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“Fine.” Emmie sat there for a moment, looking for a way to explain this so she and Mr. Pershing didn’t look like the scheming bamboozlers they clearly were. “I don’t know if you two are aware,” she ventured slowly, “but there were conditions attached to Mr. Pershing and me remaining at Winnover Hall. Our marriage earned us five years of residency. By the end of that time, we were to… procreate. Produce a child. A descendant of the Duke of Welshire. As you know, we have not done so.”
“Madam, this is none of my concern,” the butler said, jaw clenched and his cheeks turning red.
“But it is, Powell. My grandfather’s seventieth birthday approaches, and he wants to meet his great-grandchildren.” She looked down for a moment, feeling like a schoolgirl caught in a lie. “You see, I may have informed him—I did inform him—in order to keep Winnover Hall—that Mr. Pershing and I had a child. Children. A boy and a girl.”
Now even the butler looked shocked, and given the usual granite of his expression, that was quite the feat. Hannah glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the children, her eyes widening. “That’s why you—”
“Yes. That is why we’ve borrowed two children from St. Stephen’s orphanage,” Emmie finished. “For the moment you may address them as Master George and Miss Rose. Sometime before the party, they will become Malcolm and Flora Pershing. I will inform you when this occurs, so that you may inform the rest of the staff. We will all require some practice.”
“Oh my,” Hannah breathed.
“I know this is highly unusual. And it is imperative that the true story not spread to the rest of Society. If word should get back to His Grace of the actual circumstances, we will be removed posthaste from Winnover Hall. The estate will, I assume, go to Cousin Penelope and her husband and their brood.”
“This is your childhood home, ma’am,” Powell said stoutly. “We will do whatever is necessary to see that it remains in your possession.”
“Thank you, Powell,” she said feelingly, though she had a good idea that part of his loyalty owed to the fact that he didn’t want to be at the beck and call of the high-handed Penelope Ramsey Chase and her overbearing husband and their three hellions—if they even kept the butler on.
“Mr. Pershing knows you invented children?” Hannah asked, then put her hands over her mouth. “That is none of our business either, of course.”
“Mr. Pershing didn’t know until three days ago,” Emmie said, deciding that if all of this did gallop off the road and into the hedgerow, her husband should not have to bear the weight of any blame. It was her love of Winnover that had led to this mess in the first place. “We have agreed that this is the least disruptive solution.”
Both servants nodded. “They are both darling children,” she went on, “and while they seem a bit subdued after their time in the orphanage, I’m certain they will be happy to be in such a lovely home and to learn about being a gentleman and a lady.”
“I would hope they would be exceptionally grateful for the opportunity to mingle with their betters,” Powell stated.
“None of that, now, Powell. For the next few weeks, they are Pershings. The rest of the household will follow your example.”
The butler sketched a stiff bow. “Of course, Mrs. Pershing. We shall not fail you.”
“No, we shan’t,” Hannah seconded.
“Thank you.” She smiled, flexing the fingers she’d been gripping far too tightly together. That had gone better than she’d expected. “That’s all, then. We’ll be having dinner within the hour. Powell, please let Mrs. Brubbins know that I will sit with her tomorrow to go over a revised menu for the house.”
“Ma’am.”
Once the servants had gone, Emmie sank back in the chair and closed her eyes. Every time she looked too closely at this little gambit her head threatened to explode, so she forced her mind to the two points of all this—keeping Winnover Hall, and not damaging Mr. Pershing’s position. They’d taken the first step, she and her husband, and now they had a pair of sweet, unfortunate children. Everything after that would be much, much simpler.
Knuckles rapped at her door. Emmeline opened her eyes and sat up straight. It wouldn’t do to be caught napping before the children had even settled in. “Come in.”
Her husband pushed open the door and strolled into the room. His presence filled her private retreat, unsettling and reminding her of those rare nights he’d used to come visiting. Indeed, he hadn’t called on her in her bedchamber in months, and never this early in the evening. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said, his gaze on her. “I thought we should have a discussion about strategy before dinner.”
“You’re not intruding. And yes, I was thinking the same thing. All of my attention has been on obtaining children. Now we have under six weeks until they’re presented to the Duke of Welshire and all my relations as our offspring.” She frowned, rubbing her palms over her thighs. “And it just now occurs to me that the Fletcher children will have a lifetime to hate us for showing them opulence and luxuries they will never experience again.”
Mr. Pershing sank into the chair opposite hers. “We’re not doing them harm,” he said. “We’re expanding their potential futures.”
“Yes,” she said briskly, “and that didn’t sound rehearsed, at all.”
He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not the only one to have second and third thoughts, Emmeline. This will be good for them, though.”
It was reassuring that he felt guilty, too, and even more surprising that he’d tolerated this madness. No, not tolerated. Embraced. Had he done so to save his own career, or to help her keep Winnover? Perhaps it didn’t matter, but for heaven’s sake he’d married her so she could keep her home. Will Pershing, a brilliant man with a formidable future, had said yes when she’d been goose-headed enough to propose to him.
And now she’d learned that he’d wanted a family. With her. Certainly, he didn’t view her as a mere business partner, then. And she hadn’t seen him as the fine-looking gentleman he’d become until he’d surprised her into looking at him by agreeing to this scheme. Oh, she’d gotten so many things wrong. Abruptly she wondered—had he been one of them?
She shook herself. “Will learning manners and which fork to use keep them out of the workhouse?”
“I hope so. At the least, they will have some fond memories of their time here.”
“Fond memories are good,” she agreed. “And we haven’t lied to them about any of the circumstances.” They had neglected to mention one or two of them as yet, but this was only their second day of acquaintance, and they would be told the rest without delay. “I am glad they’re so enthusiastic about it.”