Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  She had an entire apothecary of ploys with which to treat her family’s need to cosset her.

  Anwen shook free of Charlotte’s grasp. “Do either of you understand compound interest?”

  Charlotte and Elizabeth were both several inches taller than Anwen. They exchanged a dismayed look over her head that she nonetheless felt, and had been enduring intermittently since the age of seven.

  “Were you out without your bonnet?” Elizabeth asked. “The sun was strong today, even though it’s not yet summer. Too much sun for yo—for a redhead is ill-advised.”

  “I’ll take that for a no,” Anwen said, stopping outside the family parlor. If they got her in there, she’d be questioned until dinnertime, plied with tisanes, swaddled in three shawls, her feet up on a hassock.

  “You don’t know how your settlements are invested,” Anwen said, continuing down the corridor, “and neither do I, but that’s about to change.”

  “Anwen Windham, where are you going?” Charlotte nearly bellowed.

  “I am going outside. It’s a beautiful day, and if you want to interrogate me about my afternoon, then you will have to come outside with me.”

  The look bounced between them again. They pursed their mouths at the same moment and to the same degree.

  “Those children at the orphanage are not healthy company,” Elizabeth said. “I know you think they can do no wrong, but their upbringing exposes them to all manner of foul miasmas, and without intending you any harm whatso—”

  Anwen ducked through a pair of French doors and let them swing closed behind her. The resulting bang felt lovely, until she spotted Aunt Esther already occupying the bench in the folly.

  “Come join me,” Aunt said. “It’s a marvelous day to escape for a moment into the garden.”

  Behind the door, Charlotte and Elizabeth were looking concerned and keeping their voices down. Anwen crossed the garden with more haste than grace.

  “How was your meeting?” Aunt asked as Anwen tossed herself onto the opposite wooden bench. The folly was latticed on two sides with roses not yet blooming, and Aunt made a pretty picture against the greenery. She was a duchess, but also a mother, political partner to Uncle Percy, a pillar of society, and a genuinely gracious person.

  Anwen ought not to bother her, but the idea of returning inside…She couldn’t. Not today.

  “My meeting mostly didn’t happen,” Anwen said. “We lacked a quorum, which I suspect is a polite way to say, the directors would rather frolic at their clubs like truant schoolboys than worry about orphans.”

  “Your uncle would understand your frustration. Those same lords and honorables are equally cavalier about their parliamentary duties. Drives poor Moreland to shouting and pacing and all manner of colorful language.”

  “Colorful language?” Uncle Percy was the doting, jovial complement to Aunt Esther’s grace and gentility. They were the perfect mature couple, the perfect duke and duchess.

  Though at present, Aunt’s slippers were tidily arranged beneath the bench, her feet up in a pose more reminiscent of a Grecian goddess at her leisure than a proper duchess.

  “Your uncle Percy was once an army officer, you know,” Aunt said. “A third son with limited prospects. A man of that ilk doesn’t raise ten children without infusing some variety into his vocabulary.”

  Charlotte and Elizabeth were apparently content to let Aunt Esther deal with Anwen—for now. There would be questions over the last cup of tea in the parlor this evening, or over breakfast.

  Or both. “Did you acquire a colorful vocabulary, Aunt?”

  Aunt Esther snapped off a green tendril intruding into the folly. “Me?”

  “You raised the same ten children, and you contended with Uncle.” Anwen’s papa was Uncle Percy’s younger brother, and Papa, while ever loyal, was occasionally exasperated with the duke, as were His Grace’s own offspring.

  Delicate blonde brows swooped down. “I see your point. I resorted to German. My grandmother’s English was never very good, so my German is excellent. It’s a capital language for strong emotion.”

  Anwen’s mother resorted to Welsh, and as a consequence, her children had a grasp of Welsh that exceeded their Latin and French.

  “Perhaps I need to learn German,” Anwen said. “I’m much afraid my orphanage will close its doors this summer, and all because I don’t know how my settlements are invested.”

