Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  The same game had been effected at a tailor’s, a glove shop, a bootmaker’s, and—thank God, only the once—at Tattersalls, among other places. Maarten was still sorting out the situation at Colin’s clubs, but more damage had been done there. If Colin had followed the typical English habit of paying the trades annually rather than monthly, he could well have ended up in real difficulties.

  “You don’t buy a horse on another man’s credit,” Colin said. “If that’s how being a gentleman works, then I want no part of it.”

  Win accepted a glass of wine from the groom, took a taste, and nodded. “That might be the point, MacHugh. You either pay up, or your entrée among the fellows will evaporate overnight. They won’t stand up with your sisters, won’t sit down to cards with you. Nobody will be rude, but you’ll have been weighed in the scales and found wanting. Have some wine.”

  Colin did not want wine. He wanted a wee dram of the water of life, and he wanted to break some heads. Even in Spain, with the bloody French intent on murder, he’d not been this infuriated. The French had been doing what soldiers did—fighting, trying to hold territory for their commander, attempting to keep France’s borders secure.

  While Win’s cronies were little better than well-dressed pickpockets. “The horse must be returned, with Pierpont’s apologies. A misunderstanding, a wager gone awry. I don’t care what story he concocts.”

  Horses were bloody damned expensive, and if a man couldn’t afford to buy one, he might well be unable to properly keep the beast.

  “I can’t recommend that course,” Win said, passing Colin a glass of wine. “Twenty years from now, when your daughter is making her come out, you’ll hear whispers that her papa has no sense of humor, that he values a penny more than the goodwill of those gracious enough to accept him into their ranks. The offers she’ll get, if any, will be colored by how you behave now.”

  Rage and bewilderment racketed about in Colin’s mind, along with a sense of betrayal. The young men to whom Win had introduced him had seemed like good fellows. They were polite to Edana and Rhona, and greeted Colin with open good cheer on the street, in the clubs, and in the ballrooms.

  Now this. Now dozens of fingers sneaking coin from Colin’s pockets, and he was supposed to call it high spirits, a lark, a joke.

  “I feel as if I’ve intercepted a message in code.” Colin tossed back the entire glass of wine, though his behavior caused Win to wince. “The words seem to say, ‘Welcome to polite society, Lord Colin. Congratulations on your good fortune.’ The true message is, ‘Welcome, Lord Colin. How much can we fleece you for? We’re lazy, greedy, completely without honor, and you’re a Scottish fool who was better off mending harness or tending to his whisky.’”

  Win refilled Colin’s wine glass. “May I ask how much you’re expected to pay?”

  Colin named a sum that had sent him into a twenty-minute swearing orbit about the library desk that morning. Thank God that Maarten had insisted on tidying Colin’s affairs in anticipation of departing for Scotland.

  “That is”—Win took another delicate sip of wine—“rather a bit of coin. If you pay off the sums owing, I’ll put a word in a few ears. A jest is one thing, but I hadn’t realized how far it had gone.” He passed his wine glass to the waiting servant. “I trust you can manage the sums due?”

  The question was carefully casual.

  “I’m tempted to not pay the damned bills,” Colin said, exchanging his wineglass for a reloaded pistol. “I’m tempted to remind the good tailors, haberdashers, glove makers, horse traders, and publicans of Mayfair that what a customer does not order or sign for, he is not obligated to pay for, gentlemanly pranks be damned.”

  Win sighted down the barrel of the second reloaded pistol. “Again, MacHugh, such a tantrum would have repercussions you’d regret. Not only would those in on the joke learn of your parsimony, but the third parties involved would be bilked of needed coin. You can’t gather up the dozen men who might have drunk a few toasts to you, and assign each of them a portion of the resulting expense.”

  Colin had been considering that very approach. Spread over twelve quarterly allowances, the amount in question was extravagant but manageable.

  The grooms were busily arranging crocks and jars along a single branch, though the targets were small this time—jam jars from the looks of them.

  “So what do you advise, Win? I’m to pay these bills, smile, and pretend it’s all quite amusing to have been robbed by your friends?”

