“One feels such pity for those not to the manor born,” Winthrop Montague said, steering his phaeton out of Hanover Square. “They’re bound to encounter difficulties that might have been avoided if they’d kept to their places.”
Delightfully serious difficulties in the case of Colin MacHugh.
“You’re trying to sound deep again,” Rosalyn replied. “I like you better when you’re being witty. Do you refer to Lord Colin?”
“The very one. He’s about to land in a deal of trouble over the missing money.”
Rosalyn shot Win a peevish look, as if he were being simple rather than philosophical. “You should let it drop, Win. Money is vulgar. Orphans are tiresome. Close the place down and get back to making stupid wagers with your stupid friends.”
The day was fine, though Rosalyn had always disliked sunny weather. God help the poor dear, she might become afflicted with a freckle.
“How much did you lose?” Win asked. “You can tell me.”
“Too much, but I’ll come right. I always do.”
True enough, and Win never inquired too closely about how she managed it, though Rosalyn’s maid was ever busy altering this dress or pawning that one.
“I shall offer for Anwen Windham,” he said, “and she’ll accept me. Let that brighten your mood, sister dear. First thing tomorrow, I’ll have the Scottish bumpkin arrested, though you mustn’t mention that to anybody. If Anwen is willing to see reason about a special license, I will ask Papa to plead for Lord Colin to be transported rather than hanged. I think that’s being very gracious.”
Rosalyn twitched her skirts away from Win’s boots. “This isn’t a game, Winthrop. A man’s life is at stake, and you haven’t even proved Lord Colin took the money. Why can’t you just let it blow over? You said the orphanage still has the jewels, so the children are better off. Nobody needs to know about a few coins going missing.”
Rosalyn wasn’t prone to argument when charm would suffice, but she was in a mood about something. But then, her idea of a few coins was most people’s idea of a small fortune.
“Do you fancy the Scottish brute? A little longing for the mud, as the French say? I honestly don’t think he took the money. Hitchings might have, or that MacDeever fellow. Maybe the brats, or the cook, for all I know. Lord Colin probably won’t be convicted, now that I think on the matter.”
Rosalyn remained silent, while Win turned the horse onto their street, but her sigh bore the impatience of every sister with every brother, which was a lot of impatience for such a lovely Sabbath.
“Lord Colin’s brother is a duke, Winthrop, which means you plan to incarcerate and accuse a duke’s heir. No woman with any sense wants scandal to touch her hem. Need I remind you that the money has gone missing on your watch and I was on that dratted ladies’ committee until yesterday. You are threatening to dump scandal in my very lap.”
Gad, she was growing tiresome. “I think it’s time you paid a visit to Aunt Margaret in Italy, my dear. You’re developing a petulant streak. I’ll say something to Papa about it, shall I?”
“Do as you please. You always do.”
What Win pleased to do was make passionate, frequent love with Mrs. Bellingham, and to secure such a joy, he was willing to marry even Anwen Windham.
Who wasn’t that bad-looking, provided not too many candles were lit.
“If you can’t afford to lose at cards, Rosalyn, then you shouldn’t play with those who can. I mean that advice kindly, of course. I can think of no other excuse for your poor humor. Perhaps you’re jealous of my impending good fortune.”
She was probably eaten up with jealousy, but she was the one who’d turned down five offers her first season—and hadn’t had a single suitor for the past year.
“Spare me your sermons,” she spat, “while you, Twilly, and Pointy live in dun territory from one quarter to the next. Moreland is shrewd, and you’ll not be living off Anwen’s settlements.”
Win brought the phaeton to a halt. “Be off with you. You need a lie down, or a birching, or a good talking to. I’m marrying into a ducal family, which can only benefit you, and all you can do is complain and carp. Most unattractive, Rosalyn. You should be grateful, and I’m out of patience with you.”
She snapped her parasol closed, bounced down from the phaeton on the arm of the waiting footman, and flounced off into the house.
