“And Dahlia?”
“She was always poking around the house, helping to get my brother in trouble. He had his strawberries, she preferred hedgehogs and seashells.”
Seashells.
“She painted seashells.”
Lady Marigold nodded. “The angrier my father got, the more she painted them. She also liked to find clams on the beach and sneak them into his bed.”
Interesting. Beside her, Charlie also perked up.
Dougal appeared in the doorway before she could figure out what to do with this new information. “Do I smell blackberry tarts?”
Charlie rolled her eyes. “How do you always know?”
“Because if I’m to get any after you and Colin demolish them, I have to be quick.” He flared his nostrils comically. “I’ve had to hone my senses. Needs must.”
“Donkeys have a keen sense of smell too, I’ve been told.”
“Are you calling me a donkey?” Dougal asked, plopping down beside her. “Again?”
She laughed. “Who, me?”
He nicked a tart from her plate. She pinched him in retaliation. He ate two more tartlets. Lady Blackwell watched him for a moment, smiling and looking like someone’s flighty grandmother.
Meg was instantly suspicious.
“What a lovely pianoforte,” Lady Blackwell said, drawing attention to the instrument in the corner, the piano cushions dusted but faded. “Do you still play?” she asked Lady Beatrice.
Deeply, deeply suspicious.
“Every single day,” Lady Marigold replied for her, beaming. “She is truly talented.”
Lady Beatrice, who did not seem the type to blush, blushed to her hairline. They exchanged a fond, loving look. It was intimate and private and quick as a lightning beetle.
“Play for us, won’t you?” Lady Blackwell asked. “Perhaps some handsome gentleman will ask me to dance.”
As the only gentleman currently in the area, Dougal paused, another blackberry tartlet halfway to his mouth. “It would be my honor, Lady Blackwell, but I’m afraid I don’t know how to waltz.”
“What a pity,” she said. “Every gentleman should know how to dance.”
Meg narrowed her eyes.
“Meg will teach you.”
Dotty old grandmother indeed.
“Oh, how lovely,” Lady Marigold agreed. “Do play for us, my dear.” She squeezed Lady Beatrice’s hand. “How exciting! I’ve never seen a waltz. Is it as scandalous as they say?”
“Almack’s in London requires permission be granted to a lady from one of the patronesses,” Lady Blackwell whispered.
“Goodness!”
Meg met Dougal’s gaze and it was patient, amused. Knowing. She wondered if she should be embarrassed and then decided she would rather enjoy the moment as a joke between them.
Would rather be in his arms again, truth be told.
“Subtle as Zeus’s lightning bolt,” Meg muttered as Dougal offered his hand and led her to the parquet floor near the windows. “You don’t have to do this.”