Page 105 of Too Scot to Handle
Colin’s demeanor gave away nothing. He was attired all in dark clothing, his face was lined with fatigue, and his blue eyes had the flat, emotionless gaze of a man pushed beyond endurance.
“Montague,” His Grace said. “You have apparently developed a taste for brewing tempests in teapots—or strongboxes. I am not amused, and I doubt Her Grace will be either. What have you to say for yourself?”
Uncle Percival was very much on his dignity, so much so that Hitchings shrank back against the door.
“That money was stolen,” Montague said. “The money was stolen, all of it gone. Hitchings said so.”
“Hitchings was right,” Colin said, “but I didn’t take it, and neither, it turns out, did you.”
Chapter Twenty
Colin wanted nothing more than to scoop Anwen up and spin her around until they fell in a happy, relieved heap, but there stood Moreland, looking like the wrath of Mayfair. Next to him, Winthrop Montague was trying to hold on to an air of outraged dignity.
“Of course I didn’t take the money,” Montague snapped. “Only the most vile, selfish, outrageous, contemptible excuse for a mongrel cur would steal from a lot of wretched children. I should call you out for the very implication.”
Moreland studied the golden lion’s head at the top of his walking stick. “Montague, there is a lady present.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Anwen said. “I am pleased to find the money where it belongs, but would like to hear what Lord Colin has to say.”
“Nothing he has to say could possibly interest me,” Montague said. “I resign from my position as chairman effective immediately, and will take my leave of this dashed place once and for all.”
Colin pulled out a chair from the conference table. “Sit, else I will ruin you as you planned so cheerfully to ruin me.”
Anwen looked pleased with that threat—except it wasn’t a threat, it was a vow.
“Do take a seat, Mr. Montague,” she said. “As best I can recall the policies and procedures with my feeble female memory, no resignation is effective unless tendered to two other directors who accept same in writing.”
Moreland settled into a chair. “Best do as she says, Montague. Wouldn’t want to add rudeness to a lady to your other transgressions.”
Montague flounced into a seat, and for half an instant, Colin nearly felt sorry for him. Then he recalled four boys, holding vigil with him through a long and disappointing night, and wished there were no witnesses in the room.
Colin remained on his feet. “The funds were discovered missing yesterday morning. Somebody who had access to the property between about three o’clock and ten o’clock in the morning took them. Those parties included myself, Mr. Montague, Hitchings, MacDeever, the boys, and the staff.”
“And Miss Anwen,” Montague said. “Don’t deny it.”
“Mr. Montague, tread lightly,” Moreland murmured. “Very, very lightly.”
“Montague is right,” Colin said. “Anwen was here to inform the boys of the card party’s success, and Lady Rosalyn was with her.”
Comprehension lit in Anwen’s eyes, while Montague fluffed his cravat. “What of it? Poor Rosalyn has cut her ties with this place and not a moment too soon. I rue the day I dragged her onto Miss Anwen’s dratted committee.”
His Grace sat back. “Young man, I account your father a parliamentary associate, else I should call you out myself.”
“If I recall aright,” Colin said, “Mr. Montague noted that only the most vile, selfish, outrageous, contemptible excuse for a mongrel cur would steal from a lot of wretched children. The thief is his own sister, Lady Rosalyn Montague.”
Colin expected Montague to explode across the table, reel with righteous denials, or otherwise defend his sister’s honor. Anwen’s expression was merely curious, while Moreland was scowling.
“Explain yourself,” His Grace said, “for Mr. Montague’s powers of speech seem to have deserted him.”
Montague sat unmoving on his side of the table, his expression blank. “Rosalyn took the money?”
The poor sod hadn’t figured it out, which meant he’d been willing to stick Colin’s neck in a noose for the sheer hell of it, not even to keep his sister from going to prison.
“Rosalyn stole every penny,” Colin said. “She came here yesterday morning with Anwen, got halfway up the stairs before pleading a headache, and told Anwen she’d wait in the coach. Anwen went in search of the boys, and Rosalyn went to the chairman’s office thinking to break into the strongbox. She had the combination, which I’ve occasion to know has been conveniently jotted down in your daybook.”
Anwen’s gaze went to the strongbox. “But she didn’t even have to open the strongbox, because Hitchings had locked only the office door, if that—Rosalyn would need a mere hairpin if he had—and left the money lying in an unlocked drawer.”
“Rosalyn took the money?” Montague said again. “This is terrible.”