Tiresome woman, which was one of those terms that said the same thing twice. Win clucked to the horse and drove in the direction of the Moreland townhouse, where the first order of business was not discussing marriage settlements, but rather, confiding in the duke about the terrible scandal threatening Miss Anwen as a result of her association with that upstart Scottish rogue.
* * *
“Anwen, I try to have faith that the young people in this family will exercise the good sense and decorum with which they were raised, but your pacing must cease.”
Aunt Esther always rebuked gently but firmly, and yet Anwen could not keep still.
“What can they be discussing?” she asked on another circumnavigation of the Windham family parlor. “Mr. Montague has been in there with Uncle Percy for more than a half hour.”
Across the corridor, the library door remained closed, and try as she might, Anwen could detect no raised voices, no laughter, nothing.
“What are you afraid they’re discussing?” Aunt asked, pulling her needle through a hoop of white silk.
“Me,” Anwen said. “My orphans, my future. And I’m not part of the conversation.”
“Trust your Uncle Percival,” Aunt said, putting the hoop down. “If Montague is presuming to ask permission to court you, Moreland won’t reply until he’s consulted with you and your parents. Lord Colin’s interest in you is already established, as is a connection with the MacHugh family. Mr. Montague might cut a fine figure in his endless procession of new outfits, but that does not recommend him as a husband.”
Anwen came to a halt before a portrait of the duchess as a very young wife. She’d not been a classic beauty, and yet she had a loveliness about her, a duchess-ness, that encompassed grace and appearance both.
“You don’t like Mr. Montague, Aunt?”
“I cannot approve of a man who makes a jest of considerable sums of money and involves the trades in his prank. As for Lady Rosalyn…Lord Monthaven should have taken her in hand before her come out. The poor girl hasn’t a mama, though, and her aunt removed to Italy under questionable circumstances years ago.”
Good heavens. “What else don’t I know?”
“Much,” Aunt Esther said, coming to stand beside Anwen. “I’ve always liked this picture. The artist was kind but honest.”
Another gentle rebuke.
“You and His Grace know about the expenses attributed to Lord Colin by Montague’s friends?”
The duchess wrapped an arm around Anwen’s waist and gave her a half hug. “Montague instigated the whole business, even if he had accomplices running up the debts. Rosecroft had a protracted discussion with Twillinger and then with Pierpont, and their stories matched in all particulars. Winthrop Montague set Lord Colin up for embarrassment or worse. Montague then tried to shift blame onto the bumbling sycophants who toady to him. Nasty business. His Grace was not impressed.”
Anwen shot a nervous glance at the door. “Then what are they discussing?”
In the next instant, the duke strode into the parlor, his expression severe. “Your Grace, Niece, I must accompany Mr. Montague to the House of Urchins, for he claims there’s been a theft of valuables, and that all evidence incriminates Lord Colin MacHugh.”
Montague followed His Grace right into the family parlor. “I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he said, bowing to the duchess and then to Anwen. “I wish there were some other explanation.”
“There are several other explanations,” Anwen retorted. “And you, Mr. Montague—”
“My dear young lady,” the duke interjected, “this is a serious matter. I know you care deeply for the children, but that should inspire you to see the situation resolved as quickly and quietly as possible. The worst sort of scandal threatens, and I can only appreciate that Montague alerted me before word reaches the newspapers.”
“But Mr. Montague is not—”
“Not now, Anwen.” The duke hadn’t raised his voice, but he’d raised an eyebrow.
Montague had affixed a sorrowful, resolute expression to his face and was staring straight at Anwen.
“We must go,” the duke said, bowing to Aunt Esther.
“Then take me with you,” Anwen demanded. “I know that building, the children, the staff, the grounds far better than Mr. Montague does, and I assure you, Your Grace, Mr. Montague’s perspective on the situation is not the only one that should carry weight.”
