How to Marry a Duke (A Cinderella Society 2)

“Got you now,” she said, darting inside.

Just in time to see another flutter of a white dress, this time exiting from the open window.

Meg didn’t stop to think, she only followed, scrambling out after her. She couldn’t say why she was so determined to track the lady down, or what she could even do, once found. She only knew that it didn’t sit right to have Dougal treated like a piece of meat: delicious, desired, and dumb.

No longer.

Meg shoved through hardy geraniums and tall spiky foxgloves, finally bursting out of the hedge partitioning the side flagstone terrace from the back gardens.

Straight into a crowd of ladies in white dresses.

Botheration.

Debutante fashions were vexing in more ways than one. She herself would have cast off her whites in seconds if she could afford to replace her old dresses. Beyond that, they were now interfering with her investigation. She counted at least seven young ladies in white, and three grandmothers who, as much as they wanted to appear younger and au courant in their thin floating dresses, were unlikely to have launched themselves through an open window.

Meg was welcomed with gasps, shocked whispers, and one extremely theatrical shriek. Annoyed, she turned on her heel, muttering under her breath. When she climbed back in through the window, she was met with three footmen, and Charlie.

“Are you the one leaving the windows open?” Charlie accused. Her dress was patterned with blue flowers today and she looked uncomfortable, unconsciously plucking at the sleeves.

“Of course not,” Meg replied. “I followed a—,” she broke off. Anger was like steam boiling her brain. “She damaged the paint!” Meg nearly howled. In truth, her voice was not at all genteel.

She was not feeling particularly genteel.

That sneakabout had not only disturbed the family’s privacy, she had also knocked over two chairs and an iron candelabra taller than Meg. Right into the dusty mural. Bits of broken plaster lay scattered on the sideboard. If debutantes were this barbaric, she had no hope for the manners of a treasure hunter.

“You look like a steam kettle coming to a boil,” Charlie remarked. “You sound like one too.”

“I feel like one,” Meg replied, between her teeth. She forced a smile in the footmen’s direction, but they were wise enough not to believe her. “We need plaster,” she said. “Now, if you please.”

They scattered.

Charlie raised her eyebrows dubiously. “You’re going to plaster the wall?”

Meg nodded firmly. “And I’m going to do a right better job than the last person who tried.”

Charlie shook her head in a manner that Meg could only describe as Dougal-like. “I’ll never understand posh ladies.”

Meg was lost.

She was used to fine houses. Pendleton Hall stretched out over nearly an acre of space, but it made sense. Thorncroft Abbey was haphazard, with odd additions that jutted out over the gardens, doors that opened to brick walls, doors that didn’t open at all. It was as if several generations of drunken architects had dared each other to do their worst. She loved it. Every odd, crooked inch of it.

She was still lost though.

And it certainly did not make it easy to find lost treasure.

She’d gone up too many floors, then down a narrow staircase dating back at least to Henry the Seventh, there’d been a room full of rolled up carpets, another with broken chairs, and then approximately a hundred kilometers of hallways and a single creaking staircase that led up to the roof but nowhere else. Not even back down.

She tried another door, rattling it when she found it locked. She cursed. With enthusiasm.

“Miss Swift.”

She jumped, then tried to decide if she should be embarrassed. “Mr. Williams! How glad I am to see you. I was trying to find, not only treasure, but also,” she glanced down at the list in her sketchbook. “A sculpture of three Venuses wearing birds as hats”, which doesn’t sound terribly Roman,” she admitted. “But now I’m just trying to find familiar ground again.”

“I got lost daily when we first arrived,” George smiled, lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. There was such kindness in his face, and calmness. She could see where Dougal had gotten his steadiness. “That’s part of the reason I became so interested in the history of the house.” He winked. “Self-preservation. The Cook does not appreciate it when you let her food get cold, even if you were lost in the attics.”

Meg smiled back. “I’ll remember that.”

“I haven’t seen any statues up here.”