“Not me, you idiot.” Dougal said. “Actual treasure.”
They all stared at him.
“You could not possibly fit more gold in this house,” Charlie said.
“Well, someone did, over two hundred years ago. Might be gold, might be silver, no one’s sure. But what we do know is that more strangers are about to start poking around.”
Charlie groaned. “More of them?”
“I’m afraid so. I may have…punched an earl. Or a Marquess? I’m not even sure, honestly.”
“You punched someone?” she echoed. She had the exact same expression she’d worn when she was eight years old, and he’d stolen an orange for her for Christmas morning.
“Yes.” He was trying to regret his rash violent reaction.
He wasn’t succeeding.
“Now that would be a ball I’d actually want to attend.”
Colin leaned forward. “Why did you punch him?”
“Because he deserved it,” his sister answered immediately. “Obviously.”
“Lord Eaton is a lecher,” Dougal said. “And proud and obnoxious and will no doubt fan the rumors of this bloody treasure.”
“Was it over Miss Swift?” Colin grinned at Dougal’s expression. “It was, wasn’t it? I can’t blame you. She’s a pocket Venus,” he said appreciatively.
Charlie rolled her eyes. “Speak English.”
“I was,” he shot back, rolling his eyes back at her. They might be eighteen years old and nearly adults, but possibly this kind of life wasn’t good for their dispositions. “Would you prefer I call her a prime article?” He exaggerated his Northern accent.
She crossed her arms. “Yes, I would. And yes also to our proper accent, you pompous git.”
“Charlie,” George said mildly. He was the only one able to calm her and often with just a glance or a murmur of her name. No one else could quite manage it.
She sighed, shoulders drooping. “I’m sorry. You know these people put me out of sorts.”
“Meg isn’t going to judge you,” Dougal promised.
“You don’t know that.”
He thought of her stealing almonds. And then stealing the wager purse from Eaton. “I really do, as it happens.”
“You do like her,” George said softly, in that way of his. His dark eyes were steady, knowing.
Dougal felt the urge to blush but he was fairly sure dukes did not blush. “I like her well enough,” he allowed. An understatement.
“Did you propose?” Colin asked.
“I’ve only known her for two days.”
“And you have less than two months in which to get married,” Colin pointed out. “She’s pretty and she didn’t scream bloody murder when Old Bea, The Fruit Cannon, got to work.”
All true.
“She’s a viscount’s daughter.”
“And you’re a duke.”