“The Duke of Moreland?”
“Your brother—the Duke of Murdoch.”
“Right.” And wrong too, somehow. Hamish was Hamish, and no more enamored of having a title than Colin was.
MacGinnes’s tap sounded on the door again.
“Come in!” For God’s sake.
“No need to announce me,” Winthrop Montague said, dodging around MacGinnes. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”
Montague peered at Maarten as if not quite sure Colin’s man of business was animate.
“Mr. Maarten and I were finished with our meeting,” Colin said, rather than subject Maarten to an introduction. “Maarten, my thanks, and please do start on your travel arrangements. The ’93 for His Grace is an inspired notion. Perhaps we’ll name the ’89 for the duchess.”
Maarten bowed and withdrew, never so much as making eye contact with Montague. MacGinnes drew the door closed, and Colin wrestled with a longing for a wee dram.
Not the ’89, which would be lovely beyond imagining.
Not even the ’93, a whisky worthy of a duke.
Any damned whisky would do, provided it took the edge off his restlessness.
“That’s your man of business?” Montague asked. “He’s different.”
“Try to entice him away from my employ and I’ll call you out,” Colin said. “Maarten is shrewd, honest, hard-working, good with the men, and not prone to consuming my inventory.”
Montague took the seat behind Colin’s desk, because where else would a lordling choose to sit? “You’re not joking, are you?”
“I found him working in one of my warehouses. He brought to my attention a discrepancy between items on hand and items supposedly delivered from another of my warehouses.”
Montague opened the drawer to his right—even Edana and Rhona wouldn’t have been so bold. “Have you any snuff? I’m in need of a dose. Going a bit short of sleep these days.”
“I don’t partake. Shall we be off?”
They were to ride in the park at the fashionable hour, there being safety in numbers, according to Montague.
“You don’t fancy a late luncheon before we go? The weather is fair, meaning this won’t be a short outing.”
Typically English of the weather to be so disobliging. “A footman can lay out a tray for us in the garden. If you fancy ale, I’ll have that served instead of tea.”
“Please, God, some decent ale,” Montague said, lounging back in the cushioned chair. “Just how many warehouses do you own?”
“Six, and I trade shares in six others.”
“Twelve—? You own shares in twelve different warehouses?”
“I have a theory,” Colin said, heading for the door. “Where the whisky ages has a lot to do with its flavor. A cask stored high in a warehouse near the sea will have that scent, that freshness and brine. One tucked away in a Highland glen will bring the mountains into the nose or the finish. Sometimes, the sherry or port previously stored in the barrel overpowers the palate, but before and after, that’s where the subtleties sneak in.”
“One can hardly understand you when you wax poetical about your barbarian libation,” Montague said. “You put me oddly in mind of the temperance ladies when they’re on about demon rum and blue ruin.”
He gave a mock shudder as they emerged onto the back terrace, though the English temperance society hadn’t been convened that could outdo its Scottish cousins for zeal.
“Are you sure we have to idle about in the park this afternoon?” Colin asked. “I have some correspondence to see to.”
Montague had taken pains to instruct him on this point. A gentleman did not announce to even his friends that he craved to work on estimates for pricing and distribution of his finest whisky yet. A gentleman tended to correspondence.
Just as a gentleman was home when he wasn’t home, and was not home to certain callers when he was perched on his rosy fundament within earshot of his own front door.
All very confusing, this gentlemanliness. Colin wondered if his sisters, in their private moments, found being ladies equally trying.
“Of course we must be out and about this afternoon,” Montague said, clapping Colin on the shoulder. “If you are to take your proper place in society, you must acquaint yourself with the leading lights of that same body. Most of them are to be found in two places.”
Colin could recite this lecture by heart, but instead gestured to the table in the shade of a balcony.
“A gentleman,” Montague went on, “enjoys the company of the fairer sex on social occasions, and the carriage parade is a highly social occasion. He enjoys the company of his fellows at the clubs and sporting venues. Have you let it be known you’d like to join Brooks’s yet?”
