Page 99 of Too Scot to Handle
“That’s brilliant,” John said, shoving Joe’s shoulder. “Staff will lay about after being run off their feet last night, family will clear out for a good two hours, and nobody ever looks up. Da always said that.”
“Right before the runners got him,” Dickie retorted.
“Get up to the balcony now before it’s full daylight,” Tom said, “and wait until the family leaves for services, then find that money.”
His lordship was exhausted, he had a streak of dirt across his cheek, and he was overdue for a shave. He looked like a thief, a bloody worried thief.
“It could work,” he said, staring into the shadowed garden. “I know exactly where to look.”
Joe’s suggestion was his lordship’s only chance. John and Dickie’s expressions said they thought so too.
“I’ll need you to deliver a message to Miss Anwen,” Lord Colin said, “without being seen, before she leaves for services. Can one of you do that?”
“Aye.” All four boys spoke in unison, even Joe.
* * *
Colin’s note said Anwen was to detain Montague in the church yard for as long as possible.
She tossed the scrap of paper into the fire, and rejoiced that Colin was at liberty to send notes. She despaired that he hadn’t found the money.
“Ready to go?” Charlotte asked, strolling into Anwen’s room without knocking.
“I am, and thank heavens the rain hasn’t come back. Are we walking?”
“I’d like to, though Aunt and Uncle might want to take the coach.”
St. George’s was only a few streets over, and most of Mayfair graced its pews. Many a Windham had spoken vows there, and the Montagues were regular fixtures.
“You didn’t sleep well,” Charlotte said. “Neither did I. Maybe we can catch a nap during the sermon.”
“Or maybe I’ll see Lord Colin.”
Except she didn’t. Not Colin, not Rhona or Edana, not a single member of the MacHugh household was in evidence, while Win Montague and Lady Rosalyn were in their customary pew, elegantly attired, and quietly greeting neighbors as the congregation assembled.
Anwen endured. As the service went on and on—why must the hymns have so blessed many verses?—she consoled herself with the thought that every extra verse was another minute when Winthrop Montague had to be dutifully pretending interest in the proceedings, exactly as Colin needed him to do.
As the organ’s final notes sounded, and the gossiping began in earnest, Anwen seized her courage with both hands and marched up to Montague.
“Miss Anwen, good day,” Montague said. “A most fetching bonnet, don’t you agree, Lady Rosalyn?”
His complexion was positively gray, his golden curls lank. Rosalyn, by contrast, was a vision in pink and cream lace, her reticule and bonnet trimmed to match.
“Very becoming,” her ladyship said. “Truly it is, but you’ll excuse me, for I see Baron Twillinger trying to get my attention.”
Rosalyn withdrew on a soft rustle of exquisite fashion, though she’d been very nearly rude.
“You mustn’t make anything of it,” Montague said. “She’s concerned you’ll ask her when she’ll pay her vowels from your little card party. Dear Roz plays whist with more enthusiasm than skill, I’m afraid. Not much point in collecting the money now, though, is there?”
He was very sure of himself or he was baiting Anwen. Probably both, the varlet.
“That is a decision I am not yet called upon to make,” Anwen said. “Shall we step outside, Mr. Montague?”
The church sat directly on the street, with only the front terrace, steps, and walkway separating it from vehicle traffic. The congregation arranged itself along the walkway in twos, threes, or small groups. Others wandered off to the square, where more privacy was to be had.
“My dear, you look fatigued,” Montague said. “I hope you were not kept awake by our little contretemps at the orphanage?”
Colin had asked one thing of her: Detain Montague at all costs.
