Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  * * *

  The British army worked surprisingly well, given that its officers were mostly drawn from the ranks of those with means. Means, however, generally resulted in an education that included some military history, and in social rank sufficient that ordering subordinates about was a part of everyday life. Means also—Colin accorded this quality the greatest weight—should have resulted in a sense of responsibility, such as an officer bore toward his men, his superiors, and the noncombatants affected by the hostilities.

  Somebody had to take Anwen’s boys in hand or the orphanage was sure to fail. The wealthy would open their purses to support a worthy charity, but a charity that produced no results, or worse, became tainted with scandal, would collapse overnight.

  A boy transported for theft was scandal enough to bring the whole institution down. More to the point, Anwen would never recover from the child’s disgrace and would hold herself accountable.

  “You take the muck wagon,” Colin said, gesturing to the mute boy, because he was the largest. “You two take up the pitchforks,” he said to the next largest two. “And you,” he said to the smallest. “Your first job is to dump, scrub, and refill all the water buckets, then pitch each horse another two forkfuls of hay, and the pony one forkful. When that’s done, you join the mucking out. Questions?”

  Mucking a stall efficiently was an art—start in the back corners, never dig too deeply into the straw on any one pass—but that wasn’t the point of the exercise. The point was to exhaust the boys, give them a chance to work together, and get them outside doing something useful.

  “Will we get lunch?” John asked. He was the clever one of the bunch—if the initiative to snatch a man’s purse was clever—but also impetuous, would be Colin’s guess.

  “We didn’t get breakfast,” Tom added. “Hitchings sent us to detention instead.” Wee Tom was nimble as a goat, and Colin pegged him for the regimental aide-de-camp, the fellow who was always thinking things through, anticipating problems, and weighing options. He’d be brave, but he’d tend to worry.

  “You will have lunch,” Colin told the boys, “but you’ll have to eat it in the garden. Cleaning a stable is miserably dirty work, and Cook would have an apoplexy if you tramped through her kitchen in all your dirt.”

  Then too, Hitchings might spot the boys and devise some way to ruin their day out of doors. The dark-haired lad, Dickie, would be outraged at an order countermanded before a task was complete. Colin had shared the same affliction for his first two years in the army.

  Mention of eating in the garden had Tom studying his boots, though the boy was grinning.

  “Sandwiches and ale will have to do,” Colin said, improvising. “No hot soup for you today. Can’t be helped. I’ll be back this afternoon, and this stable had better be spotless.”

  Colin stifled the urge to salute the lads lined up with their pitchforks. By sundown, they’d have blisters on their blisters. Their backs would ache as if burned, and one or two might have a smashed toe, courtesy of the orphanage’s aging team and cantankerous pony.

  But they’d sleep soundly tonight, and they’d sleep in their own damned beds until the sun came up.

  More to the point, Anwen would sleep well too.

  Colin left orders in the kitchen that the boys were to be fed, and fed well, in the garden at midday. The next stop was Winthrop Montague’s bedroom, where Win was lounging about in slippers and a blue silk robe.

  “Shall we start the day with coffee?” Win asked, tugging a bell pull. “My evening ran rather late.”

  Not at the musicale, it hadn’t. “You were enjoying the company at Mrs. Bellingham’s?”

  Win yawned and scratched his pale chest. “One takes consolation where one can find it.”

  Or afford it? The room was handsomely appointed, with blue velvet hangings swathing an enormous white bed, and gold-flocked wallpaper highlighting blue and cream appointments. The windows, mirrors, lamps, and candlesticks gleamed, the carpet was more blue and cream softness beneath Colin’s boots. Win’s robe became the moving center of the decorative scheme.

  The whole impression—wealth, grace, and elegance without limit—made Colin want to climb out a window. He propped himself against a bedpost rather than sit and risk getting a stray horse hair on the upholstery.

  “If you’re in love with Mrs. Bellingham, then doesn’t seeking your consolations under her very nose present something of a contradiction?”

