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As Mr. Allen straightened his coat, Rose pocketed the cuff links Will had given her and wandered over to Michael Fenmore. The solicitor had barely said a word since his arrival this morning, instead sitting at the table to fill out some official-looking papers.
“I’m Rose,” she said.
“Hello, Rose,” the barrel-chested man answered with a warm smile. “I’m Michael Fenmore, today playing the role of Michael Shavely.”
“Oh. Are you Peter Shavely’s brother? Because James hates Peter Shavely. Shavely nabbed him and threw him in the big stone jug.”
“He’s pretending to be Shavely’s cousin,” Emmie said, taking the girl’s hand and leading her back to her brother. “We didn’t want to confuse you, because all you need to know is that when Mr. Dawkins and Mr. Allen and Will appear, you run to Billet.”
“I can run very fast.”
Will pulled out his pocket watch for at least the tenth time since they’d gathered in the inn’s one private room, the only outward sign of his nerves. “If everyone is comfortable with their roles, we should begin,” he said, clicking the watch closed again.
“Yes, let’s get this over with,” Emmie said, suppressing a shudder. All of the pieces needed to fall into place, or they would be well and truly sunk. “George, you and Rose and Hannah and I will take the carriage back to the house. At my signal Powell will tell James that you want to meet him at the stable, where you will give him your prizes.”
The boy, his expression more serious than Emmie was accustomed to seeing, nodded. He’d seen some horrible things in his life, but George remained a young boy with a poor upbringing and not enough age or wisdom to decide on the course of his own life. The fact that he’d chosen to help them spoke volumes.
“We’ll do it,” George said, taking his sister’s hand and heading for the door, “but be careful. James really don’t want to go back to the stone jug. The big one.”
“We’ll come up the hill behind the stable,” Will took up. “If he happens to see us, he’ll assume that’s where our Runners left their horses. Give us ten minutes after you return to Winnover, Emmeline, then send out the children.”
Emmie nodded. After the near tragedy at the pond, she had no doubt that James Fletcher could be dangerous. She only hoped that in attempting to dispose of him as the children wished, rather than through the actual magistrate, they weren’t going to get anyone—particularly Will or the children—hurt. “It’s just another tale,” she said, sending him a smile. “We excel at those.”
As the women and children left, Will took a breath. If he’d had more time he might have brought in another friend or two from Oxford, but each additional day Fletcher remained at Winnover meant a greater threat to the futures of two small children and the estate that had become the focus of Emmeline’s entire life. It had to be Harry Dawkins, or one of the other farmers who by chance had never run across Fletcher in Birdlip or the surrounding countryside.
Harry, though, continued to look petrified, and that wouldn’t serve, either. Before Will could conjure more words of support, Francis Allen walked over to the farmer. “You’ll be fine,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll take the lead, and you follow.”
Dawkins nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “I’ll do my best. Didn’t expect Winnover’s future to rest in my hands, though.”
God’s sake. This was the future of Winnover Hall. Trying to slow his breathing and the abrupt pounding of his heart, Will led the way out the side door of the inn. “We’ll see you in half an hour, Michael.”
“I’ll be there.”
They arrived below the stable in twelve minutes. With a last nod Harry Dawkins slipped inside the building’s back door, while he and Francis circled around to come from the direction of the house. Michael would make his appearance later, after they had Fletcher corralled.
Up ahead he caught sight of the children with their brother outside the main door of the stable. Abruptly James grabbed George by the collar and shook him. “You think you’re better than me now? Because you can spell ‘pony’? Because you think there’s a difference between stealing shite and stealing valuables? There’s no difference, Georgie.” Straightening his arm, he shoved George into the dirt. “The Pershings don’t give a damn about either of you. As soon as this is over and I have what I want, you two go back to St. Stephen’s.”
“Stop it!” Rosie shouted, squatting down beside George.
That was more than enough of that. Will broke into a trot, Francis Allen beside him. “What’s all this, then?” the solicitor bellowed.
“Bugger me,” James rasped as he jerked upright, his ruddy face going gray. Fumbling to dump the jewelry into his pockets, he moved backward toward the open doorway.
“Going somewhere?”
The young man whipped around as Dawkins appeared in the doorway. Swearing, James whirled back around and grabbed for Rose’s skirts as she and George fled to Billet, who bustled them around the rear of the stable and back toward the house.
Half hoping Fletcher would make a fight of it, Will stepped forward to trip the lad as Mr. Allen shoved him to the ground. Before he could twist upright again, Dawkins pounced on him like a wildcat. The solicitor took a kick to the knee before the farmer could drag the wrist shackles out of his pocket, but neither of them hesitated. “Bind him up, Mr. Dawkins,” Francis grunted, grabbing for an arm.
With surprising dexterity Harry Dawkins fastened the cuffs around James Fletcher’s wrists. They should have got them behind his back, but Fletcher was caught, and that was what they needed. Mr. Dawkins jerked Fletcher upright, while Mr. Allen made a show of pocketing the key to the irons. “Be still!” Francis ordered.
“I only took what the brats gave me!” Fletcher yelled, sitting upright.
The solicitor hesitated. They were supposed to mention bad happenings in London, but apparently Francis had lost the thread. Will stepped forward, trying to figure out how to get them back on the path without giving away the game.
“Do you think we’d ride a day out of London for some jewelry?” Harry Dawkins demanded, yanking the boy to his feet before Will could say anything. “We’ve been following you for some time, James Fletcher. It was just luck a messenger came in to Bow Street yesterday and told us where you’ve been hiding yourself.”
Thank God for the farmer. “Thank you for arriving so promptly, gentlemen,” Will added.