“The Splendid Miss Swift,” Dougal murmured quietly enough to have her blushing.
“Perhaps you can help me map the house,” Meg asked. “I assume His Grace has mentioned the problem with treasure hunters?”
“Treasure hunters?” Lady Beatrice barked. “I think not.” She picked up her knife with deliberate precision and attacked her potatoes. “I will deal with any such nuisance, just you wait.”
A shiver must have gone through a great many treasure hunter currently contemplating Thorncroft Abbey.
“He has, indeed,” George said. “Are we thinking the monks hid the Church plates and such before the king could get his hands on them?”
“A safe assumption,” Meg agreed. “But you would know better. If not the monks, there might be family stories or clues in a family bible?”
“I will start right away,” he promised, eyes shining. “I’ll look for any drawings of the abbey over the centuries.”
“That would be very helpful, thank you.”
“I do wish you had a proper antiquarian to help you.”
She leaned forward. “I can tell you without hesitation that the antiquarians I know with the most schooling only tend to complicate things. And they nearly always forget to come in for supper.” Which was a crime, in her estimation. Dougal’s cook had done marvelous things with quail and cream and chives, with a mountain of boiled potatoes and beets. The bread was soft and still faintly warm. She only just barely resisted the urge to drop it into her napkin for later. Wouldn’t Mrs. Hill be scandalized then?
She’d be scandalized right now, were she still in the dining room.
Because usually the duck was meant to be served with thyme and butter.
Not fresh from the pond and landing in a tureen of creamed turnips.
At least only the turnips had been ruined. She’d had no intention of sampling those at all.
There was a startled pause.
“Is that…a duck?” Dougal asked, in the same tone one might ask if there were more peas.
Mashed turnip splashed over the linen tablecloth. A splatter arched to land on Lady Marigold’s decolletage with a wet plop. She squeaked. Very loudly. Loudly enough to startle the already startled duck.
He did not seem the equanimous sort.
As everyone scrambled to their feet, except Colin, who would let nothing ruin his lordly slouch, not even a duck, Meg started to giggle. She couldn’t help it. Dougal sent her an incredulous look. “There’s a duck on the table.”
She laughed even harder.
The footmen were all stunned, though one darted forward, then stopped. “I don’t know what to do with a duck, Your Grace,” he admitted.
“You cook it!” Lady Blackwell barked.
After that, Meg fairly howled with laughter. The older ladies were standing in a huddle, making offended noises. The duck flapped his wings once. They shrieked in unison, ladies and duck.
“It’s like Macbeth’s witches,” Dougal muttered.
Meg held onto the back of her chair. “Stop,” she begged, weak with mirth.
The duck honked once, very loudly and clearly affronted.
“Well, how do you think we feel about it?” Dougal asked it.
Meg wheezed.
The duck took off again, and then landed abruptly in the potatoes. Now that was a shame. Everyone talked at once, offering suggestions, yelps, curse words. The chaotic din intensified, until the butler arrived, then Mrs. Hill, a few housemaids, and eventually the cook, red-faced and panting. “Weren’t no duck on the menu,” she said, bewildered.
Meg was beginning to think it was possible to die from laughing too hard.