His blue eyes held not a hint of teasing. “I do, Anwen. I hadn’t foreseen this, it’s not convenient, when I must leave for Scotland at the end of the season. I’m sure you could have more impressive beaus by the dozen, but you have…I feel…”
He smelled faintly of leather and horse, good smells, but his expression was not that of a man who’d just shared a lovely kiss.
Anwen brushed her fingers over his hair. “Yes?”
“I feel,” he said. “I’m not used to having sentiments of any significance where kisses are concerned. Shall we leave it at that?”
No, we shall not. “You typically kiss women for whom you feel nothing?”
“I typically kiss women for whom I feel desire, passing affection, and mild liking, and hope they feel the same for me. I do not accost decent young ladies beneath the maples, and then look forward to accosting that same young lady again within hours.”
Anwen drew away, the better to conceal an odd pleasure. Lord Colin could be flirtatious, unlike his older brother who was serious to a fault. Colin was charming and had a light, friendly manner socially.
His expression was neither light nor friendly, because Anwen had kissed him. I am a bonfire, and Colin MacHugh is not the will-o-the-wisp he wants society to think he is.
She kissed him again, a solid smack. “Tell me about John.”
He touched his fingers to his mouth, as if to make sure his lips were still affixed to his countenance.
“John took terrible risks. I expect all of the older boys go for the occasional stroll without supervision, but John spotted a potential mark, pursued him with malice aforethought, stole the gentleman’s purse, then fled with the contraband. That’s about eight felonies, and the victim—exhausted, portly, and half-seas over, would likely have tired of the chase if we hadn’t come along.”
Anwen paced away, lest she spend the next thirty minutes staring at Lord Colin’s mouth, when she ought to be considering how to deflect young John from the path of ruin.
“The boys are bored,” she said, “and John is their leader in mischief. If he had made off with that purse, he would have crowed about it to the others. The next time, Dickie would have gone with him.”
“There can’t be a next time,” Colin said, remaining by the door. “If word gets out that the House of Urchins is not only pockets to let, but harboring cutpurses and thieves, you won’t raise a single groat from your wealthy friends.”
“It’s worse than that,” Anwen said, though what could be worse than consigning a dozen boys to prison? “I’ve involved my family in the effort to raise funds, and any stain on the reputation of the House of Urchins will reflect on my family’s consequence. If I bungle this, they’ll never again let me involve myself in a similar project and they won’t involve themselves either.”
And that she could not allow. The boys mattered, and having something to do besides waltz, embroider, swill tea, and rest her feet mattered too.
Colin propped a hip on a potting table, palm fronds and a lemon tree framing him with greenery.
“I gather one of the four oldest boys tarried too long before breakfast this morning, and all four were sent to detention. I set them to cleaning the stable, and they did a creditable job. My objective is to tire them sufficiently that they haven’t the energy to wander, and to give them a job they can take pride in.”
“I would never have thought to do that,” Anwen replied, “and yet, it’s perfect. The stable is a disgrace. MacDeever has too much work to do, and Hitchings seems oblivious to anything but the scholarly curriculum. You have younger brothers, is that how you knew what to do?”
“I was a captain, a lowly enough officer that I had to actually supervise my men. They were mostly humble young fellows more interested in getting up to mischief than routing the French.”
Anwen knew how that felt—to be interested in getting up to mischief—thanks to Lord Colin. She scooted onto the potting table six inches from where he stood.
“So you started the boys off with cleaning the stable, a punishment that’s in fact a relief from their miseries. What else do you have in mind, and how soon can we meet with Hitchings to explain that his approach requires modification?”
Lord Colin leaned closer. “We are meeting with Hitchings?”
“The ladies’ committee should be represented, in the event there’s some capacity in which we could be of aid. If John’s stealing purses, the situation is dire, and no resource should be spared to put it to rights.”
“The situation is dire,” Lord Colin muttered. “Very well, join us at the meeting. I suspect I’ll have an easier time talking old Hitchings around if we bring Winthrop Montague along and the chairman of the board as well.”
