With that she beamed at her brother. Win and Lord Colin touched their hats to the ladies, and came trotting right to Lady Rosalyn’s side.
Chapter Four
“Lord Colin! What a lovely surprise!” Lady Rosalyn offered a gloved hand, which Colin was supposed to bow over, despite being on horseback. Fortunately, Prince Charlie was a Town horse, sedate in the face of noise, traffic, or close quarters.
Colin grasped her ladyship’s hand. Miss Anwen apparently didn’t expect him to ride around to the other side of the carriage and extend a similar courtesy to her.
“I trust your ladyship has recovered from yesterday’s megrim?” Colin asked.
“Yesterday’s—? Oh, quite! I am so sorry to have missed our outing. My heart nearly broke with disappointment, just ask Win.”
“Poor creature was desolated,” Win said, “distraught, nigh hysterical. I have seldom seen her so upset short of being unable to find her new bonnet or reticule when we’re late to the opera.”
Lady Rosalyn laughed sweetly, and several other gallants along the line of carriages cast Colin envious glances. Would they envy Colin as much if they’d known her ladyship had stood him up to go tooling about with Lord Twillinger?
“Miss Anwen, I trust you are well?” Colin asked.
“I am in the pink of health, thank you. That is a very handsome gelding. May I ask how you came by him?”
“Won his dam in a card game,” Colin said, “and didn’t know she was in foal. Best surprise of a young officer’s life. I left the dam at the estate of a Portuguese officer, and the second best surprise was when I came to fetch her two years later, this little fellow was gamboling happily in the next paddock, as handsome a creature as ever cantered a fence line.”
And the Portuguese officer, having a bone-deep love of the equine, had given Prince Charlie an ideal start in life.
“He has some progeny,” Colin went on. “I didn’t geld him until—”
“I’ve asked Lord Colin to consider involving himself in the House of Urchins,” Win announced. “A gentleman of means does what he can for the less fortunate, after all.”
In mixed company, a gentleman apparently didn’t raise the topic of gelding his horse, even though Lady Anwen, at least, could discern the horse’s present reproductive limitations easily.
A lack of balls on a man was harder to spot.
“Lord Colin is taking an interest in the House of Urchins?” Lady Rosalyn cooed. “My prayers have been answered, your lordship. I was so vexed to be unable to attend yesterday’s meeting, precisely because an orphanage without benefactors soon becomes a precarious proposition. Anwen, I’m sure you agree that his lordship’s generosity could not have a better recipient.”
“I don’t think Lord Colin has made up his mind yet, my lady.”
Lady Rosalyn sent Colin an arch look and twirled her parasol. “I have faith in Lord Colin’s ability to discern a deserving charity. I also have faith in my brother’s ability to convince his lordship that the House of Urchins is such an institution.”
Anwen stilled her friend’s parasol. “You’re unsettling your brother’s horse, my lady.”
“Gracious, Win. Get the beast under control before he provokes my team,” Lady Rosalyn said.
Without the parasol whirling in its face, the horse calmed, though it might have done so sooner had Win not been two sheets to the wind.
“Shall we move up?” Miss Anwen suggested.
The coach rolled on at a funereal pace, and Colin maneuvered Prince Charlie to Miss Anwen’s side of the vehicle. His place near Lady Rosalyn was immediately taken by Sycamore Dorning, a gangly youngster who ought to be at university learning how to hold his drink.
“Are you truly in the pink of health?” Colin asked quietly. “I know you’re concerned for your orphans.”
“I have some plans in train where the House of Urchins is concerned. Don’t involve yourself solely because Win Montague suggested it.”
“I thought you might welcome my involvement.” Had expected she would, after yesterday’s discussion. His involvement, not merely his money.
“I like Mr. Montague,” Anwen said, patting Charlie’s glossy neck. “He’s good company, a fine dancer, a cheerful partner for whist.”
“His interest in my situation has been invaluable,” Colin replied. “One cannot insinuate oneself into polite society, one must be sponsored, like an orphanage. Without the right patronage, doors are mysteriously closed, invitations don’t materialize.”