  That solution was so nauseatingly English, Colin considered scooping up his sisters and leaving the entire problem behind him. He could be sued for debt—he was a commoner—but these were not debts he’d incurred. They were debts landing in his lap because the tradesmen and merchants had no choice but to trust their betters.

  Reneging on the bills would, as Win pointed out, simply widen the circle of victims to include people less able to bear the burden than Colin was.

  “You not only pay the bills, smile, and pretend it’s all amusing,” Win said gently, “you publicly stand the perpetrators to a round in honor of their boldness.”

  Good God, this was schoolyard politics. “Is that before or after I call them out, and dim their arrogant lights, one by one?”

  The pistol was double-barreled, two shots being standard in most contests of honor. The weight was exquisite, the workmanship so elegant, the result should have been art rather than weaponry.

  “MacHugh, your Scottish temper will not serve you in this instance. Take it in stride, smile, and consider it the cost of membership in a very worthwhile club. By June, you’ll be sorry to part from the same men you want to call out now.”

  Colin had not expected to remain in London until June, and the delights of a London season had apparently paled for Ronnie and Eddie too. But he had the House of Urchins to consider, and the surprising realization that Anwen Windham had been willing to forego Colin’s kisses—his very company—to stand up for the boys.

  She’d amazed him, and probably amazed the lads as well.

  She’d amazed him again. Ladies didn’t kiss Captain Colin MacHugh and send him on his way. He kissed them and left them, usually smiling but not always.

  Anwen had been in absolute earnest when she’d told him, in so many ladylike words, to either drop his accusations against the boys or take himself back to Scotland. She’d meant to send him packing, and he’d have had no choice but to go.

  She’d been right too.

  “Stand back,” Colin said, taking Win’s pistol from him. “I’ll pay the damned debts this time, but let your friends know that if this happens again, I’ll get up to a few pranks of my own, and they will not like the results.”

  “Come now, MacHugh. There’s no need for drama. What could you possibly be planning, when none of the fellows have the—”

  Colin took aim and fired all four barrels. The entire branch dropped amid a crash of clay and glass.

  “I’ll think of an amusement that will give the lot of them nightmares, Win. I’m grateful you’ve been on hand to talk sense to me, and Pierpont and his cronies should be grateful too—very grateful.”

  Colin passed the smoking pistols to the servants handle-first.

  “These fellows are your friends too,” Win said. “Or they will be after this.”

  “No, Win. They will not be my friends. Not ever.”

  He left Win standing before his coach, sipping wine, while Colin climbed aboard Prince Charlie and headed back to Town at a smart canter.

  Chapter Nine

  All day, Anwen had waited for Lord Colin to call. She’d knitted, she’d embroidered, she’d tatted lace, and woven fancies by the hour, until Charlotte had asked if she was sickening for something.

  “As it happens, I am sickening for something,” Anwen said, stuffing her embroidery hoop back in her workbasket.

  Charlotte’s hand was already on the bell pull before Anwen could continue.

  “I am dealing with a case of self-reproach,” she
went on, getting up to pace. “The affliction is novel, at least in terms of severity.”

  Charlotte’s hand drifted back to her side. “You addressed just as many invitations to the card party as we did. Why reproach yourself?”

  “We thought you might have overdone, riding in the park earlier this week,” Elizabeth added. “Fatigue always puts me out of sorts, and the whole blasted season is an exercise in staying up too late, imbibing bad punch, and enduring the wandering hands of—”

  Charlotte gave the bell pull a tug. “I did fancy the hock Uncle sent to the library. I’m in the mood for raspberry cordial, as it happens.”

  Two years ago, for the ladies to order their own bottle of cordial during daylight hours would have caused somebody to notify the duchess. Two months ago, eyebrows would have been raised belowstairs at least.

  “Tell us about this self-reproach,” Elizabeth said, patting the cushion beside her.

  Anwen ignored the invitation to perch beside her sister. If anything, she wanted another headlong gallop down a bridle path.

