Page 84 of Too Scot to Handle
“He is that,” John agreed. “A lame horse’s arse. Sounds better when you say it.”
“A spavined, lame horse’s arse,” John said, “and he has cow hocks.”
They’d become quite the horsemen since the ponies had come to bide in the mews. While Anwen wondered who’d top John’s insult, and where the insults might end, Joe darted to the window and Tom followed him to peer around the fern.
“Lord Colin’s here! I wish he’d draw Mr. Montague’s cork.”
So did Anwen, and a bloody nose was the least of the damage she’d like to inflict on Winthrop Montague.
“Will you tell him, Miss Anwen?” Dickie asked. “Tell him what Mr. Montague said?”
“I will, though I’d ask you not to alarm the younger boys. There is rising damp in the unused wing, but the rest of the building seems sound enough. There’s rising damp in half the homes in London, and yet those houses still stand.”
For a time, but rotten beams, crumbling plaster, and peeling wallpaper were inevitable results, and just the start of the decay that dampness in the walls caused. Win Montague was the social equivalent of rising damp, encroaching on the basis of arrogance and birth where he’d done nothing to earn a proper introduction.
And he was frequently less than fragrant in close quarters too.
“I’ll greet his lordship,” she said. “I think you boys should see how much generosity has been sent your way. We have enough gold and jewels to make any self-respecting pirate swoon.”
An exaggeration, but not by much. Anwen left four smiling boys in the study, and sailed out the door, only to once again run smack into Lord Colin MacHugh.
* * *
“My lord, good morning!” Anwen’s greeting was cheerful but her eyes were suspiciously shiny.
“Has somebody made you cry?” Colin asked, hands settling on her arms. “I’m not in a very tolerant mood, and I’d relish an opportunity to break a few heads.”
The door behind her eased open. Tom, Dickie, John, and Joe peered out from the study room, their gazes carefully blank.
“Mr. Montague made Miss Anwen cry,” John said. “More or less.”
“He’s right,” Dickie said. “You should draw his cork.”
“Plant him a facer,” Tom added, and Tom was usually the soul of diplomacy.
Joe pantomimed a knee to the stones, which Anwen couldn’t see, because the boys were behind her.
“I gather there’s trouble in paradise?”
Anwen whirled away, back into the study. “I am so angry, trouble is a polite term. Please tell the boys the building isn’t going to be demolished over their very heads. Winthrop Montague said as much to Mr. Hitchings, and was overhead by one of the boys. Now they’re convinced no amount of coin can keep the House of Urchins afloat, just when our finances are surely coming right.”
Him again. “Winthrop Montague is making all kinds of a plague of himself, isn’t he?”
Anwen worried a nail, and nodded. Not in front of the boys.
“Listen, ye wee scamps,” Colin said. “You have a home, no matter what. There’s rising damp all over the other wing, but that’s not unusual in an old building that’s been neglected. This wing is sound. Even if it’s not sound, you’re hard workers, well-mannered, good at most anything you turn your hands to, and done with a life on the streets. My word on that as a gentleman.”
He added a glower worthy of his sainted papa so the children would know he meant business.
“We weren’t worried,” Tom said. “We were mad at Mr. Montague. Bloke ought to be looking out for the little ones, not scarpering off to his house parties and hunt balls.”
Mutters of assent sounded from John and Dick, while Joe maintained his characteristic silence.
“I told them you wouldn’t let them down,” Anwen said.
Such faith she had. “If you boys will excuse us, Miss Anwen and I have a few things to discuss regarding the card party. I know you’ll worry, but don’t do anything foolish because of it. I’ll get Mr. Montague sorted out.”
“Sort ’im out with your fives,” Dickie said. “He upset Miss Anwen.”