  Maybe she did need some chamomile tea.

  “Your settlements are in the cent-per-cents,” Aunt said. “The same as your sisters’ are, the same as my widow’s portion. I can have Westhaven explain the details, but you will not walk up the church aisle without first gaining a clear grasp of your finances.”

  Why had Anwen’s own mother not explained this—why hadn’t her father?

  “The orphanage is running out of money, and nobody seems bothered by this but me. As Lord Colin and I toured the park today, he explained to me that if I can raise money for the orphanage, I can invest that money, and use the interest rather than principle to look after the boys.”

  “You would need a very great deal of money, my dear.”

  “So you see the magnitude of the problem? If all I can earn is five percent interest, then ten thousand pounds is necessary to yield the five hundred I need for the boys. That is a fortune, and it’s a very small orphanage.”

  Aunt was quiet for a long moment. “You always did enjoy maths.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, which is why your maths tutor was the same fellow who’d worked with your male cousins. He’d done such a fine job with those five—and neither Devlin nor Valentine were naturally studious—that we brought him back from the north for you girls. Your uncle is not mathematically inclined, so it’s fortunate Westhaven shares your proclivity.”

  The day had been unusual, with the meeting that didn’t happen, Lady Rosalyn’s absence, an unscheduled outing in the park, and now this conversation. By rights, Anwen should have been in her room, having a short nap—of two hours’ duration—before dinner.

  She had neither time nor inclination to nap when the fate of children was at stake. “I want to hold a charity ball, Aunt. These boys matter to me, and yet, everybody holds charity balls.”

  The duchess snapped off two more vines. Anwen braced herself for a lecture about God’s will, and the resilience of the lower orders, a woman’s place, or some such rot.

  “Your cousin Devlin could easily have been one of those boys,” the duchess said. “His antecedents aren’t a secret among the family, and what if his mother had fallen ill shortly after his birth? What if one of her protectors had taken the boy into dislike? What if Percival had gone back to Canada instead of falling in love with me? I have worried similarly for our dear Maggie.”

  “Precisely!” Anwen said, bolting to her feet. “Tom’s mother died in childbed, and there he was, eight years old, nobody to look after him. He’d done nothing wrong. Joe barely speaks, but he’s a good lad and quick, and quite sturdy for his age. John has man of business in his very blood, and Dickie really needs to be a valet, he’s so taken with fashion. They are good boys, and they’ll go back to picking pockets and housebreaking for want of money that so many could easily spare.”

  “My dear young lady,” Aunt said, patting the bench beside her, “radical notions put roses in your cheeks. It’s quite becoming, though your uncle will despair of your politics.”

  Anwen settled beside her aunt, soothed by the duchess’s fragrance. Aunt always smelled good—not sweet, fragrant, or feminine, exactly, though she was all those things—but virtuous, kind, good.

  “Will Uncle let me hold a ball for my orphans?” The idea of planning a ball…The duchess held only one formal ball a year, and every woman and half the men in the family were required to assist with the planning.

  Her Grace stroked a hand through Anwen’s hair. “It might surprise you to know that Westhaven keeps me on a strict budget for the season’s entertainments.”

  No ba
ll, then. Drat and blast.

  “I’ll use my pin money, but it won’t go far.” While the directors got drunk over endless hands of whist behind the stout walls of their—

  A little shiver skipped across Anwen’s nape as an idea tugged at the hem of her worries.

  “Aunt, what if we held a charity card party instead of a ball? A percentage of everybody’s winnings could go to charity. We’d be asking people to while away an evening as they often would, though chance would favor the orphans at every game, rather than smiling exclusively on the winners.”

  Aunt swung her feet down and sat back against the cushions. “I’ve never heard of a charity card party. Even high sticklers have no issue with a mention of coin when it relates to a friendly game of piquet.”

  And by all means, the sensibilities of the high sticklers should be foremost when children were threatened with a starvation.

  “Gentlemen control the wealth in this realm,” Anwen said. “An entertainment that caters to gentlemen has more chance of raising funds.”

