Page 101 of Too Scot to Handle
“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.”
