Page 1 of Too Scot to Handle
Chapter One
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single gentleman in possession of a great fortune— Damn it, woman,” Winthrop Montague bellowed, “where’s my ale?”
“And in possession of a title!” somebody called from across the tavern’s longest table.
“And damned fine looks!” his mate added.
“And a strapping bay gelding I’m keen to win over a hand of cards!”
Much rapping on the tabletop ensued, along with by-joves and hear-hears, until Lord Colin MacHugh’s head throbbed to the beat of all this gentlemanly bonhomie.
“As I was saying,” Montague went on, gesturing grandly with his tankard and sloshing ale on the floor. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single gentleman in possession of a great fortune, must be in want of a passionate, beautiful, inventive, affectionate…”
“Mistress!” the company yelled.
“Two mistresses, so he don’t wear ’em out too quick!”
“When you have as much good fortune as Lord Colin does, you should hire entire brothels and invite all your friends along as a gesture of charity toward the less fortunate!”
When you had as much good fortune as Lord Colin, you apparently were expected to hire the equivalent of entire public houses.
The harried young woman serving the dozen men who’d accompanied Colin and Montague from the club emerged from the kitchen for the hundredth time in two hours. She ferried a set of full tankards over from the bar and swiped aside a lock of dark hair with the back of her wrist.
One of Montague’s friends pulled her into his lap. “I can’t afford a mistress, my lovely, but I can show you a very fine time for tuppence.”
“D’you suppose that’s why they call it tupping?” Baron Twillinger asked. He’d reached the philosophical stage of inebriation while his companion, Lord Hector Pierpont, was still in the amorous phase.
Colin was not inebriated, though he was profoundly bored.
“If your lordship don’t mind,” the tavern maid said, wiggling against Pierpont’s hold, “I’m not that sort of girl.”
“You’re all that sort of girl if the price is right,” Pierpont replied, chasing her chin with the puckered lips of a hungry mackerel. “Am I right?”
“You’re right,” Twilly replied. “I’m foxed.”
“My lord, please let me go,” the girl said, struggling in earnest.
“I’ll let you go, as soon as you let me come,” her gin-Romeo retorted, groping her breast.
“Pierpont.” Colin tried for that blend of condescension, good humor, and command that came so easily to the true aristocrat. “If she’s busy accommodating your prodigious appetites, she can’t very well tend to the rest of us, can she? And we will provide her much more than tuppence to keep the ale and port flowing.”
“He’s got you there, Pointy,” the baron said, raising his tankard. “A round to Lord Colin’s superior intellect!”
Pierpont let go of the girl, and from across the table, Montague acknowledged a competent display of authority—or wealth—with a slight smile.
Colin signaled the serving maid with a tilt of his head, and that gesture—perfected in cantinas and public houses all across Portugal, Spain, France, and the Low Countries—earned him her cautious approach.
Smart woman—smart, exhausted woman. This impromptu drinking party had started a good two hours ago, and so far, Colin had found it a waste of time, coin, and decent ale. One didn’t say that, of course, not when one was a newly titled Scottish lord learning to keep company with English aristocrats.
“Have the stable boy bring my horse around,” Colin said, keeping his voice low. “I ride a blood bay, about seventeen hands with two white socks. Tell your master that Lord Colin MacHugh would rather the proprietor served us himself from this point onward.”
“I’ll get a cuff on me ’ead for telling me master—”
“Pierpont will get you a babe in your belly,” Colin said, slipping the girl a few coins. “My brother is the Duke of Murdoch, and the publican will want to remain in my good graces.”
“The Duke of Murder?”
How Hamish hated that sobriquet, but Colin would use it to keep this serving maid from ruin.