Colin took a seat, though he wasn’t hungry. “You’re not a member. Why should I become one?” At great expense and bother, when he was already a member at three other clubs. Then too, Colin could easily be blackballed, and his failure to gain membership would become the subject of talk.
Polite society seemed to exist primarily to talk about itself.
“You must join,” Montague said, appropriating the chair at Colin’s right and flipping out his tails with enviable panache, “so that I can take my proper place with you there. Your brother is a duke, therefore you should have no trouble gaining access. If you aspire to Whig politics, and I suspect you do, then Brooks’s is de rigueur, old chap.”
Colin did not aspire to Whig politics, though Montague did. Younger sons stood for the House of Commons, or became vicars, diplomats, or military officers. Montague wasn’t interested in serving in Canada or India, and Colin couldn’t see him managing in a parsonage.
“I adore a rare roast of beef,” Montague said, tucking into the offerings on the tray. “Let’s have some ale, shall we? No rule says a pair of bachelors can’t wash down an afternoon repast with ale.”
Colin caught the eye of the footman standing in the sun near the door. “Ale, if you please, and have Prince Charlie brought around.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Montague, if you’re not interested in socializing with a particular lady, why bother with the carriage parade? We ran that drill on Monday.” And the Friday before that, and the Tuesday before that.
Montague paused with a quarter of a sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Do you or do you not have a grasp of what marital relations entail?”
“Don’t be insulting.”
“Right, so. One marries, and the immediate benefit therefrom is obvious even to Scottish courtesy lords with more warehouses than I have fingers. If one marries shrewdly, then one acquires a papa-in-law who might finance a political campaign, tuck a little estate or two into the settlements, or include a doting son-in-law in his more lucrative investments. If one sires an heir to the family title, then the emoluments proliferate along with spares. It’s all quite lovely.”
To Colin, it all sounded damned boring. He’d go along on this scouting mission in Hyde Park because Anwen Windham might be among the ladies taking the air, and he had some potentially useful ideas regarding her orphanage.
“I have a business to run,” Colin said as the rest of Montague’s sandwich met its fate, “in addition to two estates, and no political aspirations. I have no need of a doting papa-in-law.”
Eating, drinking for free, and scheming to eat and drink for free seemed to be the measure of an aristocratic young man’s ambitions—with the occasional stupid wager, idiot horse race, or mindless tup thrown in for variety.
Oh, and waltzing. Mustn’t forget the waltzing.
“MacHugh, I’m sure in Scotland you’re justly proud of your accomplishments and wealth, but here, you must temper your pride with some—ah, just in time, my good man, just in time.”
The footman set a tray with two foaming tankards before Montague.
Montague lifted one, blew the head off, and managed to spatter the footman’s slippers with flecks of ale.
“You’re excused,”
Colin said. If any force of nature equaled an English lordling’s quest for meaningless diversion, it was the English servant’s quest for decorum.
“You’re not drinking?” Montague asked, patting his ale mustache with his serviette.
“Not if we’re to leave for the park straightaway. You’re welcome to mine, of course.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Montague said. “Now, see here, MacHugh. You’re looking a bit down in the mouth, and that won’t serve. I know all this socializing and smiling is tedious, but this is how you gain entrée where it matters. You can count on me to ease your way up to a point, but then the work falls to you, my friend. You’ve made great progress, and I daresay having your ducal brother away from Town can only benefit you. He was a bit of an original.”
And that was a bad thing? That a man didn’t toady to society, or jeopardize his honor for any reason? That he married for love, not for…emoluments in exchange for stud services?
“Win, I’m bored.” The admission felt both pathetic and brave.
Montague patted his arm. “We all are. Boredom is marvelously fashionable. Justifies all manner of extravagance. We’ll have a bit of sport at Mrs. Bellingham’s tonight. That will put you back on your mettle. I fancy that new blonde gal, though she comes dear, as it were.”
“My sisters require my escort tonight,” Colin said, rising. “I’ll tell the grooms to bring your horse around, and I’ll meet you out front.”