  Aunt toed her slippers on, studying the satin bows adorning them. “I am expected to contribute to the tone of the social season, and for years, my farewell soiree has been a landmark on polite society’s calendar. Perhaps it’s time to change landmarks.”

  She rose, an impressively tall woman who carried herself with unfailing elegance, even in the confines of a folly.

  The duchess began a slow circuit along the benches. “If I point out to Westhaven that my nieces need a project to distract them from Megan’s departure for Scotland, he should allow me to divert the funds I’d typically spend on the farewell soiree to your card party.”

  The shiver had turned warm and hopeful. “This must be your card party, Aunt.”

  “The Windham card party, then,” Her Grace said, staring off across the garden. “We have charity balls all the time, subscription balls, musicales…A card party will be novel, and attendance will be limited. We won’t have the expense of an orchestra or the headache of errant debutantes and drunken bachelors.”

  The duchess resumed pacing. “We must be shrewd about the invitations, but not exclusive. Wagers should be capped at one hundred pounds, I think.”

  Anwen began doing math. “How many tables?”

  “If we set this up in the ballroom, we can easily have twenty-five tables, which means one hundred people seated at play and perhaps another eighty wandering the terraces, listening to Valentine’s music, or enjoying punch and a buffet.”

  As the duchess considered ideas, dates, and potential guests, Anwen added her thoughts and listened to a pillar of society throwing herself into a charitable cause.

  Would any of this have happened if Lord Colin hadn’t spent more than an hour explaining to Anwen how to put the House of Urchins on solid footing?

  No, it would not. Anwen would be in the family parlor, her feet up, swilling chamomile tea, and thanking her sisters for their concern.

  Much more of that concern and she’d go mad.

  “What about Lady Rosalyn?” the duchess asked. “Shall she help us manage this affair? Her brother is a director, isn’t he?”

  “Winthrop Montague is the vice-chair, so he’ll certainly be in attendance, but I think Lady Rosalyn would rather enjoy the play than involve herself in yet another committee. She’s as much in demand as a partner at whist as she is on the dance floor.”

  Very much in demand, and Anwen wished her the joy of both undertakings.

  “She’ll be invited, but not involved.” Aunt rang for a lap desk, and a pot of stout China black along with a plate of sandwiches. As the shadows lengthened across the blooming garden, and honeysuckle perfumed the air, the card party took shape.

  Anwen stuffed herself with three sandwiches—they were small, and no helpful sisters appeared to remind her to eat slowly—and pondered a question she did not put to her aunt.

  Lord Colin had been expecting to meet Lady Rosalyn at the House of Urchins, and he hadn’t quibbled at Anwen’s explanation of a megrim. Megrims happened, as did monthlies, bad fish, and all manner of ailments, but Lady Rosalyn had apparently made a rapid recovery.

  As Lord Colin had gone off on a flight about compound interest—making money on making money, as he put it—Anwen had spotted Lady Rosalyn up beside Lord Twillinger in a fetching red-wheeled gig. Anwen had ignored her friend, for her friend had seemed intent on ignoring Lord Colin.

  Had Lord Colin ever stripped off his gloves and caressed the back of Lady Rosalyn’s neck, and did it mean anything if he had?

  Chapter Three

  “So paying the excise man has helped our profits?” Colin asked.

  Thaddeus Maarten removed his glasses and offered Colin a rare smile. “Your product is seen as higher quality. Paying the excise is apparently comparable to giving it a lordly title. Only the finest whisky can afford to turn up its nose at all the mischief most distillers consider a part of their trade.”

  That mischief included arrests, searches, explosions, incarcerations, fines, and bribes. Colin had watched his various cousins and competitors play fox and geese with the excise men for years. One cousin had lost a hand when a still had been blown up, another had emigrated to Boston one day ahead of an arrest warrant.

  Colin’s involvement in whisky-making had started with an uncle’s urgent request to assist with repairs to a still the excise men had disabled.

