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“What if I mention that you were a guest of Newgate, released under certain circumstances you haven’t lived up to?”
That hit the mark. He’d always enjoyed the part of the negotiation where he set an opponent back on his heels. At this moment, though, he was too angry to feel anything but a grim satisfaction that this man would be going away. Without his siblings.
“You wise old bird,” James said after a moment. “You think you stumbled onto something, didn’t you?”
“Not so much stumbled as asked.”
“Well, I asked some questions, too. You and Mrs. P pretending you have children to answer her old granddad’s dying wish or whatever nonsense that was? Ha. Georgie told me what’s what. Firstly, that poor old Granddad is the Duke of Welshire; secondly, it wasn’t a wish that you had young ones—it was a contract. And you broke it. You’re trying to lie to a duke about his having grandchildren so you can keep hold of this estate. Wouldn’t it be a shame if the truth of all this got out and you got the boot from the missus’s granddad, then? Especially if I was to add that you stole two babies from the orphanage for your little game.”
Damn it all. He didn’t blame George; the children had been rightly wary of their brother. He only wished he’d realized sooner that it had been fear of James and not suspicion over his and Emmeline’s motives. In his defense, the idea that a man would hurt children, especially his own siblings, seemed the sort of thing that could happen only in Shakespeare.
“That’s right, Mr. P. Maybe I’m a wanted man, but that’s just Bow Street, all the way in London. And it’s been three years. I doubt they’d make the effort to drag me in even if I was in Charing Cross, much less all the way in Gloucestershire. The cove who made me the bargain got himself transported to Australia, anyway.” He chuckled. “You can ask about that, too. I ain’t lying.”
There were moments in a negotiation that Will didn’t like; the ones where the man across the desk turned the table on him. He didn’t think, though, that even counting seasoned statesmen, he’d ever been handed his hat so deftly. “I see,” he said, keeping his voice flat. “What do you want for all this mess you’ve made, then?”
“Oh, I reckon I’ll stay on at Winnover, for now. If you want me quiet, it’ll cost you… twenty quid. A day. For as long as the little ones are here. And you’ll keep quiet if you happen to notice things going missing. I’ll go with you to—what was it? Welshire Park. And then I’ll leave you George and Rose. I don’t want the little fleas. You do whatever you want with them. Send ’em back to St. Stephen’s.” He stood, brushing dirt and grass off his coat sleeves. “That’s what I want, if you want me quiet.”
“I have to admit, that’s a brave thing to say to a man with a pitchfork.” Will took a step forward, noting that James retreated the same distance. Not as collected as he pretended to be, then. “You’ve managed a standoff,” he said aloud. “Not to brag, but I regularly dine with the prime minister. I suggest you take a few minutes to consider which of us would pay the higher price if all of this were to unravel.”
“I d—”
“I’ll let you know what I’ve decided to do with you,” Will cut in deliberately. “In the meantime, yes, remain close by. If you lay a finger on either George or Rose again, however, I guarantee that you will disappear, and no one will ever find you. Is that clear? Those are my terms, James.”
Obviously the boy didn’t know how to take that. A frown pulled his brows together before he straightened, lowering his hands. “I’m getting what I want. I have no reason to damage the little darlings and queer your—our—trip to Cumberland.”
“Then we have an agreement.” With that Will turned his back and headed into the house.
“Rose, please try another tune on the pianoforte, will you?” Emmeline asked, wincing at the cacophony.
“I’m learning it,” the little girl insisted.
“Which song is it? I don’t quite recognize it.”
“I made it up.”
Over at the easel by the window, George snorted. “It sounds like a bird dying.”
“Your painting looks like a dead bird,” his sister retorted.
A short time ago this conversation, this attempt to tutor the children in two very different mediums at once, would have had Emmie pulling out her hair. Now, though, she only hid a smile and walked over to show Rose a more harmonic set of notes. Evidently a slice of cake had revived George except for some sniffing, and he’d felt well enough to paint. The resilience of children continued to amaze her.
The music room door opened. She turned, expecting to see Will give her a solemn nod, informing her that James Fletcher had been sent on his way. Yes, she would have preferred to consult with the children first, but she understood Will’s reasoning. From what Hannah had said, James might have thrown both children into the pond if the maid hadn’t interfered.
Will’s expression, though, looked icy enough to freeze flame. Silently he closed the door behind him. “George, Rose, I asked your brother to leave Winnover. He—”
“Good,” George interrupted. “I’m glad to see the hind end of that white-livered sneaksby.” Already a little pale, his face went gray. “I slanged, but it’s not my fault.”
“You may slang today,” Will said, before Emmie could reassure the boy herself.
“He’s a rat,” Rose stated. “And that’s not slang. He got mad at George once and threw a sack of live rats on him while he was sleeping.”
“That’s despicable!” And it explained so much.
“I wish you’d told us about him from the beginning.” Will still looked grim. Too grim to be withholding good news.
“We didn’t trust you, and he said we had to keep quiet so we could be a family. Then he gambled and lost all the blunt we’d been saving to get a cottage and a puppy.” Rose sniffed. “I’m glad he’s gone, too.”
Abruptly Will grabbed Emmie’s hand. “You two, stay in here for a moment,” he ordered, and headed for the door.