“MacHugh, a moment.”
Montague looked very much a lord about his leisure, the pewter tankards at his elbow, the afternoon sun glinting off his stylishly curled hair.
He also looked a bit desperate.
“Yes?”
“If you’re truly in want of a diversion, perhaps it’s time you took on a charity or two. Twelve warehouses is rather a lot.”
“I own only six, but what does that have to do with anything?”
Montague took a gulp from the second tankard. “Noblesse oblige, to whom much has been given, that sort of thing. You should sit on a charitable board of directors, dole out some coin, do your bit for the deserving poor. The ladies admire a man with some charity in his heart—suggests he has coin in the bank, if you get my drift.”
Anwen Windham was much interested in one charity in particular. “You think I should take up the cause of a few charities?”
“Please, MacHugh, let’s not be extravagant. Start with one—the House of Wayward Urchins will suit you wonderfully—pay it some mind, and you’ll acquire a nice philanthropic patina on your new title. If you overdo, or are too generous, people will say you’re trying to buy your entrée into polite society.”
Colin had merely to glance in the direction of the house, and a footman—a different footman—came bustling forth to take the trays.
“I’m to buy my way into at least four clubs, buy every round of drinks or joint of beef ordered by your friends, buy—”
“Our friends.”
“—buy vouchers for Almack’s, buy independent quarters that are fashionable but not too ostentatious, keep every tailor or bootmaker on Bond Street in business, do my bit at Tatts even though I already have six horses here in London alone, have a coach made as well as my perfectly functional phaeton, and tithe to the bordellos and gaming hells as well, but I mustn’t be seen to spend too much on charity?”
Montague saluted with his ale. “MacHugh, you restore my faith in public school education. My efforts have not been in vain, and your grasp of the challenge you face is commendable—for a Scot.”
He was serious, or as serious as a man could be when half-foxed well before sundown.
“Meet me out front,” Colin said. Montague’s advice was well intended, and the idea of taking an interest in Anwen’s orphanage had appeal.
The boys mattered to her. They weren’t a stupid wager or an afternoon spent debating the merits of red wheels on a conveyance as opposed to yellow.
By the time Colin reached the garden gate, Winthrop Montague had wandered beneath a shady oak, the tankard of ale held with his right hand. With the left, he undid his falls and waved his cock over the heartsease, an arc of lordly piss spattering the hapless flowers.
* * *
“I am so sorry I missed our meeting yesterday,” Lady Rosalyn said as her barouche rolled into the park. “Devilish bad megrim, probably from drinking too much ratafia at Lady Beresford’s card party.”
“Save your breath, Ros,” Anwen replied, unfurling her parasol. “I saw you out with Lord Twillinger. Our meeting hadn’t a quorum because neither you nor Win attended, and nothing was decided.”
Lady Rosalyn Montague could only look lovely—adorably lovely, sweetly lovely, mischievously lovely. Her version of contritely lovely was fairly convincing too.
“I am sorry, Anwen. I thought to have a lie down, then Twilly came calling, and Win suggested fresh air might clear my head. He was right, as usual. Yesterday was too beautiful to spend entirely cooped up, much less at a dreary meeting.”
Meaning Winthrop Montague could easily have attended that meeting without his sister.
Not that one could say that. “I’ve come up with an idea—or rather, Her Grace of Moreland has—for the House of Urchins.”
“Do tell. There’s that dreadful Flora Stanbridge. I must have a word with Pierpont’s wife about the company her husband is keeping.”
Rosalyn could do it too. She dispensed blunt advice with a sympathetic, winning smile, and such a gracious touch of humor that taking offense at her words was impossible.
“Pierpont’s wife might be grateful to Miss Stanbridge. About my idea?”
“Your aunt’s idea?”
Well, yes. Anwen had made a mere suggestion. The final creation would be entirely Aunt Esther’s.
“Her Grace is planning a charity card party in lieu of her final soiree this season, with a portion of everybody’s winnings going to the House of Urchins.”
