He belched, beery fumes wafting about the table.
“So you are,” Twillinger agreed, patting Pierpont’s hand. “Montague, why so silent?”
“I’m thinking.”
Pierpont and Twillinger smiled and ordered another round of ale.
“I do so love it when you think,” Twillinger said. “Spares me the trouble. Think me up a way to earn some blunt, would you? Not earn-earn it, but come into it, proper-like.”
“Lord Colin would tell you to rent out your phaeton.” Win was jesting, though Twillinger appeared taken with the idea. Twilly was half-seas over, as usual.
“I would tell Lord Colin to put Twilly’s vehicle up his strutting Scottish—”
A waiter bearing three glasses of ale interrupted Pointy’s musings. “Separate accounts, gentlemen?”
“Please,” Winthrop said, before either friend could send him a hopeful look. They’d put their whole afternoon’s drinking on his account, and that would not do.
When the waiter had gathered up empty glasses and departed, Win set his ale to his right, away from Pierpont. Pointy was notorious for drinking out of the “wrong” glass as his own grew empty.
“I’ve been thinking,” Pointy said, using the back of his sleeve to wipe his mouth this time. “What if the card party is a failure? Not much blunt donated, for all we waste a fine evening at the tables?”
“Then the orphans go hungry,” Twillinger said. “Which I thought orphans did most of the time anyway.”
“Quiet,” Win said as Jonathan Tresham walked by. The damned man had no title at all, not even a courtesy title, but he was some sort of nabob, and heir to the Duke of Quimbey. Worse, Mrs. Bellingham professed to like him.
“He’ll be there,” Pointy said, following Tresham with his gaze. “And if Tresham is there, Quimbey will likely be as well. With Moreland and Wellington, that’s a three-duke card party. It can’t fail. His Grace of Anselm will doubtless put in an appearance, and that’s four dukes.”
Win waited until Tresham had chosen a table across the room. “Pointy, I hadn’t realized you’d been working on your counting skills. I’m impressed. The card party will be a great success, which can’t be helped. It’s not Lord Colin’s card party, though, it’s Miss Anwen Windham’s, whom we all esteem greatly.”
They drank to that sentiment.
“Lord Colin dances with Miss Anwen,” Twillinger said. “M’sister has remarked it.”
“Lord Colin dances with the lot of them,” Pointy countered. “All the red-haired spinster Winsters. Windhams, I mean. Has to. Family, you know. I dance with my wife for the same reason.”
“Or she dances with you,” Win said. “The challenge is how to bring Lord Colin down without letting the scandal touch Miss Anwen. The card party itself must go smoothly.”
“The Duchess of Moreland’s affairs always go smoothly,” Pointy said. “Spinster-winsters. I rather like that.”
“We had a bit of trouble at the orphanage a few weeks back,” Win said as ideas began to mix with excellent ale. “One of the boys got loose and pinched a purse.”
Pointy took a sip of Twilly’s ale. “Stole goods from a man’s very person? That’s a criminal act, plain and simple. Such a boy should have been bound over to Newgate, not given a soft bed, three meals, and a hymnal.”
Win kept a hand on his own tankard, for the summer ale at the club was superb—for ale—and by no means free.
“Lord Colin, without any authority whatsoever, decided the matter could be informally resolved. The boy returned the purse, apologized, and has been a model citizen ever since. The headmaster keeps me informed of these things.”
“Why did you ever involve yourself with that place?” Twilly asked. “Sounds like a cross between Eton, Bedlam, and Newgate.”
“My father offered to increase my allowance if I undertook participation in management of a charity. Somebody suggested the House of Urchins, and I’ve been regretting it ever since.”
“Paters are like that,” Pointy said. “My own promised an increase when the wife dropped another calf. Pater forgot to remind me the little fellow would need a nurse, nappies, dresses, rattles…Sending my heir off to Eton will be a savings at the rate the boy runs through blunt now.”
They drank to dear old Eton, where nobody had learned much of anything except how to drink, smoke, and commit the sin of Onan.
“You’ll see that Lord Colin is ruined?” Twilly asked.
