Page 93 of Too Scot to Handle
Anwen let Colin have the last word, but he didn’t realize how naturally talented he was at dealing with responsibility. He was a convivial escort, a charming partner for the waltz, but beneath the polite banter and handsome turnout was a man of substance, brains, and integrity.
She let that thought reassure her as Colin handed her into his coach, but as soon as he’d kissed her farewell, she started praying.
* * *
Colin had arranged to meet with the boys after supper, which meant he had time to consult with one other potential ally first.
Potential being the hopeful version of the facts.
“If it isn’t the hero of the card party,” the Earl of Rosecroft said as Colin was ushered into the same room where he’d played cards the past three Tuesday evenings. “Have you taken a fancy to my Malcolm? He’ll cost you a significant amount of coin.”
Rosecroft was the nobleman at his leisure today, no horse slobber on his cravat, no dust on his boots. He did, though, have a curious pink stain on his cuff.
“I’ve taken more than a fancy to your cousin, Anwen,” Colin said, “and I have come to speak with you about coin. In confidence.”
“Bollocks. I hate confidential discussions.” His lordship sounded very much like Colin’s older brother. “Will I need to lend you my matched Mantons anytime soon?”
“You will not. I need the loan of your common sense.”
“A paltry item. Shall we sit, or would you rather admire the garden?”
“The garden, if you please.”
“This must be very confidential indeed.” Rosecroft led the way through French doors to a miniature version of the Moreland House gardens. All was tidy and restful, except for an enormous canine of mixed pedigree, who bounded over to Rosecroft.
“Scout, go away.” The earl had never sounded more stern.
The dog licked his hand.
“Bad dog. Begone with you.”
This time, the beast insinuated its head under Rosecroft’s hand, as if to inspire some petting.
“This is my daughter’s dog,” Rosecroft said, refusing to oblige. “She pined for him so badly I had him brought down from Yorkshire, and the dratted animal listens only to her.”
Oh, right. The girl had pined for her dog. Of course.
Colin gave the sheep-dog whistle for “get out,” which meant to give the sheep more space rather than hover at their heels. The dog cocked its massive head, then trotted off a few steps.
“He thinks you’re one of his bonnie wee lambs,” Colin said. “Must be an English dog.”
Rosecroft wrinkled a nose worthy of a ducal firstborn. “Explain what you just did, and then we can have this confidential discussion.”
What self-respecting Yorkshire landowner didn’t know his sheep-dog calls? Colin ran through the basic commands as he and Rosecroft wandered a gravel walk, the dog accompanying them. Then Colin explained the situation at the orphanage, and the need to retrieve the funds immediately.
He did not mention that Anwen had been the recipient of a marriage threat, lest Rosecroft put the matched pistols to use himself.
“Montague has you boxed in a corner with no handy windows,” Rosecroft said. “If I had the money I’d lend it to you, but I’m a great believer in letting the banks hold my valuables, and most of my coin is York. Have you considered this might be a trap?”
Well, shite. Colin dropped to a plank bench, and the dog sat panting by his side. “I honestly hadn’t.”
Rosecroft took the other half of the bench, and the dog got up to rest its chin on his knee.
“As devious as Montague has been, as ungentlemanly and even dishonorable, you need to plan on that possibility. You will set your stealthiest foot in his bedroom, and he and four of his friends will leap out from the wardrobe with arrest warrants in hand.”
Rosecroft stroked a hand over Scout’s head, the caress clearly familiar and dear to the dog.
The boys at the orphanage needed such a companion. Loyal, loving, and full of sharp teeth when the occasion called for it.