“Excellent suggestions,” Anwen said, hopping off the table. “Now I suggest we do repair to the garden.”
Lord Colin crossed his arms. “Because?”
“Because Charlotte and Elizabeth will be finished searching for us there, and we can continue this discussion without their helpful interference. I’d as soon keep the conservatory as my hiding place of last resort for as long as possible.”
She was out the French doors in the next instant, Lord Colin following with gratifying alacrity.
Chapter Seven
“You’ve apparently enjoyed the longest ride in the park in the history of Hyde Park,” Lady Rhona MacHugh said.
Colin stopped at the foot of the garden steps. “And a fine day to you too, sister.”
“Don’t start acting like a brother.” Edana used her foot to push out a chair at the table they occupied beneath a stately oak. “We worry about you.”
They made a pretty picture on a pretty afternoon, two lovely redheads at their leisure in the MacHugh back garden. But then, Colin had kissed Anwen Windham farewell not an hour past. He’d be in a sunny mood even if rain were coming down in torrents and a foul miasma had wafted in off the river.
He took the proffered seat. “What have you two been up to while you were so worried about me?”
“We got a letter from Hamish.” Rhona passed over a single folded sheet of paper. “Married life agrees with him.”
The letter had been addressed to Colin. “Reading my mail, are you?”
“It was from Hamish,” Edana said, filling a teacup for Colin. “If there was trouble, we’d want to know.” She added milk and sugar, gave it a stir, put four biscuits on the saucer, and passed it over.
“If there was trouble, you two would be in the thick of it. My day got away from me.”
“We called on Cousin Dougal,” Rhona said, arranging three sandwiches on a plate and setting it beside Colin’s teacup. “He and Patience are in anticipation of a blessed event. As laird, you should settle a sum on the child.”
The tea was strong and hot, the biscuits buttery and sweet. Colin would get to the sandwiches.
“Ham’s the laird.” Hamish was also the duke, poor sod. Now that he’d snabbled Megan Windham for a duchess, the duke part doubtless rested more lightly on his broad shoulders.
“The clan counsel met,” Edana said, waving at Hamish’s letter. “They decided that because Ham’s the duke, you should take up the responsibilities of laird, at least until Hamish gets his dukedom sorted out.”
Meaning, until a ducal heir or three was on the way.
“I’m the laird now?” Colin considered the third sweet. “I’ll have a wee word with Hamish over this nonsense. It’s a dirty damned trick to play on me, when I’m stuck here in London and can’t speak for myself at the counsel. They want free whisky at their gatherings. Excellent, free, legal whisky.”
Though Colin was pleased. Being laird these days was mostly a matter of attending weddings and christenings, presiding at games, and settling squabbles.
“It was my idea,” Rhona said. “Hamish has enough to do, learning to be the duke. You’re next in line, and if you didn’t take the job, I might have been stuck with it.”
“You might still be,” Colin said, demolishi
ng the last biscuit. “I’ve better things to do than listen to the women argue over which red dye to use in the hunting plaid.”
Edana kicked him under the table—an affectionate blow, from her. “We got Hamish married off. Behave yourself or you’re next.”
A fly had the temerity to buzz near Colin’s sandwiches. Edana flicked her serviette, and the insect was either killed in mid-flight or inspired to disappear into thin air.
“You got Hamish married off?” Colin countered, starting on the sandwiches. Chicken with a dash of French mustard, his favorite. “To hear the Windhams tell it, a certain English duke was involved, along with a bloody lot of meddling cousins.”
Good fellows, those cousins. One of them had escorted Anwen in the park that morning—more or less.
“Who dragged Hamish the length of the Great North Road?” Rhona asked. “Who endured his muttering and pouting the whole way? Who argued with him for the duration of a Highland winter to take us to London? Who made him bring his formal kilts, in which he looks so very fine despite being the shyest man ever to call Perthshire his home?”
“In which he looks verra fine,” Colin mimicked, “despite bein’ the shyest mon ever to call Pairthsher his hame? You get very Scottish when you’re on your dignity, Ronnie mine, and in answer to your questions, I did. Hamish and I nearly came to blows several times.”