“Somebody should,” Pointy agreed, taking a second sip of Twilly’s ale. “Principle of the thing. Got well above himself, putting on airs and so forth.”
“I may not be able to see him transported, but I can at least send him packing back to Scotland with his tail between his legs. He’s quite possibly toying with a lady’s affections, and taking advantage of her soft heart, but I can show her the error of her ways.”
“We should always be looking out for the ladies,” Pointy said.
“When we’re not looking up their skirts.” Twillinger lifted his almost-empty tankard. “Are they pouring the pints short these days?”
“You simply hold your liquor well,” Win said. “I’m off to look in on the orphanage.”
Win sketched a bow and left, though he wasn’t about to set foot on the premises of the orphanage. Mrs. Bellingham’s establishment was open, and a gentleman could drink ale there as well as anywhere else.
* * *
“You made Jonathan Tresham smile,” Charlotte said beneath the soft lilt of a string quartet. “Anwen Windham, you’ve been working on your flirtation skills. Perhaps Lord Colin has assisted you in this regard.”
Mr. Tresham had not only smiled at Anwen before the entire ballroom full of card players, he’d waxed congenial about donating a watchdog to the orphanage out of a mastiff litter much anticipated by his ducal relations.
Jonathan Tresham, congenial. The whole gathering was congenial, as if a chance to do something for the less fortunate was a relief rather than imposition.
“Lord Colin isn’t half the flirt he’s made out to be,” Anwen said.
Charlotte leaned near and whispered, “Your evening is a success already, Wennie. You should be proud of yourself.”
“I’m proud of us, Charlotte. You and Elizabeth pitched in, Her Grace lent her considerable expertise, Lord Colin has helped, and the cousins are here in force.”
Charlotte took a sip of her lemonade, and waggled her fingers at Rosecroft who walked past in company with Baron Twillinger. If the two were discussing horses, Rosecroft probably hadn’t seen Charlotte’s greeting.
“We need family projects,” Charlotte said. “Activities we can all support, and the brilliance of your card party is that we’re doing something useful. If Her Grace doesn’t turn this into an annual event, we sisters should. Lady Rhona and Lady Edana would help, and—his lordship does cut a dash in that kilt, doesn’t he?”
Anwen had asked Colin to trot out his Highland finery. In full dress regalia he was formidably attractive, which might explain why Lady Rosalyn had been hanging on his arm rather a lot.
Poor dear—and poor Colin too.
A whiff of spiked fruit punch presaged Winthrop Montague joining them at the edge of the ballroom.
“My sister and Lord Colin make an interesting couple, don’t they?” he said. “Not Rosalyn’s usual style, but she is ever kind and Lord Colin knows better than to get ideas where her ladyship is concerned.”
Win was in typical evening attire, and he looked like every other gentleman in the ballroom, with the exception of Cousin Valentine, who had the panache to wear more lace than most men favored.
“You think Lord Colin might entertain aspirations where Lady Rosalyn is concerned?” Charlotte asked.
“He’d best not, for it can’t come to anything. Rosalyn is very discerning about the company she keeps, and while she can admire initiative in a man, a Scottish distiller whose family stumbled into a title is hardly likely to hold her interest in the matrimonial sense. I mea
n no insult to MacHugh—he’s a friend, after all—but standards must be maintained.”
Given her brother’s example, Lady Rosalyn was unlikely to recognize initiative in a man, much less admire it.
“I esteem Lord Colin greatly,” Anwen said. “He’s taken the orphanage’s situation to heart, and tonight is the result of ideas he sowed in discussions with me. If he’s an example of the men you consider a friend, Mr. Montague, then your taste is to be sincerely commended.”
Charlotte became fascinated with her lemonade.
“You have such a good heart,” Mr. Montague said. “I’ve always admired that about you, Miss Anwen.”
His compliment was accompanied by a peculiar contortion of his features. He lowered his lashes, pooched out his lips, peeked over at her, then lowered his lashes again. A moment later, Anwen realized she’d been the recipient of a melting glance.