  “I’m flaunting my wares, making her jealous,” Win said, running a hand through blond hair and examining his teeth in the vanity mirror. “I’m not sure it’s working, but my mood benefits nonetheless, despite the cost to my exchequer.”

  Win’s wares were soon entirely on display. Part of a gentleman’s morning might well be spent watching another fellow dress. To lounge about half-naked, swilling chocolate and coffee, being shaved and washed by a valet, could all become a social encounter for a young man and his closest friends.

  The very same friends he’d probably spent the evening with, ridden in the park with, and met at entertainments—genteel and otherwise—available during the season.

  Win’s valet had come along to shave him, brush his hair, and tie his neckcloth before Colin asked the question that had been plaguing him for three straight hours.

  “Have you ever kissed a woman and meant it, Win?”

  Win was experimenting with various angles to his top hat, admiring himself in a cheval mirror.

  “Kissing is quite personal,” he said, tipping his hat up an inch. “I tend to avoid it, though on occasion, I make exceptions. I’ve kissed Mrs. Bellingham’s hand, for example. Truly kissed her hand, like the daring rogue I wish she’d take me for. What do you think, left or right?”

  For pity’s sake. “Right,” Colin said. “Bit more dashing. Everybody’s hat slouches off to the left, because most fellows are right-handed.”

  “Good point. I tend not to do much kissing unless I’m drunk. Have you been kissing somebody I should know about?”

  “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” Colin had known that before he’d turned twelve years old.

  “No matter, Rosalyn tells me everything, even when I wish she wouldn’t. You’re brother to a duke, so I’m sure your liberties will be well tolerated, just don’t— Why are we expected to wear both rings and gloves? That has never made any sense to me.” Win tossed a ring from his smallest finger onto a tray on his vanity.

  “I haven’t been kissing your sister.” Hadn’t even speculated about kissing Lady Rosalyn.

  “Of course you haven’t, and that you’re willing to involve yourself in the same pointless charity she supports is purely a coincidence. Is the boutonniere too much?”

  Win’s ensemble was a blue tailcoat, cream breeches, blindingly white linen, and a sapphire cravat pin. The proffered boutonniere was white rosebuds.

  “It’s not enough,” Colin said. “Pink would be more interesting, or violet, or even red.”

  Red was a very fine color. Memories of Anwen Windham’s rosy lips and her brilliant hair sent Colin into Win’s dressing closet, where he could examine the soles of his boots for dirt and grass.

  The air in the dressing closet was heavy with lavender and bootblack. The only furniture was a cot upon which Win’s valet presumably dozed while waiting for Win to return from his evening revels. The cot had been made up, so rather than take a seat, Colin inspected his soles as best he could standing.

  He used a handkerchief to wipe a smudge from the right boot. “How many suits do you own, Winthrop?”

  “Haven’t a clue. You really think pink would add the right dash to this outfit? Cranston might be offended, though I suspect you’re right.”

  Cranston being the valet.

  “The ladies notice us when we take a little extra effort over our appearance,” Colin said, wondering if his hair needed a trim. Anwen had seemed to like mussing his hair.

  “Have you given any more thought to taking my place at the House of
Urchins?” Win called from the bedroom. “Or at least sitting in on a few meetings?”

  Colin tucked his dirty handkerchief away and left the dressing closet, which had been as cramped and utilitarian as the bedroom was spacious and opulent.

  “At some point, I must return to Scotland,” Colin said. “But until then, I will take a hand in the goings-on at the orphanage. Where are you off to?”

  “The tailor’s,” Win said, shooting his cuffs. “You’ll come with me, I trust? I’m being fitted for a new pair of riding breeches. We’ll send out for some viands and port, round up Pointy and a few others, make a day of it?”

  All of this sartorial splendor was to impress the tailor? Or perhaps to impress Mrs. Bellingham, should she chance to drive down Bond Street.

  “I can’t join you today,” Colin said. “I’m behind on my correspondence, and the rest of the week will be busy.”

  Win pitched his pretty white boutonniere into the ash bin. “You’re bored, aren’t you? You mentioned something about that. Sorry to impose the House of Urchins on you when you’re already dying of ennui. I don’t think the place will last much longer.”