“There’s time for theorizing later,” the duke retorted. “The first step is to ascertain that the money is in fact missing. Now, if you will please excuse us—”
“Moreland.” Aunt Esther had raised neither her voice nor her eyebrow. “Anwen has a point. Take her with you, please.”
Montague’s expression faltered, revealing exasperation beneath his façade of selfless concern.
The duke and duchess had a silent conversation, which included Aunt Esther flicking a gaze over Montague such as she might have fired off before delivering the cut direct.
“Very well,” the duke said. “But delay us at your peril, Anwen.”
Anwen kissed her aunt, whirled from the room, and had a cloak and bonnet in her hand in less than a minute.
* * *
“Your expression resembles your mother’s when she’s made up her mind,” Percival said.
Long ago, he’d learned that one did not cross Gladys Windham lightly. One did not cross Gladys Windham at all, if one had sense.
Percival sat beside Anwen on the forward-facing seat of the coach, though the journey to the infernal orphanage could have been made on foot. Montague would have doubtless offered to take Anwen up in his phaeton, and that Percival could not allow.
“Lord Colin did not take that money,” Anwen said. “Mr. Montague had more access to the facility, the keys to every door on the premises, more opportunity than Lord Colin, and more motive.”
Percival’s niece was vibrating with indignation worthy of a duchess. “How come you to know such details, Anwen?” The quiet ones always bore watching. How could a father of ten have forgotten that?
“Because I pay attention, Your Grace. The money turned up missing yesterday, and we’ve spent the intervening time searching the orphanage. Montague accused Lord Colin from the start, though Hitchings will tell you Lord Colin has no keys to the chairman’s office and no need for additional coin.”
Percival’s niece had found herself smack in the middle of a problem, and had sat at the dinner table last night listening to her sisters babble about whist and piquet until the duchess had worn that “Percival, make them stop” look.
And all the while, Anwen hadn’t thought to turn to her uncle—a duke, fifty-third in line for the throne—for aid or advice.
Truly, she was a stubborn, independent, determined, hard-headed…Windham.
“Lord Colin might have a need for coin,” Percival said gently. “Montague made him the object of an expensive prank, and even I would have been hard pressed to produce that much blunt on short notice. Lord Colin managed it in less than a week.”
“Because his family has means, Your Grace. He borrowed from his brother’s London breweries, then reimbursed them from his Edinburgh bank accounts.”
Anwen was so casual about a financial transaction that should have been held in closest confidence, that Percival had to reassess his estimation of the situation.
“What else should I know about this imbroglio that you haven’t told me?” Doubtless there was more—much more—and Percival would be lucky to pry half the truth from her in the space of a short carriage ride.
Anwen had the grace to cast him one apologetic glance. “Mr. Montague has been panting after Mrs. Bellingham, but hasn’t the funds to afford her.”
“Gracious, child. Where do you hear such things?” That on dit had been making the rounds in the clubs for weeks, though Percival had forgotten he’d heard it.
The coach clip-clopped along for another few minutes while Percival considered strategy, scandal, and the folly of young love.
“If the money is missing, Anwen, then the authorities must be notified.”
“Montague will have Colin arrested tomorrow morning, Uncle. I can’t allow that. I’ll elope first, and nothing you, Her Grace, or my dear cousins can do will stop me.”
He hadn’t seen that salvo sailing toward his quarterdeck, but he should have.
“My dear, if Lord Colin hares off, he’s all but incriminating himself, and the scandal will be all over Town before you can pack your trunks for Scotland. I don’t suppose you know his lordship’s present whereabouts?”
When had little Anwen grown so pretty—and so fierce?
“If I did know, I’m not sure I’d tell you, Uncle, but I don’t know. I begged his lordship to make a strategic retreat, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s convinced Montague took the funds, and so am I.”
Percival was willing to consider that possibility, and yet, Montague had made a convincing case against not only Lord Colin, but also the old headmaster, the groundskeeper, and even the children.