“You two will excuse me,” Charlotte said, holding up her glass. “Time to make sure the punch bowls are all refilled.”
She shot Anwen a you-can’t-kill-me-unless-you-catch-me look and bustled away.
“Such a shame,” Mr. Montague said, “when a woman of excellent breeding and decent looks can’t find a man who appreciates her, don’t you agree?”
“Of course, just as when a man of excellent breeding and decent looks endures a similar fate. Loneliness is a heavy burden, regardless of gender.”
His nose twitched, as if he might have caught the scent of something overripe. “There’s your kind heart in evidence again. Might I convince you to take pity on me, and join me for a stroll about the terrace?”
He gave her the portentous look again, and it occurred to Anwen that Winthrop Montague was attempting to flirt with her.
Oh, dear. Oh, gracious, oh, ye gods and little fishes. What on earth could he be thinking?
The quartet launched into a lively gigue, and the chatter in the ballroom swelled accordingly, as Mr. Montague escorted Anwen toward the doors to the back garden. Perhaps he sought to curry favor with Aunt Esther or Uncle Percy by paying attention to the most retiring Windham sister.
He’d do that. Think himself clever for flirting with a wallflower—the toad.
“I can’t tarry outside too long,” Anwen said. “I’d like to be on hand if Her Grace needs me for anything.”
Aunt Esther could organize a function twice this size in half the time with half the help, and the evening would still be splendid.
“I am honored with whatever time you will spare me.” Mr. Montague patted the hand Anwen had laced about his arm, and looked her squarely in the eye.
If this was what Mrs. Bellingham had to endure three nights a week, no wonder the woman had declined Mr. Montague’s overtures.
Just before they left the ballroom, Colin shot Anwen a puzzled look across the buffet table. She winked and got a smile in return.
“You must know how much I respect your entire family,” Mr. Montague said once they were on the terrace. “That they’d rally around an institution facing dire financial straits is indicative of the values I admire most. Sometimes, our pragmatism must be informed by a generosity of spirit and nobleness of gesture that defies the understanding of the less loftily situated.”
Even young Tom would have difficulty translating that sermon. “Are you saying the orphanage is a lost cause, but a noble lost cause?”
He tilted head his up when they reached the terrace balustrade, as if striking a pose, “Handsome Swain Admiring Invisible Stars.”
“More or less. This evening looks to be quite a success, though these funds will soon run out. The fate of the orphanage is sad but predictable, and we must comfort ourselves with the knowledge that our feeble efforts, temporary though they might be, have made a difference in the lives of a few unfortunate boys.”
Some efforts had been notably more feeble than others. Mr. Montague was working very hard on his smile of manly regret, for example, far harder than he’d worked on behalf of the orphanage.
“I am pleased to inform you, sir, that this card party will likely become an annual event. Her Grace hosts many affairs at which four dukes are present. She mentioned she’d like to try for six next year.”
A dozen dukes would not be beyond Her Grace’s abilities, though she might have to summon a few from the Continent.
“That is…well.” Mr. Montague rocked up on his toes, then settled back, like a nervous scholar who’d failed to memorize the day’s recitation. “That is most kind of her, most charitable. Exactly the sort of dedication to worthy causes I’ve noticed in you, Miss Anwen.”
He was working up the nerve to kiss her. This realization presented itself in Anwen’s awareness as if her bodice ribbon had come loose in the middle of a reel. Discreet escape was both imperative and impossible.
“It’s a shame your own inclinations are taking you away from the charity dearest to my heart,” Anwen said. “We’ll feel the lack of your wisdom and perspective once you leave the board, Mr. Montague. You have my thanks for all you have done.”
She gave him her brightest, most brisk smile.
“I will eventually and reluctantly step aside from the House of Urchins solely so that Lord Colin can continue to associate with the place in my stead. He has much to learn about comporting himself as a member of polite society, but I’m doing what I can for him.”
Mr. Montague’s tone combined long-suffering and resignation.
“That’s very humble of you,” Anwen said. “Stepping back so those with greater native talent for administration have a chance to shine. Humility is one of the greatest virtues, don’t you agree?”