  Not if one of the boys was convicted as a cutpurse. “Why do you say that?”

  “Coin of the realm is in short supply according to Hitchings, which is no secret, but then, we’re housing a dozen little pickpockets and housebreakers.” Win drew on a pair of pristine gloves. “How long would you expect a business to remain viable, with a nest of juvenile criminals dwelling on the premises?”

  This same thinking labeled every Irishman a drunk, and every Scot a brawler—and inspired the drinking and brawling too.

  “They’re children, Montague, most of them barely breeched. You’re supposed to assist them to find the right path in life, not consign them to the hulks as a result of unfortunate birth.”

  Win led the way from his apartment, down a carpeted hallway to the ornate front stairway that opened onto the oak paneled foyer.

  “You think me coldhearted, I know,” he said, accepting his walking stick from a silent butler. “And I admit their years are tender, and they aren’t entirely to blame, but the older boys drive Hitchings to distraction. They’re dull-witted, and they seem to spend as much time in detention as they do at their studies.”

  Which reflected unfavorably on Hitchings, in Colin’s estimation. “When you were given detention, how did you spend it?”

  Win’s smile was naughty. “If I was alone, I indulged in the sin of Onan, of course, and sometimes if I wasn’t alone. You never got detention, I’m guessing.”

  All the bloody time. “Detention has its place, but so do fresh air, hard work, and rewards for jobs well done. Enjoy your day at the tailor.”

  “I shall, and you see to your correspondence. You can’t spend every waking moment writing letters, you know. Rosalyn likes some liveliness in a fellow, not that you’d be interested in her likes or dislikes.”

  Win winked and strode off in the direction of Bond Street, while Colin retrieved Prince Charlie from the mews.

  “I’m not interested in Lady Rosalyn’s likes or dislikes,” he informed his horse as they trotted on their way. “I’m interested in Miss Anwen.”

  Actually, that wasn’t quite true. Colin was taken with her, and part of his interest in her charity was because it was important to her. Then too, he thrived on a challenge, and what could be more challenging than putting an institution on sound financial footing when, as Winthrop Montague had pointed out, a dozen potential thieves dwelled on the very premises?

  * * *

  “The two of you are peeved with me,” Anwen said. “I’m sorry, but I had business to conduct with Lord Colin relating to the orphanage. A ride in the park seemed the best way to do that.”

  Anwen wasn’t sorry, not truly. She’d had a lovely outing, and her older sisters would have ruined it.

  Charlotte, who cared little for fashion, turned a page of the latest copy of La Belle Assemblée.

  “So you weren’t actually riding in the park?”

  For the first time in years, Anwen had galloped madly. “I was on my mare, but for the most part, I was discussing the orphanage with Lord Colin. Rosecroft was nearby at all times, though he focused more on his horse than on the discussion.” Nearby being a relative term, of course.

  “Lord Colin is family, more or less,” Elizabeth said, adding a line to a sketch of the parlor cat, a lithe gray tabby by the name of Bluebell. “You wouldn’t need an escort to amble down a bridle path or two with him, but why take the air at all? You could have his lordship over to tea or luncheon. If you grew fatigued, we could send him on his way and he’d have to understand.”

  Anwen was very fatigued of her sister’s protectiveness. She took a pile of blue spun wool from her workbasket and began winding it into a ball. Colin’s eyes were a deeper blue than the yarn, but this color would look very nice on him.

  “Has it occurred to either of you,” Anwen said, “that you have required the services of a physician more often than I have in recent years?”

  “You needn’t thank us for taking such good care of you,” Charlotte said, peering over the top of her magazine. “You’re our baby sister, and we’d do anything for you.”

  Except leave me alone. The truth was, if Anwen caught a sniffle or a cold, she hid the symptoms as best she could and soldiered on, lest she be put to bed for six weeks, her hair cut short, and her feet wrapped in noxious plasters by the hour.

  Bluebell rose from her hassock and padded along the sofa to bat gently at Anwen’s yarn.