  “I’ve considered Lord Colin just another handsome face,” she said. “I thought he was charming, a good dancer.”

  “He’s all of that,” Elizabeth said, going to the door when a soft tap sounded. She instructed the footman regarding the cordial and closed the door. “He’s quite dashing in his kilt, a man of means, and from a titled family. I like him, to the extent I know him.”

  “Do you see what I mean?” Anwen asked, stopping before a bust of Plato sitting on a windowsill. “We do it too.”

  “Do what?” Charlotte asked. “Wennie, did you skip luncheon?”

  “She didn’t,” Elizabeth said. “She ate her soup, the fish, not much of the potatoes but then she never does, a serving of fruit tart—”

  “Stop.”

  “—and she had two servings of tea, but also some lemonade. Aunt prefers a very tart lemonade. Perhaps that didn’t agree—”

  “You will both cease fretting over me this instant!” Anwen shouted.

  If old Plato had spoken, Charlotte and Elizabeth could not have looked more surprised.

  “Not a word,” Anwen said. “You will listen to me, and you will hear me. I am well. I am probably in better health than either of you, because I go outside. I must, to escape your carping, and managing, and discussing me as if I were no more animate than he is.”

  She slapped Plato on his marble crown.

  Elizabeth looked over at Charlotte, who was staring at her slippers. Plain, comfy house mules that might once have been pink.

  Elizabeth drew in a breath. “We mean only to safeguard—”

  “Wennie’s right,” Charlotte murmured, toeing off her slippers. “We’re getting worse. If we clucked and fussed any more, we’d need beaks and feathers. This season feels longer than all the previous ones put together.”

  For Charlotte, that was quite an admission—also, in Anwen’s opinion, the God’s honest truth. The quality of the next silence was both sad and thoughtful.

  “I want my own household,” Elizabeth said. “I want to plan my own garden, my own menus, my own social calendar, not limit myself to choosing which bonnet I put on when Aunt drags us about on her endless social calls.”

  Elizabeth had hinted, she’d implied, she’d occasionally alluded to this wish, but she’d never stated her preference so plainly.

  “Then you go to Westhaven,” Anwen said. “You enlist Rosecroft’s support, and you consult Valentine, who is regarded by our lady cousins as the most sensible of their brothers. You stop treating our cousins as if they are simply handsome lads with a fine command of small talk, and enlist their aid dealing with our elders. That’s what I meant.”

  “You’ll have to spell it out for us,” Charlotte said, going to the door to retrieve the cordial. She poured three generous servings. “Here’s to the rest of the season galloping by.”

  They touched glasses. Charlotte resumed her place on the sofa, while Anwen stayed on her feet.

  “You were saying?” Elizabeth prompted.

  “We resent that to the gentlemen, we’re just pretty faces, pretty settlements, a connection to this title, or that landed family. The men don’t see us.”

  “They touch us,” Charlotte said, taking another sip of her drink. “I hate that. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Charlotte,’ when they stumble on the dance floor, and their hands accidentally slip before half of polite society. My knee has had to slip a time or two, despite my vast quantities of ladylike restraint.”

  “Mine too,” Elizabeth said, “and I’ve learned the knack of stepping on my own hem. I’ve practiced this, in case I need to repair to the retiring room, which is unfortunate.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Anwen snapped. “Why don’t we simply tell the miserable blighters we don’t waltz with presuming bumpkins? We know who they are.”

  “Because a lady doesn’t pick and choose between her partners. She stands up when invited to or sits out the evening,” Charlotte recited.

  “Why?” Anwen asked.

  “So as not to offend the gentleman’s sensibilities.” Elizabeth sounded unimpressed with her own answers.

  “But they can offend us without limit, groping, stumbling, nearly drooling on our bodices. We aren’t people to them, and I could strut about in high dudgeon on the strength of that vast insult, except I’ve been guilty of it too.”

  “One develops a certain detachment,” Charlotte said, draining her glass. “If it’s a cattle auction, and we’re the heifers, then we do our best to make them into bullocks.”

