Page 41 of Too Scot to Handle
“He has bills all over Bond Street. Tailors, bootmakers, haberdashers, glove makers and more. His dressing closet must take up an entire wing of the house.”
“A dandy with a hard head.”
“Many a dandy has a hard head, and fine cattle, and some commercial revenue quietly supplementing his agricultural income, but I’ve never seen a single gentleman run up anything like the sums Lord Colin owes the trades after mere weeks in Town.” Rosecroft named a total that topped the annual income of most vicars and not a few barons.
“And the season’s only half over,” Percival muttered.
Esther would be unhappy with this development. She’d had hopes where Lord Colin was concerned. Anwen, however, would be devastated. No Windham daughter or niece could be permitted to develop expectations where a spendthrift younger son was concerned, no matter how he excelled at finding missing hats.
Chapter Eight
Two assets had served Colin well in the military. The first was a certain natural soldiering ability. His aim was excellent, he rode well, he didn’t need much sleep, and what had smoothed his way more often than not was a capacity for a soldier’s jocular charm.
He’d instinctively known the right sort of humor, the right sort of warmth, to apply to any situation. He’d been able to jolly his superiors out of their tantrums and sulks, and cheer his men through the worst mud-marches. He’d defused arguments among the laundresses as easily as he’d broken up fights between the men, usually with a joke or some commiserating.
When detailed to the artificers, he’d known how to repair canteens, muskets, or haversacks without having been given instructions.
Perhaps being second in line among seven children had given him an ability to see what was wanting in a situation and to provide it.
His other asset, though, which surprised most who’d known him in the military, was a cold temper.
He fought, as his men and commanding officers had both said, in cold blood. The fury he directed at his enemies was as lethal as it was calculating, enhancing his aim, his stamina, his grasp of a strategic advantage. When the fighting ended, he was once again good-natured, friendly Captain MacHugh, but in battle, he was formidably detached from tender sentiments.
Staring at four little boys, their eyes glittering with defiance, their little chins tilted in stubborn pride, Colin’s temper flared like an arctic storm.
“Explain yourselves,” he snapped. “You—” He aimed the screwdriver at the biggest boy, Joe. “What are you about here?”
Silence, while Colin’s temper billowed to gale force.
“I want an explanation, gentlemen. The funds in this box are all that stand between you and starvation. Did you think to steal them?”
Anwen had gone as pale as Win Montague’s linen, though the boys still said nothing. They shuffled their feet, darted glances among themselves, and squared their shoulders.
Colin jabbed a finger at Joe’s chest. “Speak to me, or it’s my open palm that will be—”
“You leave our Joe alone!”
The smallest boy, Dickie, had spoken—shouted, rather.
“Joe can’t tell you anything,” Thomas added. “Joe can talk, but he doesn’t like to, and there’s nothing to tell.”
Anwen’s dismay was palpable, as was her inability to grasp that these children had betrayed her trust.
John, the most daring of the group, remained quiet. Shrewd he might be, but his loyalty to the others didn’t include taking blame for a shared crime.
“I cannot believe you’d steal from the younger boys,” Anwen said. “I know you, I know you to be gentlemen in your own fashion and you’re not greedy, not mean.”
John stared at the window as if he were contemplating a leap to the cobbles below.
“Why shouldn’t I summon the magistrate?” Colin snapped. “Why shouldn’t I have the lot of you charged with theft, conspiracy, lockpicking—?”
“We didn’t take nuffink,” John muttered.
“You took the screwdriver,” Colin said, brandishing the stolen item. “MacDeever will doubtless be looking for it. Another five minutes, and that box would have been empty as well, and apparently not for the first time.”
Anwen wiped a tear from her cheek, and the sight of her distress boiled through Colin as battle lust never had.
“My boys would not steal from their own home,” she said. “I will never believe it of them. They are good boys, and if you summon the magistrate, I will never speak to you again, Lord Colin.”
