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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bartholomew Powell looked up from the day’s discarded London newspaper as Donald entered the kitchen. “Did you confirm the count?” he asked the tall, skinny footman.
The servant nodded. “I did. Thirty-one forks, forty-four knives, and twenty-eight spoons.” Standing stiff, his pale complexion gaining a touch of gray, Donald cleared his throat. “I asked about, discreetly, as you suggested,” he went on in a lower voice, his glance taking in the generously proportioned Mrs. Brubbins and the waif-like scullery maid, Molly. “None of the staff here would steal from the Pershings. You recall when Edward’s aunt got sickly, and Mrs. Pershing paid his mum’s coach fare so she could visit her sister?”
“Yes, I recall,” the butler said, sighing. He knew quite well that none of the staff had absconded with any of the Pershings’ silverware; it had merely been his duty to exhaust any other possibilities. And now with Donald verifying his numbers, he’d done so. “Thank you.”
“But we must tell them,” Donald went on. “If we don’t, all of us will look doubly suspicious when they find out how much of the silver is missing.”
“I am very aware of the consequences.” For the devil’s sake, he’d served as the head of staff at Winnover Hall for twenty-six years now. No one here knew the Pershings—and Emmeline Pershing, in particular—better than he did. “Please accompany Molly to Birdlip for the kitchen supplies. And be certain to tell Mr. Umber at the butcher’s shop that Mrs. Brubbins wasn’t jesting when she requested two flank quarters.”
Donald bobbed his head. “Of course. Let’s be off then, Molly. I’ve some polishing to see to later.”
“And an extra bag of sugar, Molly,” the cook said, looking up from the dough she was kneading. “Those little ones are mad for biscuits.”
The little ones—and more than likely their older brother—were also mad for silverware, but Powell kept that opinion to himself. He’d been attempting for several days now to find a way to tell Mrs. Pershing without sounding accusatory or snobbish, or whatever it would be called when a long-established employee complained about a pair of orphans to the couple who’d taken them in.
As Donald had noted, though, the Pershings had to be told. He would not be seen as in league with the little miscreants. Nor did he wish to be trapped into opposing them, either. He knew why they were in residence, and he meant to do everything possible to see that this venture of his employers’ succeeded. Blaming it all on Mr. James Fletcher would be easier, but Mr. Pershing had been very firm in saying the young man would be staying.
Winnover Hall and Emmeline Pershing felt inseparable. Aside from that, he’d met Mrs. Penelope Chase back when she’d been Miss Penelope Ramsey and had come to stay for the summer with the Hervey family. The girl had been a horror, and he didn’t imagine her temperament would have improved as an adult. There was a reason for tales of servants spitting in their master’s tea, and if he ended up in her employ, he would be sorely tempted himself.
With that in mind he finished issuing the morning’s instructions to the rest of the staff, and then headed into the main part of the house. The Pershings and the children were out riding, and he didn’t expect them to return until luncheon. Even that layabout James Fletcher had taken a walk into Birdlip. Powell topped the stairs, and made his way down the hallway where the family’s bedchambers lay. Looking up and down the corridor, he stopped outside the younger boy’s closed door.
The butler squared his shoulders and pushed down on the door handle. The door didn’t creak, because he saw to it that all the hinges in the manor were kept oiled. Stepping inside, he shut the door behind him. Donald and Edward had been sharing duties with the boy, tidying his room and aiding him in dressing, but the two footmen were both bound by Mrs. Pershing’s word to the children—that no one would touch their trunks.
He was also forbidden to invade the children’s privacy. If he couldn’t determine what was afoot, however, he couldn’t proceed. This all did make him feel like a bit of a scalawag, but under the circumstances he would prefer that the children think him the villain rather than the Pershings.
Unable to help a glance over his shoulder, Powell knelt in front of the boy’s chest, clicked the latch open, and lifted the lid.
Unsurprisingly, a blanket filled the space. Being careful not to alter the folds, he set it aside. And then he sat back on his heels. “Angels protect us,” he muttered.
The cloth sack lay tucked in one corner, bulkier than it had been when the pair had arrived at Winnover Hall. Around that, were… things. One of Mr. Pershing’s cuff links. A teacup of fine china in Mrs. Pershing’s favorite pattern. Two sets of silverware. A duck carved in mahogany that belonged in the study. A large piece of amber that he believed belonged at Pershing House in London.
The list went on and on. Coins. Paper money. Buttons. Half a loaf of bread. Scissors. A chaos of pilfered… things. As Powell looked through them, though, they did begin to make a degree of sense. All of them, minus the food items, were worth money, from a penny or two up to perhaps a pound. Small things that could be hidden away in a pocket and, once removed from the house, traded or sold without any one item being so valuable it might arouse suspicions about its origins.
“Clever little bastard,” he breathed, replacing the blanket before he shut and relatched the box.
The girl’s trunk would be much the same, and he decided not to risk digging through it. Climbing to his feet, the butler walked back to the boy’s door and cracked it open to peer up and down the hallway. The corridor remained empty, so he slipped out and shut the door behind him again. Quickly and efficiently done.
He’d managed a trio of steps before the James fellow stepped out of the upstairs sitting room. “Powell.”
He nodded back. “Fletcher.”
“That’s Mr. Fletcher to you,” the lad said, stopping.
Powell clenched his jaw. “Mr. Fletcher.”
With a grin the fellow headed back to his bedchamber. “Pantler,” he muttered as he shut the door.
Damned insolent churl. That had been a near thing; no doubt Mr. Fletcher had his own box of pilfered treasures. Now he needed to figure out how to tell the Pershings that a good number of valuables were missing and in the hands of the orphans and their damned brother. Or he could simply flee the premises and take himself off to Bedlam. All things considered, that might be the more palatable choice.
Oh, his life had been so much simpler and more serene before the Fletcher children had arrived. At the same time… Well, it hadn’t been unpleasant when young Rose had brought him a yellow daisy yesterday and put it through his buttonhole. Of course, she’d probably turned around and stolen his shoes while he thanked her for the flower, but one did have to admire the brazenness of the youngsters. And Mrs. Pershing had been… softer around the staff, which he generally didn’t approve of, but her mood had been lighter, as well.
At least this thievery would only be a problem for the next few weeks. If Master George and Miss Rose had been permanent additions to the household, finding a solution to their sticky fingers would have been a much more pressing problem. His flight to Bedlam would have to wait; he had a bit of creative problem-solving to do.
“Why do I need to learn about dirt?” George asked, folding his arms over his chest.
Will squatted beside him, scooping up a handful of dirt and pebbles and holding it in his open palm. “Firstly, farmable dirt is called ‘soil.’ A farmer knows all about dirt, and his favorite is a good, damp soil. Soil with earthworms is perfection, both for farming and for fishing.”