  “Bulls,” Elizabeth said, saluting with her drink. “Every one of them regards himself as the most impressive champion bull ever to make a leg. I hate it.”

  “But some of them aren’t like that,” Anwen said. “I have taken a fancy to Lord Colin, and even permitted him a small liberty or two. At the meeting earlier this week, we had a disagreement.”

  “Have some more, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said, topping up her sister’s drink. “This cordial is quite good, and I want to hear all about your disagreement, Wennie—and these liberties you permitted. Every detail, please.”

  Anwen took the hassock before the sofa. “His lordship and I came upon the oldest boys at the orphanage where they ought not to have been, and Lord Colin accused them of wrongdoing. I didn’t believe the evidence warranted those accusations, and we quarreled.”

  “I hope he apologized,” Charlotte said, topping up Elizabeth’s drink. “A gentleman doesn’t argue with a lady.”

  “But friends are protective of one another,” Anwen said. “Lord Colin was concerned not only for the four oldest boys, but for all the children, and for me, and even the Windham family reputation. He’s not simply a charming smile and a fine dancer.”

  “He wears the kilt to perfection,” Elizabeth said.

  Charlotte touched her glass to Anwen’s. “To kilted laddies.”

  “But that’s just it. He’s not a lad. He’s a man. He’s commanded soldiers, he manages his business, and he owns two estates.”

  “He’s not a boy,” Elizabeth said softly. “His older brother had the same quality. They’re men who have better things to do than leer at debutantes, amuse the merry widows, and exchange remedies at the club for their sore heads.”

  “Aunt calls that bunch handsome idlers,” Charlotte said.

  “Uncle calls them much worse than that,” Anwen observed, “but Colin isn’t among their number. He can save the orphanage, and I’m not sure another gentleman in all of Mayfair has either the ability or the motivation to take on that challenge.”

  She had no delusions that it would be a challenge. The card party must go off flawlessly and become an annual event. The House of Urchins must maintain a spotless reputation, and something had to be done about the board of directors, most of whom couldn’t be bothered to perform their duties.

  “Do you fancy Lord Colin, or fancy his ability to save the orphanage?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Both,” Anwe
n said. “I like that he can argue with me, and that he can listen to me. He doesn’t treat me like I’m about to expire with every sniffle or megrim.”

  “Do you have a sniffle?” Charlotte asked.

  Elizabeth snatched up a pillow and cocked her arm. “Take that back, Charl. Wennie’s being serious.”

  Charlotte downed her cordial in one gulp. “Fire away, Bethan, because I’m guilty as charged, but Wennie, we nearly lost you. You don’t know how that changed Mama and Papa. All you know is they took turns reading to you, telling you stories, playing cards with you, when you weren’t asleep for days at a time. We nearly lost them too. It was terrifying.”

  Charlotte offered not a reproach but an explanation.

  “I recall Aunt Esther moving in for a time,” Anwen said, “and then Aunt Arabella. Mama wouldn’t listen to anybody else, and even Uncle Percy had to remonstrate with her.”

  “But she wouldn’t let the physicians bleed you,” Elizabeth said. “She told Papa that she’d steal you away herself before she’d lose you to quackery, and he’d never find her.”

  “What did Papa say?”

  “That he’d not lose two of the people he loved most in the whole world, and that as sick as you were, you weren’t getting worse, so Mama’s decision would stand.” Elizabeth, as the oldest, probably had the clearest recollection. “You started to improve from that day forward.”

  “You heard Mama and Papa quarreling?” Anwen had no memory of her parents’ disagreement. She recalled crying as Mama had cut her hair, and being so sick of her bed, that Mama had the servants set up beds for her all over the house. She recalled the scent of straw wafting in the windows, for Papa had carpeted the whole drive with straw the better to muffle the noise of coach wheels.

  “The entire shire would have heard them arguing,” Charlotte said.

  Maybe it was the cordial, maybe it was the conversation, but warmth welled from Anwen’s middle.

  “Lord Colin and I can have a difference of opinion, a fair donnybrook, and he still listens to me. I think I’m in love.”