Rhona smiled, snatched Colin’s sandwich, took a bite, then set it back on his plate. “I am verra Scottish, and that’s Lady Ronnie to you, laddie. We got Hamish married off. Our work here is done, unless you’ve a notion to stick your dainty foot in parson’s mousetrap.”
“Now you sound daft and English,” Colin said, picking up a locket sitting by Rhona’s plate. A cameo brooch was suspended on a gold chain, and the links had become knotted up. “It’s you two who should be looking over the eligibles.”
“We have,” Edana said, “and they’re more eligible than interesting. Don’t break that locket, please. Your friend Mr. Montague isn’t a bad sort.”
Colin considered Edana’s casual tone, considered her absorption with the top of the garden wall thirty yards away. He also considered the knotted-up chain, lest she kick him for simply looking at her. The gold was delicate, but the locket was unwearable in its present condition.
Damn Hamish for running back home with his duchess. He was the eldest, the brother who ought to deal in awkward truths.
“You could do worse than attach Win Montague’s interest,” Colin said, rolling the knotted links gently between his fingers. One did not describe one’s best friend as a lazy tomcat, and yet what did Win do but make wagers, lay about at the tailor’s, pine for Mrs. Bellingham, and swill spirits at his clubs?
“I suppose he has a ladybird,” Edana muttered. “English gentlemen do, before they take a wife. I know that.”
And in pragmatic Scottish fashion, she was prepared to accept reality. “Eddie, Win hasn’t one special ladybird,” Colin said. “I can’t see that he has much of anything to support a wife with either.”
The chain was loosening, as chains often did when patience, light pressure, and warmth were applied.
Edana snapped her serviette at another pesky fly. “I have funds of my own.”
Ronnie was taking half the day to consume the remains of Colin’s sandwich. No help there.
“Those are your funds.” Colin unclasped the necklace so he could more easily untangle it. “That money is for you, and for your daughters should their father die before making provision for them.” Not for supporting the lazy younger son of an English lord.
“I have to marry somebody,” Edana retorted, balling up her serviette and pitching it at Colin’s face. “If I don’t marry, I’ll turn into Auntie Eddie, the old lady all the braw half-drunk lads stand up with at the ceilidh when they lose a bet. Some toothless crofter will offer for me when I’m too old to have children, and I’ll accept him just to get away from the pity of my siblings.”
“Eddie,” Rhona said, holding out a biscuit. “Cease your dramatics. Colin will take us home, and we can be done with this London nonsense. One brother’s a duke, the other’s a laird, we’ve our own funds. We’ll not want for dances.”
Edana slapped the biscuit from her sister’s hand and dashed into the house.
Colin eased the knot from the golden chain and finished his tea—cold now. Crumbs littered the paving stones as a result of Edana’s tantrum.
He passed the necklace over to Ronnie. “Is Eddie that taken with Win Montague?”
“She fancies him. Mr. Montague has been insinuating himself into your good graces, and that means he pays attention to me and Eddie. She fancied that dreadful Sir Fletcher when she first met him, and next week she’ll fancy somebody else. You’ve saved me a trip to Ludgate Hill both by provoking her temper and by repairing her jewelry.”
“Win is being gentlemanly,” Colin said. “He’s the reason I’m a member of the right clubs, and my custom is accepted at the right establishments. When he stands up with you and Eddie, he’s being a friend.”
Rhona patted Colin’s hand, and abruptly he wanted to send his teacup to the flagstones along with Eddie’s biscuit. Was this how Anwen felt when her family cosseted and fussed despite her roaring good health, fierce heart, and active intellect?
“Eddie and I are a pair of hags,” Rhona replied, “and Mr. Montague is so kind as to spare us a dance here and there, but when was the last time he bought you a drink?”
He’d bought Colin a drink to celebrate Hamish’s succession to the title weeks ago. “The English don’t pinch pennies the way we do, Ronnie. They don’t keep track.”