Anwen twiddled the dark hair of Charlie’s mane, a sure way to get her gloves dirty. “My aunt and uncle would be only too happy to—”
Charlie turned a large, poetic brown eye on the lady. Gelded he might be, but a fool he was not.
“Some doors can only be opened by another young fellow, my dear.”
“Oh.” She left off petting the horse. “My cousins, Lords Westhaven, Valentine, and Rosecroft, would surely be willing to—”
“I talk horses with Rosecroft, business with Westhaven, and music with Valentine, but Miss Anwen, they are married.” Moreover, they had become extended family, by virtue of Hamish’s marriage to Megan, and Colin didn’t want family at his elbow when he called on Mrs. Bellingham’s establishment.
Not that he had.
“About the House of Urchins,” Colin said. “If you’d rather I find another charity to polish my gentlemanly credentials with, I’ll ask Win where else I might—”
“Don’t ask Win. He’s the vice-chairman of our board of directors. His motives for involving you are not entirely disinterested.”
Winthrop Montague knew everybody, and more to the point, got along with everybody. Colin had relied on Montague to provide advice on everything from which clubs to join to how often to stop by Tatts, to which tailors were in fashion. So far that advice had been mostly sound.
Colin leaned nearer the coach. “I owe Win Montague, Anwen. If he invites me to take up a charitable cause, I’m inclined to do it.”
She wasn’t wearing a bonnet per se, more of a decoration in her hair. Silk flowers, pearls, feathers…Her nape was exposed, and Colin itched to take off his gloves and touch that soft skin.
With his tongue, God help him.
“Don’t take up a charitable cause simply to polish your gentlemanly halo,” Anwen shot back. “They are children, Lord Colin. I know you have a passing acquaintance with the species because at some point, you must have been one.”
Laughter came from the group on the other side of the coach, and Win gave Colin a slight wag of the head. Get back over here and join the party.
“You’re angry,” Colin said, fascinated with his own conclusion.
“I am frustrated, though now is not the time to air this topic.”
Had she also seen Win’s signal? “Do you ever hack out in the morning?”
“Lord Colin, you must give us your opinion!” Lady Rosalyn called. “We are debating the benefits of shade cast by the maple versus the oak, and Mr. Pettyfinger claims to favor the oak.”
“The maple lacks acorns,” Colin replied, tipping his hat to Pettyfinger, “and thus does not attract squirrels as readily as the oak. For quiet, the maple will do. If one wants the diversion of squirrels overhead, the oak will oblige.”
Montague clapped, joined by several other fellows who’d flocked to Lady Rosalyn’s side of the coach.
“I can ride out tomorrow,” Anwen murmured. “At dawn, I’ll meet you at the foot of the Serpentine, weather permitting.”
Colin extended a hand toward the lady, which earned him a smirk from Pettyfinger. A gentleman did not presume to take a lady’s hand, but Miss Anwen offered him her gloved fingers, nonetheless.
“Until tomorrow,” Colin said, softly enough that only Anwen would hear.
He resumed his place at Montague’s side and let the laughter and inanities swirl about him. When Lady Rosalyn directed her coachman homeward, claiming a need to prepare for the evening’s entertainments, the other gentlemen
melted away to flirt elsewhere.
“Shall we be off to Mrs. Bellingham’s?” Montague asked. “Her doors open at mid-afternoon, so a fellow can fortify himself for an evening of waltzing and looking harmless.”
Colin could see the nape of Anwen’s neck as Lady Rosalyn’s carriage wheeled toward a bend in the path. Maybe that’s why young ladies wore bonnets, to prevent presuming young men from—
“If you’re gazing adoringly after my sister like that in public,” Montague said, “then I think a visit to Mrs. Bellingham’s becomes mandatory. Speaking of which, you are joining the House of Urchins board of directors, aren’t you?”
“I’m considering it. I’ll not be accompanying you to Mrs. Bellingham’s.”
“What if we went later in the evening? Not good for the manly humors to get out of balance.”
