“Pardon?”
She tapped him with her bejeweled and feathered fan. “You’re a fool if you don’t marry her.”
As if he didn’t already know that.
Meg and Charliewere in the front hall when Dougal found them. He was glad for his sister’s presence, as he was quite mad with the need to touch Meg again. He might have tugged her into an abandoned room, even the hideous gold drawing room. She was everywhere, the thought of her, her scent, the soft sounds she’d had made when she came among the roses.
On second thought, he wasn’t at all relieved to find his sister in his way. Surely, she had something else to do.
“We are working with a new clue,” Charlie said. “Lady Dahlia painted seashells.”
Meg glanced at him, registered the hunger in his eyes and licked her lips.
He was absolutely going to go mad if he didn’t get to do the same. She raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “Devil,” he whispered. Her smile grew. God, this woman.
“I’m taking your advice,” she said as if they were proper as two governesses in a vicarage. “I have to start somewhere and it got me to thinking that since Dahlia must have wanted her father to find the treasure, or at least look for it, why not start here, where she left her first clue?”
“Seven seashells for your boat,” he quoted.
“Exactly.” They had all of the windows open and candles burning in every candelabra even though it was the middle of the day. The medieval hunt marched across one wall, and a seascape frothed and boiled on the other. “I don’t know what the boat part means yet, but one thing at a time.”
Meg and Charlie each held up a candle, examining the fireplace thoroughly and the walls around it. “Four strawberries,” Charlie said.
“Two hedgehogs,” Meg added. She paused, turning triumphant. “And one seashell.”
“Where?” Charlie pounced. He hadn’t seen her this animated since they’d left Manchester. Something unclenched inside of him.
“In that hedgehog’s mouth,” Meg pointed.
“Oh, brilliant.” They shared a small bounce of anticipation.
Dougal joined the hunt, trying to peer through decades of soot darkening the paint. “Here,” he said. “Second seashell.”
“And I have the third!” Charlie exclaimed. “There, on that fellow’s tunic.”
“That’s a terrible seashell,” Dougal shook his head, amused. “Looks more like a fish head.”
George joined them by the fourth seashell. Colin was in Perchance-By-The-Sea, flirting with the girls, as usual. By the fifth seashell, Chartreuse had also joined the game, even though he had no idea what it was, only that he enjoyed racing up and down the hall with company this time.
The sixth seashell was in the top corner, tucked under the edge of a frieze and took over half an hour to find. Dougal had to stand on a bench. A beeswax candle dripped wax in his hair. Charlie wouldn’t let him down until he’d found something.
The seventh seashell was low to the ground, hidden in a tangle of painted leaves. They might have missed it if Chartreuse hadn’t stopped to lick a drop of beeswax right in front of it.
The seashells had led them to a part of the hallway that opened up to three different rooms, a drawing room, the dining room and the ballroom, each more cavernous than the last. The ceiling was a maze of carvings and moldings and stars. No fewer than three ships hung in frames on the wall. Dougal had no idea how old they might be.
None of them had roses. Not the paintings, nor their frames, nor the murals.
Charlie crossed her arms, annoyed. “Are we looking for boats or roses or stars now? Or coats?”
“We’ll find it,” he assured her. “Whatever it is.”
“I don’t think I like riddles.”
Meg snorted in sympathy. “Me neither.”
“It’s roses, but not the kind of coat you wear,” George said softly.
“What other kind is there?” Charlie demanded.