Page 14 of Too Scot to Handle
As Lord Colin had gone off on a flight about compound interest—making money on making money, as he put it—Anwen had spotted Lady Rosalyn up beside Lord Twillinger in a fetching red-wheeled gig. Anwen had ignored her friend, for her friend had seemed intent on ignoring Lord Colin.
Had Lord Colin ever stripped off his gloves and caressed the back of Lady Rosalyn’s neck, and did it mean anything if he had?
Chapter Three
“So paying the excise man has helped our profits?” Colin asked.
Thaddeus Maarten removed his glasses and offered Colin a rare smile. “Your product is seen as higher quality. Paying the excise is apparently comparable to giving it a lordly title. Only the finest whisky can afford to turn up its nose at all the mischief most distillers consider a part of their trade.”
That mischief included arrests, searches, explosions, incarcerations, fines, and bribes. Colin had watched his various cousins and competitors play fox and geese with the excise men for years. One cousin had lost a hand when a still had been blown up, another had emigrated to Boston one day ahead of an arrest warrant.
Colin’s involvement in whisky-making had started with an uncle’s urgent request to assist with repairs to a still the excise men had disabled.
“Ironic, that paying taxes should give my whisky respectability,” Colin said, coming around the desk to take a seat by Maarten. “I started paying the government tithes out of youthful pigheadedness. I was determined that my business operations would go forward without the drama my relations seemed to thrive on. One wants a challenge, not a constant threat of annihilation.”
Even as a soldier, the threat of annihilation had been only intermittent. Wellington had lost as many soldiers to disease as to enemy fire, and those who gave their lives in battle had done so for a reason more lofty than some yeoman’s dram of the day.
“No argument there,” Maarten said, tucking his glasses away. “I was determined to gain my freedom.”
Maarten had been born in Georgia, the offspring of a wealthy landowner and a house slave. How he’d arrived to Britain and acquired the education of a man of business was a mystery. Quakers had been involved, and violations of various laws, in addition to determination, luck, and a prodigious intellect.
“You wanted your freedom, and I long to leave the most civilized city in the world as soon as may be,” Colin replied, getting to his feet. “Here in London, I spend my evenings with men who sit in one place, never stirring for hours except to piss, and then they might go no farther than the chamber pot in the corner to relieve themselves—aiming badly because that’s hilarious, I might add.
“They jeer at each other like schoolboys,” he went on, “and call themselves witty, bother the tavern maids, and label themselves dashing, while soldiers who gave a limb or an eye for the safety of the realm sit cold and dirty in the street, begging for alms. I miss Scotland, where I was merely expected to work hard and keep my younger brothers out of trouble.”
Oddly enough, Anwen Windham had made that plain to Colin on yesterday’s outing in the park. In a moment, she’d clearly seen his longing for home, while Colin had only been able to identify a restless discontent.
“You spend some evenings waltzing,” Maarten observed. “And flirting.”
“I’m expected to escort my sisters, and flirting is part of what a titled gentleman does.” The flirting was easy, except Colin preferred to flirt with women who were free to flirt back. Ennui was fashionable among the ladies aspiring to sophistication, and the debutantes…
They were the recruits to the ranks of society, the foot soldiers living in fear of a stain on their new uniforms or a blunder on the battlefield. Thank God and Scottish governesses, Eddie and Ronnie were made of sterner stuff.
So was Anwen Windham, for all her soft skin and clipped English diction.
A tap sounded on the door.
“Enter,” Colin called, for his meeting with Maarten was concluded, and the sensitive information safely stowed in Maarten’s satchel.
“Mr. Winthrop Montague has come to call, my lord,” the butler said. “Shall I inform him that you’re not at home?”
Colin wasn’t at home—Perthshire was home, not this dwelling that was at once stuffy and much too big for three siblings and some staff.
“Send him up,” Colin said. “He’ll probably expect a tea tray, or lunch on the terrace, or some sort of free food and drink.”
“Very good, my lord.” The butler—a venerable relic by the name of MacGinnes—bowed.
“I should become seasick in his position,” Colin said, when MacGinnes had silently withdrawn and silently pulled the door closed. “All that bobbing and bowing.”
“How did you stand the army?” Maarten asked. “All the saluting and shooting?”
“Every job has its challenges.” Colin extended a hand. “My thanks for the report, and for all you do to make my enterprise successful. I’ll see you again, Tuesday next.”
“I’m planning to return to Scotland by the first of May,” Maarten said. “One doesn’t like to leave the distillery unattended for too long.”
Maarten was being delicate. Scottish law did not recognize slavery in any form, but English courts had dodged the matter, ruling only that former slaves could not be forcibly removed from England. Maarten could easily be snatched from some quiet London street and sold for a pretty penny in the West Indies.
“Maybe by the first of May, Eddie and Ronnie will have reached the limit of their fascination with fashionable society,” Colin said. “I’d love to travel north with you.”
