How to Marry a Duke (A Cinderella Society 2)

“Mr. Willows,” Dougal’s voice went sharp. Mr. Willows recoiled. “Ask the constable what I think of treasure hunters.”

“Erm.”

“And about the last treasure hunter’s broken nose,” Meg put in helpfully.

Mr. Willows swallowed. “I see.”

“And if I see you anywhere near the abbey, I’ll set the dogs on you. Good day.”

They walked away, Meg fighting a laugh. “You don’t have dogs.”

“You were the one who assured me Chartreuse was a biter.”

“Never mind that, I think it’s Lady Beatrice’s spear they should worry about.”

He grinned.” That too.”

“But that man won’t be back,” Meg said. “He’s not a real treasure hunter.”

“No, I suspect not.”

“He gave up too easily. No proper collector would let himself be scared off like that.” She sounded disdainful; she couldn’t help it.

“Noted. Now what’s that you got there?”

She’d forgotten about the pamphlet. She handed it to Dougal. “I thought it might interest you.”

He read the title, sighed, then read the author. His jaw ticked. And then his voice positively boomed. “Colin Black!”

Since the othershad already walked down to the carriage, they were not there when Meg came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street. Dougal, still intent on cuffing his brother on the back of the head, did not notice until her hand, placed around his arm, nearly upended him like a teapot. “What is—.”

“Dougal.”

He looked down at her puzzled. “Meg.”

“Look.”

He followed her focused gaze. “Oh.”

They stood in front of a seaside pub: The Rose and Anchor. The creaking wooden sign was painted with roses around a black anchor, as expected.

Seven red roses.

“We have to go inside!” Meg had already darted towards the whitewashed building, heedless of the disapproving glances of a few debutantes currently trailing behind them like brightly-bonneted flotsam.

“Wait for me,” Dougal insisted. The pub wasn’t likely to be rowdy at this time of day, but nor was she likely to have been inside one before. Even the fanciest ones had sticky floors, drunken patrons, and the stink of smoke and stale ale.

She waited for him just inside, as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. She may as well have been at St. James Palace if the brightness of her smile had anything to say about it. Several men turned to appraise her frankly until Dougal shook his head once, pointedly. He was just behind her and she did not see him. He wasn’t an idiot.

The pub was a single long room with dark rafters, a fireplace in one corner, and windows opened to the constant chatter of the sea. There were simple roses painted on the pitchers, on the wall around the fireplace, and over one of the stools. Ropes of dried roses were tucked here and there. Meg’s face shone.

The floor was, as expected, sticky as they crossed the room. Meg counted roses under her breath but no matter where she started, seven roses later, she was nowhere more helpful. There were no benches with secret compartments, no hidden niches in the wall. She sighed.

The owner joined them, wiping his hands on his work apron. His smile was genuine but quizzical. “Can I help ye?”

“Oh,” Meg smiled back. “I was only admiring the decorations.”

“Me wife painted those,” he said proudly. “Can I get ye something to drink? I wouldn’t recommend the wine for such as ye, but we brew a fine ale. Sometimes, we put rose petals in it, where there’s a special occasion.”