Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  “We’ll make our plans, and hope that Winthrop is bluffing. We’ll have to say something to Moreland, though.” Colin would send a pigeon to Hamish as well.

  “Uncle Percy has given you permission to court me. What is there to say?”

  “Montague will mispresent the situation to your uncle, claim I was toying with your affections, that you’d given him reason to hope, that a woman deserves a choice. He’s devious, and I don’t put much past him.”

  Anwen eased away. “I might have ended up married to him, and counted myself pleased to have his notice. I hate that.”

  Every soldier knew the weak-in-the-knees, cast-up-your-accounts feeling of having dodged a bullet by inches. “You have me, and you always will.”

  Colin would inscribe that on a ring for her, and give it to her as her morning gift.

  Anwen studied the slate hanging at the front of the room. Each Latin verb declension was written out in all six persons, present tense, and of course, the first declension example was amo, amare.

  I love. Colin loved Anwen, in large part because they could talk like this, honestly, bravely, and create an entire language of love, trust, and loyalty.

  “When I met with the boys, I realized something, Colin.”

  “What did you realize?”

  “The great fire yet burns. You said I was a bonfire, but when it comes to those children, I am the sun, Colin. I am a comet, or a meteor, some heavenly body composed entirely of fire. I am fierce as the devil.”

  “Fierce as an angel, I think you mean.”

  She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I love you, Colin MacHugh. Winthrop Montague is a spavined, cow-hocked, horse’s arse of an idiot.”

  “And you’re being polite.” Unfortunately, Montague was a powerful idiot, despite his relative penury and lack of honor. “Let’s find Hitchings and have him show the boys the loot, and then I’ll take you home. We can arrange to have an architect look the building over, and plan from there.”

  Anwen took Colin’s hand and kissed his knuckles.

  The sight of her head bent over his hand did queer things to his breathing. She was the pirate’s treasure, the loot, the prize, the everything. How dare Winthrop Montague presume Anwen should be grateful for his bumbling attentions?

  Colin collected the boys and was herding them down the steps with Anwen at his side, when Hitchings came trotting up the corridor.

  “Lord Colin! Miss Anwen! We must summon the authorities this instant. The money is gone. Every penny and pound, gone, and nowhere to be found.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Esther put Percival in mind of a contented lioness, sipping her chocolate and perusing the paper with a victorious gleam in her eyes. Had family been present, she might have taken her usual place at the foot of the breakfast table, but Charlotte and Elizabeth were abovestairs somewhere, and Anwen had already hared off to her orphanage.

  Percival thus broke his fast with Her Grace at his elbow, his favorite way to start the day.

  “A triumph,” the duchess said, putting the paper down. “They’ve run out of metaphors. My boating party four years ago was a triumph, and now the card party is a triumph as well. I’ve devised a means of celebrating both the congenial and the compassionate at the lowly altar of the card table, no less. Who writes this drivel?”

  Percival’s duchess was very pleased.

  “There won’t be an urchin or wounded veteran left on the streets of London,” Percival said. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

  Esther smiled at her chocolate. “This family of ours is a force to be reckoned with, Moreland, but much of the credit must go to Anwen.”

  “Gracious of you to say so. Would you care for another slice of ham?”

  “I’ll just have a bite of yours.”

  The woman pilfered bacon without shame, though not in front of the children. Percival sliced off several bites of perfectly cooked meat from his own serving and put them on her plate.

  “Are you up to another wedding so soon?” Percival asked. “Anwen and her Scottish swain won’t tolerate a lengthy engagement.”

  The duchess paused, a bite of ham on the end of her fork. “I thought you had reservations about Lord Colin? He certainly acquitted himself well last night.”

  “I had reservations, but they’ve been addressed, or I wouldn’t have allowed him the privileges of a suitor. Rosecroft unearthed all manner of debts supposedly run up by Lord Colin in a very short time. That was my toast, you little thief.”

