“We routed that bugger!” Lady Beatrice said, smugly. Several of the ladies gasped at her language. One of the footmen choked. “I poked him right in the spleen with my spear.”
“She was very brave,” Lady Marigold added, though she had slept through the entire incident. As had Lady Blackwell, who was vexed that her Chartreuse had not had the opportunity to prove his mettle.
“Is there really treasure?” Miss Aisnworth asked, eyes wide. “Truly?”
“Rumors of treasure,” Colin replied. “Which is half the fun, wouldn’t you say?” He winked. She blushed. Her mother set her fork down with a clatter.
“We have been ambushed,” Charlie added. “Strange men trying to break into the house. It isn’t safe.”
Someone gasped again, louder. Dougal shot her a dry glance. He knew exactly what she was doing. She just smiled at him, innocent as a baby lamb. Fear would have shot through him at the sight of that smile, but apparently he’d managed to drink just enough wine to make it interesting instead of foreboding.
The footmen cleared the plates and brought out the last course: a flummery made of rosewater custard, a fish pond platter consisting of gold flecked jelly in the shape of a goldfish, cheeses, nuts and a display of marzipan fruit which Lady Beatrice eyed with considerable glee. She had insisted on bringing her spear with her and it leaned against the wall behind her chair. She had already instructed the footman not to block her access to it. Lady Marigold wore yellow, of course, and she twinkled at everyone like a merry Christmas lantern. George was seated on Lady St. Ives’ other side. Dougal had quickly realized she was the only lady currently in attendance who would not make him feel uncomfortable. She was quiet and polite as a dowager. Scratch that. Dougal had yet to meet a dowager who was not more wolf than little red riding hood.
Dougal felt a rush of warmth for his odd, eccentric family. Whoever he married, in the next few weeks, would have to respect them. Each of them, for all of their quirks. Including Charlie, who was even now pulling a sneaky, mildly rude trick. Footmen had been asked to present a gift to each lady, an exquisitely embroidered handkerchief.
At least she’d improved to only “mildly” disrespectful. In a house where marzipan was a projectile weapon, he supposed he should be grateful for small mercies. And in truth, no one else would realize that the gifts she was having brought out had been stitched by Meg. He would recognize the fat hedgehogs, the roses and secret poison berries, anywhere.
Charlie was needling him, not their guests. Well, not so they would notice, anyway. He thought Lady St. Ives might notice, but she didn’t say anything.
The rest of the night was a blur of bowing and curtsying, compliments, and more wine.
Too much wine if the fact that he found himself stretched out on the settee in the family parlor had anything to say about it. If it didn’t, his siblings certainly made up for it. George just shook his head and rang for strong coffee.
“Have they gone?” Dougal groaned. He’d made his goodbyes and fled the moment the guests were on the drive, waiting for their carriages. Colin had gone out to wait with them. He probably should have done the same, but he’d been afraid he’d bare his teeth and start growling. A perfect end to a perfect evening.
“How much did you drink?” Charlie asked. “You don’t even like wine.”
“I like wine fine.” He didn’t. He found it cloying. But it was something dukes were supposed to like, wasn’t it? Wine and artfully tousled hair and gold rings on every finger. “Damn Prinny, anyway,” he added. “Damn his eyes.”
“Damning the royal family,” Colin remarked. “And not just King Henry. Is this about Meg?”
“Of course it’s about Meg,” Charlie put in.
Colin leaned against the sideboard. “Tup her already, mate,” he said.
Dougal sat up. His face changed. It was the expression he’d had on the daily, before George had taken them in. One that promised retribution and pain to anyone who messed with his loved ones. “Shut your gob,” Dougal said. Colin held his hands up placatingly. “You can dress the part of a careless aristocrat, but you won’t act like it. Not in this bloody ostentatious house. Mate.”
Colin’s eyes widened. “It’s like that, is it?”
Dougal would have said something else, but the sudden outburst had made the wine swim in his head, full of sugar and thorns. “Where did you get those handkerchiefs? You didn’t ask Meg to make them all for you, did you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charlie rolled her eyes. “I bought them from a little shop in town. Don’t you know that duke’s sisters are supposed to shop?”
“Why would a viscount’s daughter need to sell her handiwork?” Dougal wondered out loud.
“Ask her, you donkey.”
They paused while Mrs. Cricket bustled in, pushing the coffee tray. It was in a silver carafe shaped like a swan. “I’ve added some ginger biscuits,” she said, cheerfully. “My Da swore by them when he’d had the wine.”
Lovely, even the housekeeper knew he was a drunken miserable sot.
She closed the door gently behind her. She was as warm and comforting as a muffin straight from the oven, and roughly shaped the same. Meg had found them a miracle. She was making his life better even when she wasn’t here.
He wanted to punch something.
He never wanted to punch something.
“Why haven’t you asked her to marry you?”