Curious, Meg followed him to the counter. Dougal slid coins across the polished surface in exchange for two glasses. Meg sipped the potent ale as if she drank it every day. Dougal was impressed despite already being impressed with pretty much everything she did.
“The Rose and Anchor is such a lovely name,” Meg said. “Is there a story behind it?”
The bartender preened, just a little, under her attention. Dougal sympathized. There was something intoxicating about those dark eyes, that curious interest. “Me wife’s name is Rose,” the bartender explained. “When I bought the place ten years ago I knew she’d crown me if I didn’t name it after her.”
“Ah.” Meg’s enthusiasm dimmed though Dougal fancied only he would have noticed. “That’s very romantic.”
He looked very close to blushing.
“Get a lot of toffs in here lately?” Dougal asked.
He snorted. “Aye.”
“Treasure hunters?”
“Seems so.”
Dougal leaned closer, grinning. There were more coins in his hand. “I’d be obliged if you’d send word to the abbey if any of them seem particularly unruly.”
“Aye. The abbey, is it?”
“This is the duke,” Meg offered distractedly.
“’Gor, a duke drinking me own ale,” the man returned. “That’s a story to tell.”
“Tell them I enjoyed it very much,” Dougal suggested. “And then charge them double.”
“Aye, you come back to the Rose and Anchor any time,” he said. “Me wife makes the best fish pie in all of England.”
“I will,” Dougal promised.
“Lads,” they heard him bellow as they stepped back out onto the street. “If you see a treasure hunter, thump ’em!”
“I was sure I was onto something,” Meg grumbled. He hated to see her frustrated—even when it made her nose crinkle in that charming way. “Where else are we likely to find seven roses?”
“We could have a look around the greenhouse,” Dougal suggested. “It’s a right jungle in there.”
“Good idea.”
She glanced at the harbor, dozens of fishing boats bobbing on the waves. A ship sliced through the water, further out. She sighed. “Too many boats and too many seashells.”
“Damn the riddle,” Dougal said.
She smiled at him warmly, quoting his own words back at him. “And damn Henry the Eighth.”
The greenhouse wasfull of roses.
They reached to the glass ceiling, thorny arms scraping against the glass, against each other, against the other flowers foolish enough to try and fight for space. They came in all colors: red, seashell pink, yellow as Lady Marigold’s dresses, a dark so deep it was nearly purple and white as the sky in winter. The perfume wafted in the humid air, kept warm with charcoal braziers and stoves beneath the floor, the smoke piped through the walls.
Meg gaped at the profusion, a veritable forest of roses. “So much for that idea.”
Dougal brushed leaves off his shoulder. “I feel as though we’ve just walked into a perfume bottle.”
Meg sighed. “Perhaps there are seven varieties of roses?” Her shoulders sagged. “But what is the likelihood they would have not only survived but in the same spots as nearly fifty years ago?”
They meandered down the walkway, patterned with stones underfoot like a mosaic. The sun had set, and the windows were shuttered, and the lamps had been lit.
“There are too many options,” Meg added. “Too many boats in the harbor, too many seashells, too many roses.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to let Pendleton down. And you.”