Colin turned Prince Charlie back toward Park Lane. “A touch of the French disease is far worse for the manly humors than a bit of abstinence.”
Win tipped his hat to another wagonload of muslin, not a one of the ladies looking above seventeen years old, save the chaperone.
“Do you know how the Scots got a reputation for a dour disposition, MacHugh?”
By putting up with the English for neighbors. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Of course, because I am your friend and your welfare concerns me utterly. The Scots are notorious among all races for a lack of cheer because they have become afflicted with too much religion and not enough sport.”
The conversation, however manly, struck Colin as ungentlemanly. “What would my responsibilities be, if I became a director on the House of Urchins board?”
Montague took out a flask, uncapped it, and tipped it to his mouth. “One attends the meetings, unless a handy excuse materializes. Old Derwent, as chairman, does the parliamentary bits, and Hitchings sees that the minutes are kept. You really ought to give it a go, MacHugh. If you take a seat on the board, then I can step back, having done my part to find a successor. Then too, should you ever stand for a seat in the Commons, charitable work along the way won’t hurt, dull though it is.”
Colin couldn’t see how any of the foregoing qualified as work. “So you’re asking me to replace you on the board?” The idea appealed, because it went beyond tagging along at Montague’s exquisitely tailored elbow.
“One isn’t expected to chain oneself to these projects in perpetuity. I’d hand you the reins eventually. I’ll be off to the house parties in July, the shooting in August. The little season requires a gentleman’s attention, hunt season comes along, the holidays, and then it’s back to Town.”
Montague’s attention was drawn to a gig driven by none other than Mrs. Bellingham. A house cat didn’t watch a caged nightingale any more closely than Winthrop Montague attended the stately brunette.
“You asked earlier why we had to make this outing,” Montague said. “There’s my reason, right there.”
Not a hint of banter infused his tone, and his gaze was solemn rather than adoring. The lady passed with the barest tip of her chin in Montague’s direction. His flask was back in his hand before the sound of her carriage wheels had faded.
“A very pretty reason,” Colin said.
“I haven’t the blunt to make that reason mine,” Montague said. “Such are the tribulations of a younger son, but I can worship from afar. Word in the clubs is she doesn’t tolerate advances from anything less than a duke.”
His gaze followed the retreating vehicle, and Mr. Jonathan Tresham—a duke’s heir—turned his horse to accompany her.
“I’m for home,” Colin said. “I’ve some correspondence to tend to before my sisters demand my company for the evening. Will I see you at the Pendleton musicale?”
Nobody approached Mrs. Bellingham’s vehicle as long as Tresham rode beside her. He was known to be infernally wealthy and of a surly disposition. A mastiff trotted at his horse’s heels, every bit of sixteen stone and much of that teeth.
“Win?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Pendleton’s, this evening. Violins, punch, sandwiches, a soprano or two?”
“Of course. Rosalyn will expect it of me. Until then.” He turned his horse to follow in the wake of Mrs. Bellingham and her escort.
Rather than watch Winthrop Montague worship from a distance of about ten yards, Colin steered Prince Charlie in the opposite direction.
Montague was in love with an ineligible parti, and all he could think to do in the face of that problem was drink, pine, and pretend not to care.
Maybe the lot of a society gentleman wasn’t so easy after all.
* * *
Anwen hadn’t dragged herself out of bed to ride in the park at dawn for at least two years. The last time she’d attempted to start her day with a hearty gallop, two sisters, three grooms, dear cousin Valentine, and the duchess herself had all mysteriously taken a notion to greet the morning in the same fashion.
What was the point of seeking the splendor of a solitary sunrise when half the family came along to prevent the ride from progressing any faster than a trot?
This morning Anwen had prevailed upon Lord Rosecroft for his escort. Cousin Devlin was so thoroughly enamored of horses that if Anwen asked him to go riding with her, he took that to mean athletic activity on the back of a horse, not an exchange of gossip at an idle walk.
The two grooms were several yards back from Anwen’s mare, while Cousin Devlin had a gallop beside the Serpentine and Anwen dawdled along, wondering if Lord Colin would oversleep.
