.”
“Never mind that, she’s the one you want,” Lady Beatrice pointed to a lady wearing men’s breeches, red dahlias on her bodice and a sharp, mischievous smile. “Marigold’s sister. She ran away with a pirate.”
“She was very dashing,” Lady Marigold murmured. “But he wasn’t a pirate. He was a privateer.”
“What’s the difference?” Charlie asked curiously.
“He had a letter of marque from the British government,” George explained. “He could plunder ships that were from enemy nations with a full pardon as long as England received a percentage of the booty.”
“A pirate with permission then?” Charlie said. “Seems like cheating. I like it.”
“Sometimes I would get packages from exotic places, coins mostly, or seashell pendants,” Lady Marigold said wistfully. “Our father always lost his temper when her name was mentioned. He would have destroyed this painting, but my mother forbade him on her deathbed. Dahlia came to visit once but my father threw her out after one night. They had such a row. Half the crockery was shattered.”
“Who’s a pirate?” Lady Blackwell demanded, sailing into the hall with Chartreuse at her diamond-studded heels. They wore matching necklaces made from russet silk roses with faux thorns painted gold.
“My sister, Dahlia.”
“Lady Dahlia!” Lady Blackwell exclaimed. “Oh, I did like her. Now there was a woman could hold her liquor.”
“Did you ever want to join her as a pirate?” Meg teased. She could easily picture Persephone’s grandmother on the deck of a ship, holding a musket, and demanding spoils. Naturally, Chartreuse would be there, sporting a dashing eye patch. Or possibly biting a parrot.
“I do think I would have made a grand pirate but good heaven’s no,” Lady Blackwell replied. “I like a feather bed. And proper meals. Frequent baths.” She paused, turning to George. “Mr. Williams,” she all but beamed at him after an uncomfortable moment where he looked as though he might need to excuse himself from her frank assessment. Charlie opened her mouth to speak but Lady Blackwell beat her to it. “That pink cravat is positively delicious. I do admire a man who understands a little boldness is a tonic on these gray days.”
The day was perfectly bright and sunny but as George bowed with a pleased, shy smile, no one dared mention it. “You may offer me your arm,” she continued. “So that everyone may admire us. We simply match too well not to give them the pleasure.”
Seeing as her gown might be called orange, but only if the beholder was feeling generous and had shielded their eyes sufficiently, Meg suspected her reasons had more to do with that shy smile and handsome face. George extended his arm, looking only slightly flummoxed but also very, very pleased. Pink cravat and orange dress clashed horribly. It was very sweet.
Lady Beatrice nudged Meg with an elbow so bony as to be registered as a decent weapon of war. She waggled her eyebrows in case Meg was in any confusion as to what the elbow to the tender area under her ribs might mean. The answering bruise needed no further elaboration.
It was restful not to be the focus of a matchmaking scheme for once.
They made a merry and odd collection as they trouped through the house, with George offering historical information and Lady Beatrice shouting inappropriate comments about the family. Lady Marigold did not seem particularly bothered to have her family harpooned. They peeked behind tapestries, inside decorative boxes for hidden keys, knocked on wall panels to make sure they were solid.
Not a single treasure to be found.
“Perhaps I’m simply not good at this,” Meg muttered under her breath. Persephone could spot a forgery at a hundred paces; Pendleton could date a classical statue to the year at a glance. She couldn’t find one treasure in one house, even with the help of a small, slightly eccentric army.
“Don’t despair,” George said quietly. “We’ll find it.”
They continued their odd parade through the house until Dougal stepped out of his study, only to be assaulted by shouts of “inbred dukes”, orange and yellow dresses, and an over-excited spaniel.
He paused.
“Is that a pink cravat?”