Page 104 of Too Scot to Handle
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?
