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“We told them we would only keep them for eight weeks. Then we said we expected them to learn dancing and embroidery and manners that would satisfy a duke.”
Her husband, still supremely capable-looking and handsome in shirtsleeves and with his waistcoat unbuttoned, stepped back onto the dock and tied off the punt. When he straightened, his worried look had shifted into something more thoughtful. “We’re idiots.”
She nodded. “I think we may be.”
“They’ve run away, haven’t they? Damnation.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Emmie felt useless. Running hither and thither and fainting everywhere would only make her the worst sort of heroine, though, so she stayed in the foyer to take reports from the staff of where they’d searched and sent them out again to where no one had yet been.
Even though flight made the most sense given what little she and Will knew of the children, she made certain the staff checked every room and every wardrobe and beneath every bed twice. Outside was much more problematic, and the stable boys, the gardeners, and even Mrs. Brubbins the cook were presently working their way through the garden and the surrounding fields.
Will had gone up to the widow’s walk on the roof for a better view of their surroundings, while she abruptly wondered if keeping track of offspring wasn’t why one of her ancestors had built the thing in the first place. “Donald, please make one more check of the wine cellar,” she said, noting that instruction on the paper she’d been using to keep track of everyone’s whereabouts. “And Edward, I need you to search the billiards room again. As before, lock the doors after you leave. At least we can narrow down where they’re not.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A loud whistle echoed into the house through the open front door. Shouts of “he’s got them” and “there they are” began from outside and the upper floors.
“Oh, thank God,” she muttered, running out to the front drive.
A moment later Will, a relieved look on his face, joined her there. “I caught sight of them coming up the hill from Birdlip,” he panted. “Billet and Roger have them.”
“Was that you whistling?” she asked, glancing up toward the widow’s walk.
“It was. Haven’t done that since I was a boy.” He flashed her a grin.
“I thought I recognized it.” And for the first time in quite a while, she also recognized that exuberant, gangly youngster in his demeanor. God, she’d followed that boy everywhere. Somewhere along the way, though, she’d lost sight of him, and he’d become a thoughtful, logical man. And now, even a bit dashing. When—and why—had she stopped appreciating all the aspects of him?
Before she could decipher any of those questions, two riders emerged from around the bend and turned up the hill. A child rode with each of the men, Rose sidesaddle in front of Roger, and George facedown like a sack of turnips over the front of Billet’s saddle. Faint words reached her, growing more distinct as the riders approached.
“… fat-faced dog booby, you let me down or I’ll bloody thrash you,” George growled, flinging his fists backward in the head groom’s direction.
“Hush now, boy,” the groom returned in a smooth tone. “Your mama and papa will hear you.”
“They ain’t my mama and papa, you damned scapegallows. I’ll give you two quid to turn around now. Otherwise, I’ll bloody your conk, you Captain Huff!”
“Good heavens,” Emmie murmured. Her uncle Harry had been fond of profanity, but he was an amateur compared to George Fletcher.
“I thought he was the quiet one,” her husband noted, stepping forward to haul the eight-year-old off the front of the horse.
As soon as George’s feet touched the ground he tried running, but Will grabbed him by the top of his trousers and held him in place. “Let me go!”
“No.”
Billet dismounted, walking over to lift Rose down from the other horse. “Keep hold of him, Mr. Pershing,” he said, gripping the little girl’s hand. “I spied him in the middle of plucking the billfold right out of Lord Graham’s coat pocket while the little one sat in the middle of the road and wept that she’d fallen from her papa’s wagon.”
“What?” Emmie stared at the girl’s angelic face.
“It usually works,” Rose said, shrugging.
“You want us to lie, too, so don’t get all high-and-mighty, you bloody frigate.”
“Manners,” Will said, shaking the boy a little.
“He makes a point.” Emmie took a breath, still trying to reconcile her image of the little darlings with the hellions standing before her. They were supposed to be her children! But her children were well-behaved and well-mannered; she’d written them that way. Oh dear. “Whyever did you run? Good food, clothes, a few lessons in how to be proper—what’s so horrible about that?”
“That’s what I said,” Rose put in, swiping one forefinger beneath her nose. “We should have stayed until we learned something, Georgie.”