“Halloo, Miss Anwen!”
“Lord Colin, where is your hat?”
He’d cantered in from the direction of St. James, his hair windblown, his cheeks ruddy. The picture he presented was altogether attractive, but the leap in Anwen’s heart was simply because he’d kept their appointment.
“My hat is sitting safely on the sideboard at home. I can’t tell you how many have gone sailing into the undergrowth when Prince Charlie gets to stretching his legs. Some urchin is always the richer for my folly because I can never find the deuced things when I come back to hunt for them. You look fetching in that shade of blue, Miss Anwen, especially when you start a fellow’s day with such a gorgeous smile.”
He was smiling too, his dimple shamelessly in evidence.
The words ‘Oh, this old thing?’ were on the tip of Anwen’s tongue, exactly what Lady Rosalyn would have said.
“Thank you, but flattery at this hour isn’t necessary, my lord. Shall we ride on?”
“Flattery ought never to be necessary, but sincere compliments are always appropriate. Tell me something you admire about me.”
Was this flirtation? Before the sun had even gained the horizon? “I’d rather discuss the House of Urchins with you.”
“Now,” he said, petting his horse’s neck, “there you go being tenacious and devoted to your cause, which I admire about you. I’m determined to practice my social discourse this morning, so you will please oblige me with a compliment.”
Anwen was tempted to argue that the orphanage was more important, but she sensed Lord Colin would only turn that to more banter—while he gently stroked his horse’s crest.
Where to start? He was a kind and genial escort to his sisters.
He thought for himself when it came to training horses rather than accepting sermons handed down since Xenophon had been a boy.
He was loyal to his friends.
He didn’t idle about waiting for a quarterly allowance when he could instead apply himself to gainful occupation.
He was patient, deft, and gentle when untangling bonnet ribbons and hairpins.
“You apply commonsense to the business of whether to wear a hat for a morning gallop.”
“Do you hear that, Charlie?” The gelding’s ears swiveled at the use of his name. “I’m a sensible fellow, at least where my hat is concerned. That is a unique compliment, Miss Anwen, and I shall treasure it. Is that Rosecroft showing off at such an early hour?”
Cousin Devlin’s horses were taught classical airs, and this morning he was schooling his gelding in passage.
“Rosecroft makes a dashing picture, wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”
“He’s dashing, but I’m sensible. I prefer the compliment you gave me to the one you gave him. How bad is the shortage of funds at your orphanage?”
Anwen told him, told him at length how ineffectual the directors were at addressing the problem—how unmotivated.
“I suspect the problem isn’t a lack of motivation so much as a lack of imagination,” Lord Colin said when they’d been riding for thirty minutes. “These are not people who’ve ever had to earn coin, much less manage it to the penny. They are out of their depth.”
“But they are from the best families, all of them claiming significant wealth. Imagination won’t feed my boys.”
“At the risk of contradicting a lady, I humbly suggest you’re wrong. The building that houses your orphanage is enormous, and yet, you don’t have it filled nearly to capacity.”
“We can’t afford to fill it to capacity,” Anwen shot back. “Every extra boy means more food, more candles, more laundry, more—”
“So rent out the nicest rooms to young gentlemen, and provide them breakfast trays, laundry service, and a stall in the mews for a horse. The boys can learn to be valets, footmen, and grooms. Moreover, the children will hear proper diction from young toffs every day, as well as earn coin from the occasional vale.
“The gentlemen get safe, affordable accommodations with all the amenities,” he went on, “and the cachet of aiding a worthy cause without spending any extra to do it—while spending less, in fact, than they’d pay at the Albany or many of their clubs.”
The sun chose that moment to break through the trees, which surely qualified as an omen from on high. Anwen turned the scheme over in her mind—the empty accommodations at the House of Urchins could generate coin, staff on hand could provide services for hire, and the paying boarders could teach the boys skills.
She could find no fault with it. None at all. “How did you come up with this idea, Lord Colin? Have you read about it in some book or seen it done in Scotland?”
Too Scot to Handle Page 6