“Anwen, to some extent, it doesn’t matter who took the money. Our friends and acquaintances opened their purses and their hearts on behalf of this orphanage, and their trust has been betrayed. The institution will soon flounder, and I will never hear the end of this from your parents.”
Esther would serenely soldier on, despite the discredit to her card party, and Percival would hurt for her on a level he shuddered to contemplate.
“Uncle, I love you and respect you,” Anwen said, very calmly, “but I don’t care one hearty goddamn for the friends and acquaintances who gave up their eleventh cravat pin or eighth pair of pearl earrings in a public display of generosity.
“I care about the children,” she went on, “and so does Lord Colin. If the only result of this thievery were a slight to his honor, he’d have taken me north last night. He’s standing against this slander because he gave the children his word they’d be kept safe. Hang the scandal. Let the tabbies and dandies gossip all they please while they squander fortunes on outlandish wagers and new bonnets. You are a duke. What about the children?”
The question rang with quiet dignity in the elegant comfort of the town coach.
The only other person who dared confront Percival like this was Esther. She’d been born a commoner, granddaughter to an earl, her family well off and respected, but she’d been beneath consideration when a ducal son had gone in search of a bride.
And yet, when Esther was sufficiently provoked, she’d ring a peal over her husband’s head that put the bells of St. Paul’s to shame. Truth, honor, integrity, generosity, compassion—she had expectations of her husband and children with regard to each virtue, and became indomitably steadfast in her views.
“The children will be cared for,” Percival said, feeling both proud of Anwen…and chastised. “I give you my word on that. I cannot speak as confidently on behalf of the Scotsman you claim has become their champion.”
* * *
Where was Colin?
Uncle Percy had asked the only question to which Anwen needed an answer. The money could hang, the scandal could hang with it, and Winthrop Montague…
He paced along at Anwen’s side as they made their way from the coach to the front door of the House of Urchins. Uncle Percy marched ahead, leading a charge into God knew what, while Montague’s hand rode at the small of Anwen’s back.
“You had best not have been telling tales out of school, madam,” he said, leaning close. “I purposely did not ask Moreland for permission to court you, because I do not trust you’ll honor your word to me. If you make so much as one more peep of protest before your uncle, I’ll rethink my resolve to see Lord Colin transported rather than hanged.”
Vile, foul, arrogant…Anwen gave up concocting a retort as Montague’s hand slipped lower. Because he crowded her so closely, nobody would see him taking liberties.
Nor would they see Anwen driving her elbow hard into his belly, or her heel coming down on the toes of his boots.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said, turning on him with mock solitude. “I can be so clumsy. Your Grace, let me take your arm, please.”
“Come along, you two,” Uncle Percival said, pausing at the front door. “Montague, now is not the time to dawdle about displaying your finery.”
“The chairman’s office is upstairs,” Anwen said. “Mr. Hitchings’s office is two doors down and across the corridor.”
Would Colin be in Hitchings’s office? And where were the boys?
If Colin had failed to find the money, the boys might well have already left the premises, despite all the promises made to them.
“Anwen,” the duke said quietly, “a bit of decorum, please.”
She slowed her pace, when she wanted to untangle herself from Uncle Percival and bellow at the top of her lungs.
Colin, where are you?
Despite this being the Sabbath, Hitchings was at his desk.
“Miss Anwen, Mr. Montague, good day.” He rose, his expression both worried and hopeful.
“Alas, I regret we bring no good news,” Montague said. “Your Grace, may I make known to you Mr. Wilbur Hitchings, headmaster of this humble establishment. Hitchings, Percival, Duke of Moreland.”
Hitchings stood very tall. “Your Grace, I am honored.” His bow was stiff and slow.
“Hitchings, good day. Montague relates a distressing tale of thievery, misbehavior, and substantial funds going missing. What can you add?”
“Perhaps we should repair to the conference room, Your Grace? I wouldn’t want to keep Miss Anwen standing.”
Anwen didn’t want to be kept standing either. She wanted to find the boys, find Colin, and make a dash for the docks.