His nose did that wrinkling thing again. “Moderation in all things, my dear, including moderation, right?”
Such brilliant wit. “If you say so, Mr. Montague. Perhaps you’d be good enough to escort me back to Lord Colin’s side?”
“You’re trying to keep an eye on him as well? I wish he’d have done with that Scottish nonsense when an occasion calls for formal attire.”
So Colin would stop outshining all the dandies dressed exactly as Mr. Montague was?
“I very much enjoy keeping an eye on Lord Colin regardless of whether he’s wearing his national dress or less imaginative attire. He’s asked to pay me his addresses.”
Mr. Montague came to a halt just outside the French doors. “I beg your pardon?”
“Lord Colin has asked to pay me his addresses.” Small words and not too many of them. Even considering how much punch Mr. Montague had consumed, their meaning should be within his grasp.
His expression turned pensive. “I’m so sorry. That must be terribly awkward for you, given the family connection. I could have a word with him, but you mustn’t blame Lord Colin too much. His brother did marry your sister, and subtleties such as lack of a ducal title might be beyond Lord Colin’s notice.”
What on earth to say to that? You’re a presuming dolt who’s not fit to polish his lordship’s boots?
“He’s put you in a very difficult position,” Mr. Montague went on, patting Anwen’s hand again. “As devoted as you are to the orphanage, you’ll encounter him there, even aside from family gatherings. I’ll simply tell him his overtures are a bit too late, shall I? And nobody will blame you if you take a repairing lease from the House of Urchins now that the coffers are in better health. I’ll explain to Lord Colin that my own interest in you predates his, and he’ll leave the lists as any gentleman should—any honorable gentleman.”
“You’d lie to him, pretend you and I had an understanding, and suggest I step away from the orphanage?”
Mr. Montague drew himself up, which coaxed forth a burp from his belly, though he stifled it, probably from long practice.
“For you, Miss Anwen, yes, I’d take a small liberty with the chronology of the factual details, as it were. I do esteem you greatly, so greatly I might not be entirely misrepresenting the situation, if you take my meaning.”
He peered down at her, one eyebrow arched in question.
“Your sacrifice is entirely unnecessary, Mr. Montague. Honesty is the best policy, provided it’s tempered with kindness. In that spirit, I must tell you that I have not rebuffed Lord Colin’s overtures. You’ll excuse me now. I’d like to invite Lady Rosalyn to join me at the orphanage tomorrow morning. She’ll doubtless be as eager as I am to tell the boys of the evening’s success.”
Anwen wiggled her hand free of Mr. Montague’s grasp and marched into the ballroom. She’d rather have stayed with him on the terrace, giving him the setdown of his presuming, arrogant, useless life.
This was the Windham charity card party, though, and standards must be maintained.
* * *
“At the risk of approaching vulgarity,” the Duke of Moreland said, as the clock struck twice, “that is a bloody lot of money, gentlemen. My duchess has much to be proud of.”
Colin let the old boy preen, because Moreland was right, not because he was a duke. “My thanks, Your Grace, for making the party possible. The evening has been in every way a success. A dozen children will benefit and possibly many more.”
“And I thank you as well,” Winthrop Montague said from opposite Colin at Moreland’s library table, “on behalf of the House of Urchins, and also on behalf of all who enjoyed themselves this evening thanks to your hospitality.”
Moreland ran a finger down a long list of figures. “Her Grace was getting bored with the same soirée, year after year, and frankly so was I. My brother claims soirée is the French word for standing around making idle chatter at the expense of one’s wits. This card party will be the talk of the town for the rest of the season, and one does like to do one’s part for the less fortunate.”
The difference in fortune between a child like Joe, and the card players who’d kept the Moreland staff busy into the small hours, was the difference between John O’Groats and Mayfair.
“If that’s all, then,” Montague said, reaching for the sack that held all of the cash and coins. “I’ll take this to the House of Urchins and stow it in the strongbox until the banks open on Monday.”
Too Scot to Handle Page 21