“Yes, Colin, they do,” Rhona said. “They know who has a title, who has money. Who has a title but no money, and who has both. Hamish and you have both, now Eddie and I have both too. Your Mr. Montague isn’t stupid.”
“He’s quite bright.” That much Colin could honestly say. “He also takes an interest in the less fortunate.”
“You are not the less fortunate, Colin MacHugh, and neither are Eddie and I.”
God help the man who thought so. “I meant that Winthrop Montague sits on the board of the House of Urchins, and soon I shall as well.”
So that Win could spend more time slobbering over Mrs. Bellingham’s hand?
And yet, Win wouldn’t know what to do with young John or his friends. Anwen had listened to Colin’s ideas and added a few of her own. Between them, they’d not let John slip away to a life of crime without a fight.
“You’re to take up a charity?” Rhona mused. “Isn’t that what the church is for?”
“I think it’s like being a laird, Ronnie. If you have a title, even a courtesy title, then certain expectations come with it.”
“You have sisters. Edana wanted to see a London season, I wanted some new frocks. Now, we want to go home, Colin, and we expect you to escort us.”
He couldn’t tell them he had more kissing to do, though he hoped he did—a lot more kissing. “Turn tail now, will you? Edana stomps her foot and we all pack up and leave? I think we owe Hamish and Megan a little more of a honeymoon than this, Ronnie. Eddie is thinking only of herself, but when she’s staring wedded bliss in the face day after day back home, when she’s Auntie Eddie in truth, she’ll wish she’d tarried another few weeks in London.”
Rhona rose and dusted off her skirts, then dropped the locket into a pocket, where it would doubtless get all tangled up again.
“We’re without witnesses,” she said, “so I can admit you have a point. Then too, you won’t be the one shut up in the coach with Eddie the whole way home. I can put that pleasure off for another few weeks. Mr. Maarten came by while you were flirting in the park, and he asked that you attend him at your earliest convenience.”
Colin stood as well. If he was expected to escort his sisters that evening, he needed a damned nap, not another meeting with Maarten.
“How do you know I was flirting?”
Rhona patted his cheek. “You’re alway
s flirting. Hamish was the brooder, you are the flirt, though you’re a dab hand at fixing jewelry too. Magnus is the hothead, Angus the scholar.”
She was right. “What about Alistair?”
“The dreamer. I’m beginning to dream of home, I suspect you are too, Colin. Maarten said he’ll be leaving by the first of May.”
“Any idea why he came by?”
“He left you a note in the library. Does Win Montague really have no ladybird?”
What did a friend say to a sister? Rhona might be able to talk sense into Edana.
“Montague can’t afford a mistress, Ronnie, and he’s drawn to a woman who’s both beyond his means and beneath his station.”
“He’s neither eligible nor interesting, then, not in any meaningful sense. Time to widen your circle of friends, Colin, lest Eddie and I grow bored.”
The last time Ronnie and Eddie had grown bored, they’d sold Hamish’s cigars on the sly to other young ladies.
Colin offered his sister his arm, which had become a habit over the past weeks. “Where are we off to tonight?”
“Lady Pembroke’s rout. The talk will be political and artistic. You should be bored witless.”
A week ago, even a day ago, Colin would have consoled himself with the knowledge that as a widow, Lady Pembroke would have other widows in attendance. Widows were among the friendliest exponents of polite society to young, single men of good birth and better fortune.
“You’re right—I’ll be bored witless.” Unless Anwen Windham were there.
If she was among the guests, Colin wouldn’t be bored at all.
* * *
“We value your scholarly abilities exceedingly, Hitchings,” Winthrop Montague said. “But these are not typical English schoolboys, amenable to the values of polite society.”
“Blood will tell,” Hitchings replied, folding his hands across his paunch. “I can’t argue that, though I took this post intending to treat these children the same as if they were the sons of decent families.”
Anwen shot a look across the table at Colin, for that was the very problem. The boys had more or less raised themselves. Why say grace three times a day if there’s nothing to eat? Why learn Latin when you’d never own a bound book from which to read it?
Too Scot to Handle Page 10
