Page 17 of Too Scot to Handle
“My sisters require my escort tonight,” Colin said, rising. “I’ll tell the grooms to bring your horse around, and I’ll meet you out front.”
“MacHugh, a moment.”
Montague looked very much a lord about his leisure, the pewter tankards at his elbow, the afternoon sun glinting off his stylishly curled hair.
He also looked a bit desperate.
“Yes?”
“If you’re truly in want of a diversion, perhaps it’s time you took on a charity or two. Twelve warehouses is rather a lot.”
“I own only six, but what does that have to do with anything?”
Montague took a gulp from the second tankard. “Noblesse oblige, to whom much has been given, that sort of thing. You should sit on a charitable board of directors, dole out some coin, do your bit for the deserving poor. The ladies admire a man with some charity in his heart—suggests he has coin in the bank, if you get my drift.”
Anwen Windham was much interested in one charity in particular. “You think I should take up the cause of a few charities?”
“Please, MacHugh, let’s not be extravagant. Start with one—the House of Wayward Urchins will suit you wonderfully—pay it some mind, and you’ll acquire a nice philanthropic patina on your new title. If you overdo, or are too generous, people will say you’re trying to buy your entrée into polite society.”
Colin had merely to glance in the direction of the house, and a footman—a different footman—came bustling forth to take the trays.
“I’m to buy my way into at least four clubs, buy every round of drinks or joint of beef ordered by your friends, buy—”
“Our friends.”
“—buy vouchers for Almack’s, buy independent quarters that are fashionable but not too ostentatious, keep every tailor or bootmaker on Bond Street in business, do my bit at Tatts even though I already have six horses here in London alone, have a coach made as well as my perfectly functional phaeton, and tithe to the bordellos and gaming hells as well, but I mustn’t be seen to spend too much on charity?”
Montague saluted with his ale. “MacHugh, you restore my faith in public school education. My efforts have not been in vain, and your grasp of the challenge you face is commendable—for a Scot.”
He was serious, or as serious as a man could be when half-foxed well before sundown.
“Meet me out front,” Colin said. Montague’s advice was well intended, and the idea of taking an interest in Anwen’s orphanage had appeal.
The boys mattered to her. They weren’t a stupid wager or an afternoon spent debating the merits of red wheels on a conveyance as opposed to yellow.
By the time Colin reached the garden gate, Winthrop Montague had wandered beneath a shady oak, the tankard of ale held with his right hand. With the left, he undid his falls and waved his cock over the heartsease, an arc of lordly piss spattering the hapless flowers.
* * *
“I am so sorry I missed our meeting yesterday,” Lady Rosalyn said as her barouche rolled into the park. “Devilish bad megrim, probably from drinking too much ratafia at Lady Beresford’s card party.”
“Save your breath, Ros,” Anwen replied, unfurling her parasol. “I saw you out with Lord Twillinger. Our meeting hadn’t a quorum because neither you nor Win attended, and nothing was decided.”
Lady Rosalyn Montague could only look lovely—adorably lovely, sweetly lovely, mischievously lovely. Her version of contritely lovely was fairly convincing too.
“I am sorry, Anwen. I thought to have a lie down, then Twilly came calling, and Win suggested fresh air might clear my head. He was right, as usual. Yesterday was too beautiful to spend entirely cooped up, much less at a dreary meeting.”
Meaning Winthrop Montague could easily have attended that meeting without his sister.
Not that one could say that. “I’ve come up with an idea—or rather, Her Grace of Moreland has—for the House of Urchins.”
“Do tell. There’s that dreadful Flora Stanbridge. I must have a word with Pierpont’s wife about the company her husband is keeping.”
Rosalyn could do it too. She dispensed blunt advice with a sympathetic, winning smile, and such a gracious touch of humor that taking offense at her words was impossible.
“Pierpont’s wife might be grateful to Miss Stanbridge. About my idea?”
“Your aunt’s idea?”