“Very considerate of you,” Montague said, gesturing toward the door. “Miss Anwen, after you.”
She took a seat across from Montague, lest his hands get to wandering beneath the table.
Hitchings offered a depressingly thorough recounting of the events since the card party, but at least his recitation confirmed that Montague had as much opportunity as anybody to take the funds.
“I suppose that leaves only confirmation that the funds are missing,” Uncle Percival said. “You keep the valuables in a strongbox, Hitchings?”
“Yes, Your Grace, though getting both cash and jewels to fit inside the strongbox was a challenge beyond my tired abilities. I am so very sorry, sir.”
“As well you should be,” Uncle Percival replied. “You have no idea where Lord Colin might be?”
“None, sir. He was here after supper last night and asked to meet with the four oldest boys. Based on their demeanor at final prayers, the encounter was far from cheering.”
Montague sat up. “His lordship’s absence from services this morning must be regarded as a discouraging development. He’s on the board of directors for the orphanage and should be monitoring the situation as closely as I am.”
“Balderdash,” Anwen retorted. “There are seven directors, Mr. Montague, and you don’t impugn the honor of the other five, only Lord Colin. Why is that?”
Uncle Percival remained silent, and a duke’s silence could speak volumes.
“The other directors are well known to me, and had no idea the magnitude of the sum resulting from the card party,” Montague replied. “They are also from established, respected families, of means, and well connected.”
Uncle Percival rose. “Dear me. Do you imply that a man who’s heir to a duke lacks connections, Montague? Such admirably high standards you have. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it you who put Lord Colin’s name forth at your club and you who suggested he join the board of directors?”
The duke’s pleasant manner was a more satisfying set down than any kick under the table Anwen could have delivered.
“He did,” she said, rising as Uncle Percival held her chair. “Mr. Montague implied Lord Colin would take Mr. Montague’s place on the board directly. Let’s show His Grace the strongbox, shall we? I assume you brought your key, Mr. Montague?”
Hitchings struggled to his feet, his gaze bouncing from Anwen to Montague. “I have my key,” he said when Montague maintained an affronted silence.
“Then let’s be about it,” Uncle Percival said. “If Montague is determined to lay information against Lord Colin, to bring scandal down on this fine institution, and announce his own incompetence as a chairman to all of polite society, I’m not in a position to stop him.”
Uncle Percival was trying, and for that Anwen could not love him more. Montague looked far from defeated, however.
“The chairman’s office is this way,” Hitchings said, “though we don’t normally keep it locked. No point locking it now, is there?”
Of course there was a point. Somebody could lift the entire strongbox and walk away with it, though Uncle Percival would figure that out for himself.
Hitchings swung the door open. Anwen was prepared to see the same, dreary, dusty office she’d seen many times before, complete with a strongbox sitting square on the chairman’s desk.
Colin sat at the chairman’s desk, a sheet of paper before him, a quill pen in his hand, and an ink bottle open on the blotter. Scattered around on the blotter were also neat stacks of bills and piles of coins.
“Good morning,” he said, rising. “Your Grace, Miss Anwen, a pleasure. Hitchings, Montague, I’m not quite done with the tally, but my closest estimation is that every penny previously reported missing is present and accounted for.”
What on earth?
Colin’s demeanor gave away nothing. He was attired all in dark clothing, his face was lined with fatigue, and his blue eyes had the flat, emotionless gaze of a man pushed beyond endurance.
“Montague,” His Grace said. “You have apparently developed a taste for brewing tempests in teapots—or strongboxes. I am not amused, and I doubt Her Grace will be either. What have you to say for yourself?”
Uncle Percival was very much on his dignity, so much so that Hitchings shrank back against the door.
“That money was stolen,” Montague said. “The money was stolen, all of it gone. Hitchings said so.”
“Hitchings was right,” Colin said, “but I didn’t take it, and neither, it turns out, did you.”