Page 87 of Too Scot to Handle
She gave him a sympathetic look, because they reached this point during every London season. “I miss you too. Maybe it’s time to have Westhaven attend some of your parliamentary committee meetings. He’s no longer newly wed or new to fatherhood.”
“Maybe it’s time you had only one at home a week.”
For the past several years, they’d been having this argument too.
“Starting in June, I will. Two weddings, a grand ball, and a card party are enough for one season. If Lord Colin is in dun territory, why did you give him permission to court Anwen?”
“Because he’s no more indebted than Westhaven or Rosecroft. The clubs are very discreet, but a prank was played, or a series of pranks, and a significant list of expenses was attributed to Lord Colin that he’d not run up. I gather the same dubious brand of juvenile humor resulted in bills all over Mayfair and even at Tatts.”
And that was taking things a step too far, or several steps. Accounts at the club could be squared with reciprocal generosity, but glorified horse thievery was the outside of too bold. Greed in young men who’d been born with every privilege was an untenable fault.
Coupling greed with stupidity was intolerable.
Her Grace took another bite of ham and set down her utensils. “I am very glad our sons turned out as sensibly as they did, Moreland. Involving the trades in some puerile jest shows exceedingly bad taste. My future guest lists will reflect my opinion on the matter. I take it Lord Colin paid the bills?”
“Within the week. Even Westhaven would have had difficulty pulling that off. Will you leave me any toast at all?”
Esther smirked, looking about sixteen years old, and bit off a corner of his last piece of toast. “Ring for more. A social triumph always puts me in good appetite.”
Percival was an advocate of the love match, within reason, but he did not envy his offspring. No matter their wealth or position—in some regards because of those blessings—they had hard years ahead. Years of parenting, marital discord, heartache, and challenge. Decades of setbacks, joys, sorrows, and readjustments.
If they were very, very lucky, they might acquire the sort of wealth Percival treasured most of all—breakfast with his duchess, her smirking at him over purloined toast while the fire crackled cozily in the hearth, and a dreary day got under way outside.
“Lord Colin’s distillery ventures are on quite sound footing,” Percival said. “And getting sounder, according to Westhaven. He’s heard the talk in the clubs too, and if I were one Winthrop Montague, I might leave early for the house parties.”
Esther peered at him. “There’s scandal brewing? Does this have to do with Mrs. Bellingham?”
Percival had a sip of her chocolate. “Madam, you shock me. And at the breakfast table. Such talk.”
Esther rose and plucked an orange from the bowl on the sideboard. “Let’s away to our sitting room, sir. For if you think to withhold good gossip from your devoted wife, you are sadly in error.”
She kissed his cheek and swanned off, as only a social triumph pleased with her duke could.
* * *
“I simply hadn’t room in the strongbox for the jewels and the cash both,” Hitchings said, for the fourth time. “I locked the jewels away and divided the money into the sum we need for each month’s expenses. A good eight months’ worth too.”
Anwen knew exactly how much coin the card party had earned, and now every bit of it was gone.
“We still have the jewels,” she said. “We needn’t panic.”
“We have a thief in our midst,” Winthrop Montague retorted from his place at the chairman’s desk. “But then, we knew that.”
Colin had convinced Hitchings to notify Montague as chairman of the board rather than go directly to the authorities. Montague had taken half the afternoon to bestir himself, and he appeared much the worse for having overindulged the previous night.
Anwen, Colin, and the children had spent the intervening hours searching every drawer and closet of the orphanage for the missing funds. The only place they hadn’t searched was the chairman’s office, where Hitchings had remained like a martyr keeping vigil over the strongbox.
“Montague, don’t leap to conclusions,” Colin said. “Moreland himself pointed out that half the pickpockets and thieves in London had to have heard of last night’s card party. The usual gawkers were lining the drive and at the ballroom windows. Anybody could have followed the Moreland coach last night.”
“I should never have left the money in the drawer,” Hitchings said. “The lateness of the hour affected my judgment, but what else was I to do?”
“You are not to blame, Mr. Hitchings,” Anwen said. “The money should have been safe enough in the chairman’s office. The door does lock after all.”
Mr. Montague pinched the bridge of his nose. “Who had a key?”
“You do,” Hitchings said. “I do as well, and MacDeever has a set, though to be precisely, entirely honest, I’m not certain I locked the door. I don’t usually. The strongbox is locked at all times, but not the various doors.”
“Let’s establish a sequence of events,” Colin said, pacing to the window. “The authorities will start there, and we should as well.”