  “Blue says you should leave your workbasket and have a lie down,” Elizabeth said. “It’s not every day you get up at the crack of doom to risk the damp and fog in the park.”

  Anwen mentally tossed the ball of yarn at her sister’s sketch pad. “The sunrise was beautiful, and Lord Colin has agreed to take an interest in the House of Urchins. I consider the outing, in every way, to have been a success and well worth my time.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Lord Colin stood in the parlor doorway, still in his riding attire. He was early for a morning call—it was barely past luncheon—but Anwen could not have been happier to see him.

  “Your lordship, welcome,” she said, when he’d offered bows to each sister. “Please join us.”

  “Did nobody offer to announce you?” Elizabeth asked, setting her sketch aside.

  “Your butler offered, and I declined. No need to stand on ceremony, as I’m only here for a moment. Miss Anwen, I thought you’d like to know that Master John and I paid a call on a certain unfortunate gentleman who’d lost a personal item in the park earlier today. I chanced upon that item after we parted this morning.”

  “Anwen, what unfortunate gentleman?” Charlotte demanded. “You said you and Lord Colin merely chatted about charitable business.”

  “Miss Anwen and I had a very pleasant encounter,” Lord Colin replied. “We came upon this fellow in passing. I’ve been thinking, though, about the House of Urchins, and I wonder if Miss Anwen will spare me a turn about the garden while I share my ideas with her?”

  That the gentleman’s purse had been found was bad news, because it suggested John had stolen the purse and tossed it aside to be retrieved later. That Lord Colin considered the morning’s encounter very pleasant nearly caused Anwen to leap from the sofa and dance a hornpipe.

  “The garden is a fine idea,” she murmured, rising.

  “I’ll get your bonnet,” Charlotte said.

  “You’ll need a shawl,” Elizabeth added.

  They flung curtsies at Lord Colin and were gone in the next instant.

  “Please be honest,” Anwen said. “John stole that man’s purse, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, John stole that man’s purse,” Colin replied, taking Anwen by the hand, “and I’m stealing you. Where can we go that we’ll have peace and quiet?”

  He wanted privacy with her, thank the celestial choirs. “The conservatory. It’s the last place they look for m
e, because of the damp.”

  Colin’s grasp of her wrist was warm and firm, and for a moment, Anwen simply beheld him. Lord Colin MacHugh was calling on her.

  Then he was kissing her, the worst, most unsatisfying little press of his lips to hers, before he led her from the parlor.

  “I ought not to have done that,” he said as they hurried off in the direction of the conservatory. “I apologize. Anybody could have come by, bearing a tea tray, a bonnet, a lecture. Your reputation is precious to me. I want you to know that.”

  Riding out early had tired Anwen, and she’d ache in inconvenient places tomorrow, but she’d be damned if she’d ask Lord Colin to slow down.

  “I’m more concerned about John than about my reputation,” she said as they turned down the corridor leading to the conservatory. “Theft is a very serious matter.”

  “Theft is a stupid matter,” Colin retorted. “The boy has no need to steal. He’s fed, clothed, housed, and being educated, after a fashion. He wasn’t stealing out of necessity.”

  Colin held the conservatory door, and Anwen crossed the threshold into warmth, shadows, and the rich scent of earth and greenery. Would she forever associate that scent with being kissed?

  She likely would, because as soon as Lord Colin closed the door, Anwen wrapped her arms around him, sank her fingers into his hair, and recommenced kissing him. He smiled against her mouth, settled his arms around her, and joined in the kiss.

  His kissing included tactics. He got Anwen interested in the stroke of his tongue over her lips, until she realized his hand was sliding down ever closer to her bum. Anwen tried the same caress, finding the terrain wonderfully muscular. There was so much of Colin to explore, so many textures and contours, and yet she was worried about John too.

  She broke off the kiss and remained in Colin’s embrace. “I like kissing you.”

  “I rejoice to hear it, madam, though I long for the day when you love kissing me.”

  “Do you love kissing me?”