Page 13 of Too Scot to Handle
“Precisely!” Anwen said, bolting to her feet. “Tom’s mother died in childbed, and there he was, eight years old, nobody to look after him. He’d done nothing wrong. Joe barely speaks, but he’s a good lad and quick, and quite sturdy for his age. John has man of business in his very blood, and Dickie really needs to be a valet, he’s so taken with fashion. They are good boys, and they’ll go back to picking pockets and housebreaking for want of money that so many could easily spare.”
“My dear young lady,” Aunt said, patting the bench beside her, “radical notions put roses in your cheeks. It’s quite becoming, though your uncle will despair of your politics.”
Anwen settled beside her aunt, soothed by the duchess’s fragrance. Aunt always smelled good—not sweet, fragrant, or feminine, exactly, though she was all those things—but virtuous, kind, good.
“Will Uncle let me hold a ball for my orphans?” The idea of planning a ball…The duchess held only one formal ball a year, and every woman and half the men in the family were required to assist with the planning.
Her Grace stroked a hand through Anwen’s hair. “It might surprise you to know that Westhaven keeps me on a strict budget for the season’s entertainments.”
No ball, then. Drat and blast.
“I’ll use my pin money, but it won’t go far.” While the directors got drunk over endless hands of whist behind the stout walls of their—
A little shiver skipped across Anwen’s nape as an idea tugged at the hem of her worries.
“Aunt, what if we held a charity card party instead of a ball? A percentage of everybody’s winnings could go to charity. We’d be asking people to while away an evening as they often would, though chance would favor the orphans at every game, rather than smiling exclusively on the winners.”
Aunt swung her feet down and sat back against the cushions. “I’ve never heard of a charity card party. Even high sticklers have no issue with a mention of coin when it relates to a friendly game of piquet.”
And by all means, the sensibilities of the high sticklers should be foremost when children were threatened with a starvation.
“Gentlemen control the wealth in this realm,” Anwen said. “An entertainment that caters to gentlemen has more chance of raising funds.”
Aunt toed her slippers on, studying the satin bows adorning them. “I am expected to contribute to the tone of the social season, and for years, my farewell soiree has been a landmark on polite society’s calendar. Perhaps it’s time to change landmarks.”
She rose, an impressively tall woman who carried herself with unfailing elegance, even in the confines of a folly.
The duchess began a slow circuit along the benches. “If I point out to Westhaven that my nieces need a project to distract them from Megan’s departure for Scotland, he should allow me to divert the funds I’d typically spend on the farewell soiree to your card party.”
The shiver had turned warm and hopeful. “This must be your card party, Aunt.”
“The Windham card party, then,” Her Grace said, staring off across the garden. “We have charity balls all the time, subscription balls, musicales…A card party will be novel, and attendance will be limited. We won’t have the expense of an orchestra or the headache of errant debutantes and drunken bachelors.”
The duchess resumed pacing. “We must be shrewd about the invitations, but not exclusive. Wagers should be capped at one hundred pounds, I think.”
Anwen began doing math. “How many tables?”
“If we set this up in the ballroom, we can easily have twenty-five tables, which means one hundred people seated at play and perhaps another eighty wandering the terraces, listening to Valentine’s music, or enjoying punch and a buffet.”
As the duchess considered ideas, dates, and potential guests, Anwen added her thoughts and listened to a pillar of society throwing herself into a charitable cause.
Would any of this have happened if Lord Colin hadn’t spent more than an hour explaining to Anwen how to put the House of Urchins on solid footing?
No, it would not. Anwen would be in the family parlor, her feet up, swilling chamomile tea, and thanking her sisters for their concern.
Much more of that concern and she’d go mad.
“What about Lady Rosalyn?” the duchess asked. “Shall she help us manage this affair? Her brother is a director, isn’t he?”
“Winthrop Montague is the vice-chair, so he’ll certainly be in attendance, but I think Lady Rosalyn would rather enjoy the play than involve herself in yet another committee. She’s as much in demand as a partner at whist as she is on the dance floor.”
Very much in demand, and Anwen wished her the joy of both undertakings.
“She’ll be invited, but not involved.” Aunt rang for a lap desk, and a pot of stout China black along with a plate of sandwiches. As the shadows lengthened across the blooming garden, and honeysuckle perfumed the air, the card party took shape.
Anwen stuffed herself with three sandwiches—they were small, and no helpful sisters appeared to remind her to eat slowly—and pondered a question she did not put to her aunt.
Lord Colin had been expecting to meet Lady Rosalyn at the House of Urchins, and he hadn’t quibbled at Anwen’s explanation of a megrim. Megrims happened, as did monthlies, bad fish, and all manner of ailments, but Lady Rosalyn had apparently made a rapid recovery.