The full blue-eyed glory of Rosalyn’s stare fixed on Anwen. “A charity card party? That is…Anwen, that is brilliant. That is…everybody will wish they’d thought of it. If we must entertain ourselves with silly wagers, why not benefit the children while we do? The bachelors will be in alt—excellent punch, no standing up with the wallflowers, no guilty conscience for hiding in the card room for the entire evening. Oh, I would hate you for being so clever, except your dear aunt thought of this idea, and one can’t hate a duchess.”
Rosalyn paused to nod graciously at the Duke of Quimbey.
“I’m so glad old Quimbey took a wife,” Rosalyn went on when the duke’s cabriolet had rolled past. “My aunts had plans for me where His Grace was concerned, plans a young lady shuddered to contemplate.”
“With Quimbey?” He was a dear old fellow, but a dear old fellow.
“A duke is a duke. Your sister Megan found the backbone to accept when the Duke of Murdoch offered, did she not?”
One could never be entirely certain when Rosalyn was teasing. “They are a love match. I’ll thank you not to imply otherwise.”
“My goodness, you can be prickly.” Rosalyn beamed at Miss Stanbridge and Lord Pierpont as the carriages passed. “Let’s not quarrel, for there’s Winthrop and Lord Colin. We must tell them about our card party.”
Lord Colin had called Anwen fierce, rather than prickly. He and Win sat their horses a dozen yards along the path, chatting up an entire vis-à-vis of parasols and bonnets.
“No, Ros, we must not disclose the duchess’s plan.” And it wasn’t our card party. “Her Grace was very clear that until the guest list has been decided, we must be circumspect about the details.”
“But just a teeny, tiny—”
“No.”
Surprise registered, followed by Lady Rosalyn’s endearing smile. “Oh, very well. One doesn’t contradict a duchess.”
Not a single duchess was to be found in the carriage. “I mention the party to you only because you are a supporter of the orphanage and you love a spirited hand of cards.”
>
“That I do. Whist and hazard, hazard and whist, piquet for variety. At the card table, we are the equal of the gentlemen in every regard save recklessness, most of the time.”
The carriage inched forward, bringing them closer to Winthrop and Lord Colin.
“Rosalyn, have you been wagering again?” Anwen had made more than one “little loan” to her friend. Friends did that—preserved one another from embarrassment.
“My maid is selling my castoffs,” Rosalyn said. “I’ve three beautiful reticules that will fetch fine prices. I’ll come right in time for the party, never fear. What can you tell me about Lord Colin?”
Lord Colin had a lovely command of economics, and a sweet touch upon a lady’s nape, while Lady Rosalyn was nigh addicted to large, fancifully embroidered reticules.
“Lord Colin is charming and he dances well. He’d die for those he cares about.” He also took an escort’s responsibilities seriously, and made sure any who approached Lady Edana or Lady Rhona knew it.
Lord Colin had stood up with the Duke of Murdoch at the wedding, and if Hamish MacHugh had been dignified, his younger brother had been positively regal with family pride.
“The dying for one’s friends part doesn’t sound very nice,” Lady Roslyn murmured, “and I already knew about the charm and the dancing.”
The day grew slightly less sunny, slightly less interesting. “Do you fancy Lord Colin, Ros?”
“I might,” she said as the carriage moved two entire yards forward. “Depends on the settlements. He’s the ducal heir now, but I can’t expect that to last. Win says Lord Colin is well fixed.”
Lady Rosalyn expected Anwen to reveal facts relevant to Lord Colin’s financial situation, because the evidence—his fine team, his lovely conveyance, his family’s title, his exquisite tailoring—might suggest enormous debt rather than solvency.
“I’m not in a position to say, Rosalyn. Lord Colin owns a distillery business, and his family has land in Perthshire and the Borders as well as other commercial interests.”
Rosalyn wrinkled her nose, and even that looked lovely. “You’ll warn me if I’m wasting my time, I trust. No harm in being friendly, but the gentlemen so easily get ideas if one is too friendly.”
Too Scot to Handle Page 5