  “You put just the right amount of butter on yours.” She held it up to his mouth for him to take a bite, and abruptly, Percival longed for the peace and privacy of Kent.

  “Esther, I miss you.”

  She gave him a sympathetic look, because they reached this point during every London season. “I miss you too. Maybe it’s time to have Westhaven attend some of your parliamentary committee meetings. He’s no longer newly wed or new to fatherhood.”

  “Maybe it’s time you had only one at home a week.”

  For the past several years, they’d been having this argument too.

  “Starting in June, I will. Two weddings, a grand ball, and a card party are enough for one season. If Lord Colin is in dun territory, why did you give him permission to court Anwen?”

  “Because he’s no more indebted than Westhaven or Rosecroft. The clubs are very discreet, but a prank was played, or a series of pranks, and a significant list of expenses was attributed to Lord Colin that he’d not run up. I gather the same dubious brand of juvenile humor resulted in bills all over Mayfair and even at Tatts.”

  And that was taking things a step too far, or several steps. Accounts at the club could be squared with reciprocal generosity, but glorified horse thievery was the outside of too bold. Greed in young men who’d been born with every privilege was an untenable fault.

  Coupling greed with stupidity was intolerable.

  Her Grace took another bite of ham and set down her utensils. “I am very glad our sons turned out as sensibly as they did, Moreland. Involving the trades in some puerile jest shows exceedingly bad taste. My future guest lists will reflect my opinion on the matter. I take it Lord Colin paid the bills?”

  “Within the week. Even Westhaven would have had difficulty pulling that off. Will you leave me any toast at all?”

  Esther smirked, looking about sixteen years old, and bit off a corner of his last piece of toast. “Ring for more. A social triumph always puts me in good appetite.”

  Percival was an advocate of the love match, within reason, but he did not envy his offspring. No matter their wealth or position—in some regards because of those blessings—they had hard years ahead. Years of parenting, marital discord, heartache, and challenge. Decades of setbacks, joys, sorrows, and readjustments.

  If they were very, very lucky, they might acquire the sort of wealth Percival treasured most of all—breakfast with his duchess, her smirking at him over purloined toast while the fire crackled cozily in the hearth, and a dreary day got under way outside.

  “Lord Colin’s distillery ventures are on quite sound footing,” Percival said. “And getting sounder, according to Westhaven. He’s heard the talk in the clubs too, and if I were one Winthrop Montague, I might leave early for the house parties.”

  Esther peered at him. “There’s scandal brewing? Does this have to do with Mrs. Bellingham?”

  Percival had a sip of her chocolate. “Madam, you shock me. And at the breakfast table. Such talk.”

  Esther rose and plucked an orange from the bowl on the sideboard. “Let’s away to our sitting room, sir. For if you think to withhold good gossip from your devoted wife, you are sadly in error.”

  She kissed his cheek and swanned off, as only a social triumph pleased with her duke could.

  * * *

  “I simply hadn’t room in the strongbox for the jewels and the cash both,” Hitchings said, for the fourth time. “I locked the jewels away and divided the money into the sum we need for each
month’s expenses. A good eight months’ worth too.”

  Anwen knew exactly how much coin the card party had earned, and now every bit of it was gone.

  “We still have the jewels,” she said. “We needn’t panic.”

  “We have a thief in our midst,” Winthrop Montague retorted from his place at the chairman’s desk. “But then, we knew that.”

  Colin had convinced Hitchings to notify Montague as chairman of the board rather than go directly to the authorities. Montague had taken half the afternoon to bestir himself, and he appeared much the worse for having overindulged the previous night.

  Anwen, Colin, and the children had spent the intervening hours searching every drawer and closet of the orphanage for the missing funds. The only place they hadn’t searched was the chairman’s office, where Hitchings had remained like a martyr keeping vigil over the strongbox.

