KDBookOnline
Share Us
“The question is, why leave at all?” Will shifted his grip to the boy’s shoulder, turning him to face them as the servants pretended they weren’t ogling the proceedings.
“Because we ain’t going back to London. I promised Rosie we would leave damned St. Stephen’s as soon as we could and now we have, and we won’t go back to that devil’s stewpot.”
“That’s an odd thing to call an orphanage overseen by nuns. But wait a moment; we can have a more honest conversation in private.” Will leaned down a little, to meet George’s still-angry gaze. “Agreed?”
“I don’t agree about anything,” the boy snapped. “We got no reason to stay here one more damned minute, and no reason to trust you.”
Another fair point. Emmie and Will had both overlooked several important points in their plan, in fact, the main one being to find a reason for the children to cooperate. Not something they might find useful later, but an actual thing that would convince them to remain when a return to the orphanage loomed but a few weeks away.
“Have you eaten breakfast, at least?” she asked.
George narrowed his eyes. “No.”
“A few biscuits, and we got some eggs, but George had to throw ’em at a dog that was chasing us.” Rose sniffed again.
“Well, we have fresh rolls and butter, and apples and oranges. Would you care to join us?”
“I am a little hungry,” Rose said. “Georgie?”
The boy lowered his shoulders. “Fine. We’ll eat. But that don’t mean we changed our minds.”
Emmie inclined her head. “Of course not.”
“And we want our things back.”
At Will’s nod, Roger unfastened the two cloth sacks from the back of his saddle and handed them over. Each child took one, though how they knew which belonged to whom, Emmie had no idea. They looked bulkier now, but both youngsters had additional clothes, and she wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that Rose had taken a pillow or two with her. The girl adored the things. Pillows, though, didn’t explain the metallic clanking sounds coming from the depths of the bags.
The groom handed Rose over to Emmie, and the four of them—along with most of the staff—headed back to the house. In the doorway George paused. “Hey, Billet. You’ll never catch us next time,” he called over his shoulder.
Billet snorted, sounding a great deal like one of his four-legged charges. “I’m on to you now, scamp. You won’t get past me again.”
As they dug into their breakfasts, Emmie looked from one child to the other. Yesterday she’d thought them darlings just beginning to find some spirit again after being nearly crushed by the misery of St. Stephen’s. They were still those children, except that they weren’t as subdued and crushed as she’d thought. But it was more than that. George had been picking the pocket of a baron, and Rose had been distracting said baron while her brother robbed him. From what Billet had said, the two would have been successful if he hadn’t interrupted them. They didn’t look like criminals, but she doubted this was the first time they’d attempted such a thing.
Was larceny the reason the younger nun had seemed so surprised at Sister Mary Stephen’s choice of orphans to lend? And that laughter she thought she’d heard from behind the door after they’d left… Well. That opened a whole box of new questions.
“I have a question,” Will said, before she could figure out how to word her own query. “Are the two of you hardened criminals who’ve been pretending to be children? Does Rose sleep with a loaded blunderbuss beneath her pillow? George, do you have a knife in your shoe?”
From their confused expressions, the children didn’t know how to take that question. They would have been expecting yelling and accusations, threats to return them to London as soon as the coach could be readied. Humor, though, clearly baffled them. Well done, Will.
George stared at the mister. Rose couldn’t lift a blunderbuss, much less put one beneath her pillow. And Pershing didn’t seem like a half-wit, even if he and his wife were odd and thought borrowing children to lie to a duke was a good idea. Dukes could get people transported. Or hanged. Maybe the mister was trying to be funny, which was better than yelling and threatening to throw them in jail like the nuns did.
“I don’t have a blunderbuss,” Rose said, slathering her roll with near an inch of butter.
“Well, that’s reassuring. George?”
“I have a fipenny,” he stated around a mouthful of bacon. If they got mad and locked them in their rooms, he at least wanted to begin on a full stomach. “It don’t fit in my shoe. But I ain’t telling you where it is.” They wouldn’t find it by searching, either, and he’d scream bloody murder if they tried to take off his smallclothes.
“I’m sorry, but what’s a fipenny?” the lady asked.
“A folding knife,” her husband answered.
The mister knew some things, then. Where he’d come by that information George had no idea, because the swell didn’t look like the type who frequented buttocking—or sleek and slim—shops. The nice-seeming ones, though, were sometimes the worst.
“How long were you at St. Stephen’s before we came by?” the missus asked.
“About six months the last time, I reckon. That was when that Philistine nabbed us and took us straight to the stone jug. Said it was for our own good, the bastard.”
The lady frowned, but didn’t complain about the profanity this time. “You escaped the orphanage, then? And a Bow Street Runner arrested you?”