  “Ironic, that paying taxes should give my whisky respectability,” Colin said, coming around the desk to take a seat by Maarten. “I started paying the government tithes out of youthful pigheadedness. I was determined that my business operations would go forward without the drama my relations seemed to thrive on. One wants a challenge, not a constant threat of annihilation.”

  Even as a soldier, the threat of annihilation had been only intermittent. Wellington had lost as many soldiers to disease as to enemy fire, and those who gave their lives in battle had done so for a reason more lofty than some yeoman’s dram of the day.

  “No argument there,” Maarten said, tucking his glasses away. “I was determined to gain my freedom.”

  Maarten had been born in Georgia, the offspring of a wealthy landowner and a house slave. How he’d arrived to Britain and acquired the education of a man of business was a mystery. Quakers had been involved, and violations of various laws, in addition to determination, luck, and a prodigious intellect.

  “You wanted your freedom, and I long to leave the most civilized city in the world as soon as may be,” Colin replied, getting to his feet. “Here in London, I spend my evenings with men who sit in one place, never stirring for hours except to piss, and then they might go no farther than the chamber pot in the corner to relieve themselves—aiming badly because that’s hilarious, I might add.

  “They jeer at each other like schoolboys,” he went on, “and call themselves witty, bother the tavern maids, and label themselves dashing, while soldiers who gave a limb or an eye for the safety of the realm sit cold and dirty in the street, begging for alms. I miss Scotland, where I was merely expected to work hard and keep my younger brothers out of trouble.”

  Oddly enough, Anwen Windham had made that plain to Colin on yesterday’s outing in the park. In a moment, she’d clearly seen his longing for home, while Colin had only been able to identify a restless discontent.

  “You spend some evenings waltzing,” Maarten observed. “And flirting.”

  “I’m expected to escort my sisters, and flirting is part of what a titled gentleman does.” The flirting was easy, except Colin preferred to flirt with women who were free to flirt back. Ennui was fashionable among the ladies aspiring to sophistication, and the debutantes…

  They were the recruits to the ranks of society, the foot soldiers living in fear of a stain on their new uniforms or a blunder on the battlefield. Thank God and Scottish governesses, Eddie and Ronnie were made of sterner stuff.

  So was Anwen Windham, for all her soft skin and clipped English diction.

  A tap sounde
d on the door.

  “Enter,” Colin called, for his meeting with Maarten was concluded, and the sensitive information safely stowed in Maarten’s satchel.

  “Mr. Winthrop Montague has come to call, my lord,” the butler said. “Shall I inform him that you’re not at home?”

  Colin wasn’t at home—Perthshire was home, not this dwelling that was at once stuffy and much too big for three siblings and some staff.

  “Send him up,” Colin said. “He’ll probably expect a tea tray, or lunch on the terrace, or some sort of free food and drink.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler—a venerable relic by the name of MacGinnes—bowed.

  “I should become seasick in his position,” Colin said, when MacGinnes had silently withdrawn and silently pulled the door closed. “All that bobbing and bowing.”

  “How did you stand the army?” Maarten asked. “All the saluting and shooting?”

  “Every job has its challenges.” Colin extended a hand. “My thanks for the report, and for all you do to make my enterprise successful. I’ll see you again, Tuesday next.”

  “I’m planning to return to Scotland by the first of May,” Maarten said. “One doesn’t like to leave the distillery unattended for too long.”

  Maarten was being delicate. Scottish law did not recognize slavery in any form, but English courts had dodged the matter, ruling only that former slaves could not be forcibly removed from England. Maarten could easily be snatched from some quiet London street and sold for a pretty penny in the West Indies.

  “Maybe by the first of May, Eddie and Ronnie will have reached the limit of their fascination with fashionable society,” Colin said. “I’d love to travel north with you.”

  “We won’t tap the ’89 until you’re back home where you belong.” Maarten buckled his satchel closed. “I already sent word that the duke is to be gifted with a barrel of the ’93.”