She absolutely would not comment on that. Nor would she look in Dougal’s direction. Not even a glance. She didn’t have to. She could already feel his quiet smirk.
“And you’ve lost weight,” the duke continued, oblivious. “Thorncroft here is the fellow with the collection I want you to draw for me.”
Meg froze, then turned slowly to look at Pendleton. With some accusation, it had to be said. He’d never mentioned the project involved the Duke of Thorncroft. With whom she’d just had a most inappropriate conversation. Pendleton blinked innocently, fooling her not at all.
Dougal’s eyebrows raised. “Miss Swift is the artist you are sending to my estate?”
“Indeed.”
“Is she?” Meg said mildly. “You might have mentioned.”
“Didn’t I? Terribly sorry, my dear. You know how an old man’s memory can be.”
“Yes,” she muttered under her breath. “Wily.”
“I beg your pardon? You see, my hearing is going too.”
What rot.
“The previous Duke of Thorncroft left me his collection of artifacts, on the understanding that I would keep the items that interested me and donate the rest to a museum. And I’m not keen on four hours in a carriage to catalogue it,” he added.
That much she could believe. Even with the best newly-sprung carriages the jostling would be murder on his bones. She stifled a sigh. Of course, she would help him. And he knew perfectly well that she would. “You can leave from here,” he said cheerfully. “And save yourself some time.”
“I will need a chaperone, Your Grace,” she reminded him. She couldn’t very well traipse across England alone with a man she barely knew. Even as a spinster.
Dougal was watching their exchange with some fascination. “I have inherited two elderly ladies at the estate,” he offered. “Might they suffice?”
“The Ladies Marigold and Beatrice, is it?” Pendleton said. “Are they still alive, then?”
“It would seem so.”
“Good for them! And does Lady Marigold still insist on wearing yellow?”
Dougal smiled. “She does.” He leaned a little closer to Meg, conspiratorially. “She looks a little bit like a pot of lemon jelly most of the time.”
She smiled back. “I’m sure she’s lovely.”
“She is.”
“And dotty as a hen,” Pendleton added. “But I still like her more than most people I’ve met to this day. And I’m old, you know. Seventy-two.”
Now that was laying it on a bit thick. Next, he would pretend to stoop and call for arthritic cream even though he was hardier than most men half his age. Meg shook her head. “I’ll still need a chaperone for the journey.”
“Leave it to me!” He promised. “I’ll have you sorted by breakfast.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Pendleton waited until Dougal was distracted before turning towards Meg and lowering his voice. “Come to my study in the morning, if you please. There’s more to discuss.”
That did not bode well at all.
More guests surrounded them, eager for a moment of attention from two dukes and so Pendleton was unable to elaborate.
It did not bode well, at all.