  “Montague, don’t leap to conclusions,” Colin said. “Moreland himself pointed out that half the pickpockets and thieves in London had to have heard of last night’s card party. The usual gawkers were lining the drive and at the ballroom windows. Anybody could have followed the Moreland coach last night.”

  “I should never have left the money in the drawer,” Hitchings said. “The lateness of the hour affected my judgment, but what else was I to do?”

  “You are not to blame, Mr. Hitchings,” Anwen said. “The money should have been safe enough in the chairman’s office. The door does lock after all.”

  Mr. Montague pinched the bridge of his nose. “Who had a key?”

  “You do,” Hitchings said. “I do as well, and MacDeever has a set, though to be precisely, entirely honest, I’m not certain I locked the door. I don’t usually. The strongbox is locked at all times, but not the various doors.”

  “Let’s establish a sequence of events,” Colin said, pacing to the window. “The authorities will start there, and we should as well.”

  “The money is gone,” Montague shot back. “Let’s start there. Why shouldn’t I have you arrested, MacHugh?”

  Anwen was on her feet and leaning over the desk in the next instant. “I beg your pardon?”

  “MacHugh knew where the money was, knows every inch of this building, and has desperate need of coin,” Montague said.

  “May I remind you, Mr. Montague, that his lordship has significant independent means, has no more familiarity with the premises than you do, yourself, and unlike you, has no key to this room or to the strongbox.”

  “Miss Anwen.” Colin spoke very softly, a warning, though Anwen wasn’t sure of the specifics.

  “The lady has a point,” Hitchings said, mopping his brow. “If opportunity and motive are at issue, I had every opportunity, and my means are very modest, compared to his lordship’s.”

  “As are yours, Montague,” Colin said. “You have more financial motive than I do, and greater opportunity. Your social aspirations are beyond your means, and you are passionate about obtaining them. You have a key to the building, the office, and the strongbox, while I have none of those, nor am I frustrated by financial inability to obtain my goals.”

  Anwen suspected Colin referred to Mrs. Bellingham, and clearly, Montague hadn’t been expecting his reasoning to be challenged.

  “I want the boy John questioned,” Montague shot back. “The little sneak thief has been up to tricks again, and he’s probably recruited the other boys to assist him.”

  Colin leaned back against the windowsill and folded his arms. “All of the boys should be questioned in case they heard or saw something last night or this morning. Miss Anwen is best equipped to do that. They trust her.”

  “His lordship has a point,” Hitchings said. “The boys love Miss Anwen, and if they were to confide in anybody, it would be her.”

  “You think a batch of little criminals will confess to Miss Anwen?” Montague snorted. “We fed them, clothed them, housed them, educated them, kept them warm, and that will mean nothing to that lot. They’ll protect their own and to blazes with justice. If MacHugh didn’t take that money, then the boys did.”

  For the first time in Anwen’s life, she understood the compulsion to do violence, to destroy the source of an offense and render it incapable of offending again. She was about to tell Montague as much, when Colin spoke.

  “The children did not take the money. They have had months to steal from this place, and they well know how to turn stolen goods into coin.”

  Colin didn’t mention that the boys were too honorable to steal. He’d resorted to the same argument Anwen had made weeks ago. Montague might listen to him, whereas Anwen would have been dismissed out of hand.

  “Any money was carefully secured,” Montague retorted, “or was prior to last night. What could they possibly steal?”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Hitchings said. “They could steal the glass from the windows in the unoccupied wing. They could take door latches, bricks, marble from the fireplaces in the old library, brass fittings, almost anything associated with an intact structure can be sold to the builders. London is mad for new housing, and that takes finished materials.”

  Anwen hadn’t known that, and clearly, Montague hadn’t either.

  “I’m off to question MacDeever,” Colin said. “Miss Anwen, please interview the boys. Hitchings, you’ll want to inventory the jewels. Moreland has a list of what should be in the strongbox, and we can compare lists.”

  Hitchings hoisted the strongbox and bustled out, Colin on his heels. Anwen would have followed him, except Winthrop Montague stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been embroiled in this mess, Miss Anwen. A private discussion between us has become imperative.”

