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The butler appeared so quickly that he must have been poised just outside the door. “Yes, Mr. Pershing?”
“Powell, please see a bedchamber prepared for Mr. Fletcher here. And inform Mrs. Brubbins that we will be one more for dinner.”
“He’ll be staying the… night, then, sir?”
“Somewhat longer than that.” He gestured James toward the door. “Powell here will see that you have whatever you need. Dinner is served at seven.”
That had all fallen into place nicely—for James Fletcher. But if putting him up for a few weeks was the price to keep the children about, then they had no choice but to pay it. At the same time, a few inquiries sent to London about Mr. Fletcher wouldn’t hurt, either.
This was damned odd. And suspicious. Admittedly he didn’t want Fletcher here complicating things, but at the same time the children hadn’t wanted to return to London. They’d never mentioned an older brother, or even the hint of one. And they’d insisted that he and Emmeline find a family for them. They’d signed that agreement knowing they had a brother about. Whatever the devil was afoot, he meant to follow the agreement. Even if it meant continuing to look for a new family for the children, while their actual family and their pretend family resided under the same roof.
CHAPTER TWELVE
George waited until the footmen finished bringing what looked like all of Mr. P’s spare coats and shirts and trousers into the bedchamber down the hall. Whatever James had said, the Pershings hadn’t booted him out on his arse. In fact, they were giving him clothes.
That surprised him. The Pershings were… nice, but they weren’t half-wits. James didn’t look anything like a gentleman, and he didn’t talk at all like Mr. Pershing. Yet there he was, still inside Winnover Hall, and they’d given him a room, too.
“What do you think he wants?” Rosie whispered, looking around the corner beneath his arm.
“He said he’s here to collect us. He is eighteen now, I think, so I suppose he could be.”
“Maybe he was scared to ask Sister Mary Stephen,” she reasoned. “I’m scared of her.”
“Maybe,” George echoed. “You stay in here and finish dressing. I’ll go talk to him.”
“I’ll do it, but you still shouldn’t have agreed to baths for me. I didn’t make you do embroidery.”
“You smell like lemons. It’s nice.”
Lifting her chin, she turned in a circle. “I do smell lovely. I don’t think I caught the ague, either. At least the water was warm. It’s never warm at the stone jug. Sometimes I can’t even see the bottom of the bathtub, either. But this water was clean.”
“I’ll be back in a minute. Get Sally or Hannah if you need help buttoning your dress.”
“I know that.”
Pulling in a breath, George walked up the hallway. The Pershings were probably mad that no one had mentioned James before, but he and Rosie never knew when he might appear, or if he would at all. They always made their own plans.
The bedchamber door was shut, so he knocked. A second later it cracked open. “Come in, Georgie,” James said, smiling, and went over to flop down on the bed. “Don’t you look pretty? I hardly recognized you.”
“You, either,” Georgie returned, shutting the door but staying by it. “Where’d you nick the beaver hat?”
“On the mail stage. Some chaw bacon falls asleep, it’s his own fault if he loses things.” He narrowed his eyes, putting both hands behind his head. “You didn’t tell me you and Rosie were leaving London.”
“The Pershings took us home the same morning they saw us. And we didn’t know where you were, anyway.”
“Why didn’t you tell ’em you have an older brother to watch over you already?”
“Why would I say anything? You ran when the beaks nabbed us. I turned around, and you wasn’t there. We ain’t seen you in six months.”
His brother grinned. “No beaks or Bow Street Runners are gonna catch me again, Georgie. You know what I told you. You have to look after your own skin, or someone else’ll take it off you and sell it.”
“The nuns said they were going to have us transported, James. I had to give my word not to run again. We thought you was gone for good.” He’d hoped so, too. When James was their leader, things didn’t go so well.
“You managed to get out of there anyway, I see. So, who are these stiff-rumped slags? The Pershings. Tell me about ’em.”
George sent a glance over his shoulder, even though the door was still shut. This was all supposed to be a secret. No gossip. Mrs. P especially made sure they knew that. “Not much to tell. It’s like Rosie said; they’re just borrowing us for a few weeks, to get in good with Mrs. P’s grandfather.”
“And who’s her grandfather? Pershing gave me some bottle-headed story about a loon of an old man who dotes on babies.”