“Pardon?” Margaret blinked.
“I’ll wager that I can laugh like that all evening. If not, I won’t make a joke at your expense for a full day. IfIwin, I want your pink satin dressing gown.”
“Why on earth would you want that? You have the same one in green.”
She shrugged. “I’d prefer it in pink.”
“Fine,” Margaret said, her eyes narrowed. “Though I’m only agreeing since you won’t be able to laugh like that all evening. You’ll slip up and forget.”
They gave a prim shake of the hands and turned back toward Bradford. He took their focus as indication that they weren’t through questioning him.
“Do you care for our sister?” Beatrice asked.
“I like her well enough. She and I are friends.” Bradford felt the truth of the words as he said them. His and Lily’s current relationship felt like that rare, fast thawing of old friends getting reacquainted. And yet friendship didn’t seem to encompass it, not fully.
“That’s all right, then, I suppose,” Margaret said, sounding distinctly disappointed. She wrinkled her nose. “Claire and Michael are friends, and we all know nothing romantic is coming ofthat.”
“What else?” Beatrice drummed her fingertips along her jawline.
Margaret leaned forward eagerly. “Are you by any chance a masked highwayman? Or a secret duke possessed by the need for revenge?”
“What on earth have you been reading lately?” Beatrice exclaimed. “The encyclopedias are bad enough without tawdry novels in the mix.”
“No, and no,” Bradford answered. “Though I do enjoy riding horses. But that’s where the similarities end.”
Margaret looked at Beatrice and shrugged.
“Are you serious?” Beatrice said. “Your only questions were in regard to fortune and whether he’s a gothic romance hero? You said you had important things you needed to ask.”
“In my defense, he could have been a penniless highwayman!”
“With that haircut? Do be serious.”
Bradford half lifted a hand to his hair before catching himself. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask for clarification, but once again the conversation had devolved into a row.
“Perhaps the haircut is a disguise. Highwaymen aresneaky. Or so I’d imagine.”
“How would you know?” Beatrice threw her gloved hands in the air. “Thankfully, you’ve never met one.”
“Not that I know of, but I suppose it’s possible.”
“No, it isn’t. Contrary to your novels, highwaymen are starving, desperate men who’d cut off your ear if you couldn’t get your earring unclasped in a timely manner.”
Margaret reflexively touched her earlobe, sending her pearls and diamonds swinging. “Well, some may be, but I don’t think it’s fair to lump all of them in together. I suppose there could be a few who are quite misunderstood.”
“Stop romanticizing criminals! They live in the woods. Their body odor alone would knock you down at twenty paces!”
Margaret sat up straight and looked imperiously at her sister. “And how would you know? You haven’t met any of them, either.”
“Because you don’tmeeta highwayman. They accost you, rob you, and if you’re very lucky, that’s the end of it.” Beatrice slapped the back of her gloved hand against the other to emphasize her statements.
“I don’t know why you think you’re an expert on the subject when I’ve read far more books about highwaymen than you have.”
“Fictionbooks. You’ve read far morefictionbooks than I have.” Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut and pressed a pair of fingers to her temple. “Please tell me you know the difference between reality and fiction.”
“I think there’s a rather large overlap, actually.” Margaret sniffed. “How else would authors get their ideas?”
“They make them up!” Beatrice nearly shrieked. She pointed a finger in Margaret’s direction. “I wouldn’t be so concerned if I thought you were just playing dumb and having a go atmy expense. But I suspect you truly believe what you’re saying. On our next journey through the countryside, if you aren’t well supervised, you’re likely to toddle off to try to find a highwayman, just to prove your point.”
