Page 102 of Too Scot to Handle
“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.
