“But why, John?” Tom asked, for the third time.
They were all back in the detention room, because Dickie had failed to appear for breakfast before grace had begun. Dickie said in front of all the little ones that he’d been in the jakes, waiting for Nature to pay a call.
Hitchings had delivered him a proper smack for that, though Dickie had spoken the God’s honest truth. Even the bowels seized when a boy sat for too long, day after day.
John had barely made the breakfast bell. His knees had been grass stained and his palms smeared with dirt, but Hitchings had been too busy ringing a peal over Dickie’s head to notice that John had been taking the air again.
“Why, if you have to roam, did you nick some half-drunk nob’s purse?” Tom pressed.
“Nick ’em when they can barely stand,” Dickie said. “Didn’t our da teach you anything? When the nobs are wandering home at dawn, after they’ve been at the cards, the drink, and the whores all night. Never an easier time to lift a purse than at daybreak, unless you choose the wrong cull.”
John sat, back braced against the wall beneath the window. Joe, who’d said nothing thus far, had his nose in a French dictionary somebody had forgotten from a previous incarceration.
Or maybe Joe had left it here on purpose, because he was that canny.
“I go crazy here,” John said. “It’s spring. Winter’s over, the air is clear for a change, and outside, I can breathe.”
Tom knew all too well what he meant. Being cooped up like laying hens all night was bad enough, but then the sun came up, the birds sang, and a boy felt the urge to move, to ramble, to see what was afoot at the docks, maybe set a snare for an unsuspecting rabbit in the park…
Life was meant to be more than grammar, sermons, and birchings.
Tom leapt up to catch the top edge of the enormous empty wardrobe in the corner of the room and swung himself atop it. The high vantage points helped with the restlessness, though nothing made it go away entirely.
“Orangutan,” Joe said, without looking up from his dictionary.
He got a laugh for that observation.
“Tom likes to climb things,” Dickie said. “John likes to steal the occasional purse from them as can afford it.”
“Robin Hood’s going to end up in Newgate.” Tom rolled to his back and studied the stain spreading from a corner of the ceiling. The mark was old, suggesting somebody had long ago patched the leak causing it. The shape put him in mind of Hitchings’s fat arse.
“I ditched the purse,” John said. “I won’t be taken up, because Miss Anwen was ready to tear a strip off the cull for calling me a guttersnipe.”
“Ooooh, a guttersnipe!” Dickie smacked his forehead and pretended to stagger against the table. “Our darlin’ young Johnnie, a guttersnipe!”
John ignored his brother’s humor. “If you’d seen Miss Anwen with that sidesaddle whip, you’d not be making sport of her. Cull shut his gob and started bowing on the spot. Miss Anwen’s flash gent were with her, and some other cove who looked like the god with the hammer.”
“Thor,” Joe said, turning a page.
“Not him, the blacksmith one,” John went on. “Miss Anwen came galloping across the grass, dirt clods flying out behind her horse, the two gents bringing up the rear. She put her mare between me and the cull, and I have never been so glad to see that woman in all my life.”
They were all, always glad to see Miss Anwen.
“Then what?” Dickie asked.
“Then her flash gent flipped the cull a sovereign. The cull winked at me, bowed to the lady, and charged off as if he’d landed a whole pot o’ gold.”
“He nearly did.” Most of Tom’s acquaintances would go their whole lives without holding one of the recently minted sovereigns.
“How’d you get back here?” Dickie asked.
Joe stopped turning pages and aimed a look at John, just as John might have launched into what Miss Anwen called an embellishment on the truth.
“The flash gent brought me back.”
“Miss Anwen wouldn’t even talk to you,” Tom guessed. “D’you think she’ll tell Hitchings?”
John drew his knees up and hung his head. “She looked like she wanted to cry. She told Lord Colin—that’s the red-haired gent with the smart phaeton—to get me back here as soon as may be, before my adventure became common knowledge.”
“Your adventure was stupid,” Tom said. “You can be hung for stealing, or transported, and that’s assuming enough of you survives a couple of weeks in Newgate. Newgate is no place for a pretty boy, John Wellington.”
The horrors awaiting such a boy were easy enough to imagine, not so easy to endure. Tom was fairly certain Joe could describe them firsthand, and Tom had had a few narrow escapes himself.