  Anwen didn’t want to be alone with him, much less endure another instant of his posturing and bloviating when the orphanage was imperiled. He’d just threatened Colin and the boys, and she hadn’t forgotten his nasty threats to Colin the previous night.

  “I can spare you one minute, Mr. Montague, but time is of the essence, and finding that money my priority. It should be yours too.”

  “Well, it’s not. Not exactly.”

  Then he closed the door.

  * * *

  The mother of all bilious stomachs plagued Win, along with a pounding head, a few gaps in his recollection of the previous night, and a mood fouler than the London sewers. Everything associated with the damned orphanage became a problem, and yet, he could only pity Anwen Windham.

  She genuinely cared about this place, and a corner of Win’s heart genuinely cared about her. Mostly he cared about her settlements, though, and her ducal connections. No need to dissemble on that point.

  If all went according to plan, Winthrop Montague would soon be invited to the Windham menfolk’s Tuesday night card parties, and to hell with the charitable version.

  “My dear, your loyalty to Lord Colin as a member of your extended family and to the children here does you credit,” Win said, tucking his hands behind his back. A thoughtful pose, if he did say so himself. “And I am aware that to be behind a closed door with you flirts with impropriety, despite our families’ long connection. What I have to say is for your ears only, and meant with your best interests in mind.”

  He paused, as a vicar might, to lock gazes with the object of his discourse. Miss Anwen was agitated, which brought out the color in her cheeks rather unappealingly.

  “Please be brief, Mr. Montague. The sooner I speak with the children, the more likely they are to recall something useful.”

  She was trying to make some obscure, righteous point. Logical discourse was beyond most females, though they had all the animal cunning in the world when intent on procuring a new bonnet.

  “The orphanage is doomed,” Win said. “The infusion of cash effected by your little card party is a temporary measure, and merely perpetrates the cruelty of a false dawn on those who’ve known enough hardship. The money will run out, the expenses will never end. Trust me on this, for my grasp of economics is thorough. Even if th
e money were abundant, scandal will be the ruin of this institution and of Lord Colin.”

  Win would see personally to that last part.

  “I will not be made to listen to this.” She started for the door on a righteous swish of skirts, but Win had longer legs and a superior male brain. He beat her to the door and held it closed by the simple expedient of leaning on it.

  “I wish you didn’t have to hear what I must say,” Win replied. “But consider the facts. Lord Colin becomes associated with the orphanage, and young John goes badly astray. A few weeks later, our estimable Mr. Hitchings is making noises about stepping down, and we’ve liquidated valuable assets such as any respectable organization knows are necessary to maintain its dignity.”

  “Because that rattletrap coach and nasty team were sold?” she said, hands going to her hips. “And Lord Colin hadn’t been officially appointed to the board when John faltered.”

  “You and I know that timing, and you and I know the sale of the coach was a desperate measure, but to those looking on from the outside, appearances outweigh facts. A house is only worth what its equipage is worth, and John stole from an upstanding citizen. None of that matters now, because Lord Colin is very likely to be arrested for stealing a significant amount of cash.”

  She crossed her arms and strode across the room as if somebody had opened a privy door upwind.

  Win had the fleeting thought that he should have started the day chewing a deal of parsley—Rosalyn was a great advocate of parsley—but the thought of fresh greenery aggravated his already troubled digestion.

  “You had more motive and opportunity to steal than anybody,” Miss Anwen retorted. “Why aren’t you worried about being arrested?”

  He guffawed, which was terribly ungentlemanly of him. “Because I didn’t take the money, of course, and because I am the son of a much respected, titled family, English to the bone, a marvel of good breeding, and esteemed by all. MacHugh is a Scottish upstart, to the distillery born, for God’s sake, and I doubt very much he can account for his whereabouts between his departure from the premises last night and his arrival here this morning. I can.”