“This place is making us soft,” John said, raising his chin. “The cull knew I’d nicked his purse only because I’ve lost my touch. I was clumsy, and he wasn’t as drunk or tired as I’d thought. Stupid and clumsy, I was, because of this place.”
Tom waited for Dickie to chime in, because brothers were loyal and talk cost nothing. Tom was tempted to sing out the usual chorus of frustrations and indignities that went along with life at the House of Urchins too, but Joe’s steady stare stopped him.
If John was a clumsy, stupid thief, that was nobody’s fault but his own.
“Miss Anwen deserves your thanks,” Tom said. “So do the gents who were with her. We get locked in detention together, but you’d go to jail—or Van Diemen’s Land—alone. I’d hate that.”
“You’re going soft,” John shot back. “I can’t wait for this place to close, so I can have my freedom back. Dickie and me will—”
Joe rose and opened the window. He bowed and gestured to John, then crossed his arms.
Freedom awaits.
John was on his feet, nose to chin with Joe. “I can’t just up and leave. I promised Lord Colin I’d not pike off again until he and I had a talk. That’s all he said. No more larks for you until you and I talk, young man. I gave my word and I don’t go back on my word.”
Joe appeared to consider this, then offered a come-get-me-little-man gesture, and tousled John’s hair. John knocked his hand aside, and Dickie leapt up onto the table, which would give the combatants room to air their differences. John had just spit in his palms and put up his fives when the door swung open.
The flash gent stood there, looking like the thunderbolt god with red hair.
“Gentlemen, using the term loosely, good day. Come with me.”
Joe shot a longing glance toward his dictionary, but Dickie was already off the table, and John had pulled the window closed—but not locked it.
“You too,” the gent said, aiming a glance at Tom’s perch atop the wardrobe. “There will be some changes around here, starting now, and you will either learn to accommodate them, or leave so another boy wise enough to take advantage of his good fortune can have your place.”
Like it or lump it, as near as Tom could translate. This fellow sounded like MacDeever, but sharper, more dangerous. Tom leapt down from the wardrobe and fell in behind Joe as his lordship took off down the corridor.
“Master John and I have an errand to see to later today,” Lord Colin said. “I happened to find a gentleman’s purse in the undergrowth at the park, and I require John’s assistance to return it to its rightful owner. Before he and I can undertake that task, you will assist Mr. MacDeever to clean the mews. I expect to hear nothing but good cheer and excellent manners from you all for the duration.”
Lord Colin drew up at the back door. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Dickie said, though he’d smirked, the stupid git.
Lord Colin smoothed a hand gently over Dickie’s hair, but Dickie had ducked—too slowly. The blow would have landed had the gent been in a smacking mood, and his lordship’s point had been made.
“Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir,” John said, elbowing his brother.
“Yes, sir,” Tom echoed.
Joe nodded and pulled his forelock.
“Joey don’t talk much,” Tom said, lest his lordship get to using his fists on poor Joe.
Lord Colin peered down a whacking great nose at Joe. “I admire a man who can keep his peace. You’ll be in charge for the morning, Joseph.”
Joe stood taller, though how he would be in charge when he couldn’t give orders was a mystery.
“In charge of what, sir?” Tom asked.
“In charge of what recruits do best, which is shovel shite, of course. I’m ashamed to stable my horse in yonder mews, lads, and a gentleman always takes good care of his cattle. Do you agree?”
Many a gentleman couldn’t afford a donkey, much less a horse, but that didn’t seem to matter at the moment.
“Yes, sir,” Tom said, as Dickie and Johnnie muttered their assents.
“Then you will all do your bit as gentlemen of the House of Urchins, and take up pitchforks and shovels until that stable is the cleanest in the neighborhood.”
Tom knew nothing about tidying up a stable, but he knew he’d rather muck out stalls, get dirty, and take orders from Joe than spend another minute in the detention room. Trying to keep peace, preventing John from going to jail, and dealing with his own temptations was doomed to failure when the drainpipe sang its siren song.
Because John had a point. Winter was behind them, the streets were full of culls, and Latin conjugations had never kept a boy fed, clothed, or safe.
* * *
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 me, 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?”
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.