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The girl subsided again. “Yes, Mama.”
“You are not their aunt and uncle,” Mary Hendersen stated. “In fact, Emmie, I can’t recall a single instance where you’ve taken any previous interest in our children.”
“How could I not? They’re all you ever talk about.”
Will snorted before he could stop himself.
“Well! I never. Gregory?”
“The answer is no. We must decline your… invitation.” Gregory stood just as the footman reentered the dining room, a platter of biscuits in his hand. The two men collided, the lemon-scented confections flipping into the air before they thudded like buttery raindrops onto the blue and gray Persian throw rug.
“That’s disappointing,” Prudence observed.
“I don’t know what’s afoot here,” Mrs. Hendersen stated, standing to grab her son by the arm and drag him out of his chair, “but this is very peculiar.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Hendersen, Gregory, that we have nothing but the purest of motives for making our offer,” Will protested, rising from his own chair. It was far too late for negotiating, but perhaps he could still salvage their reputations—and the African trade routes. “What child wouldn’t wish to be able to brag that they’ve met a duke?”
“I don’t want to go with them, Papa,” young Maxwell whined, stepping over cookies with a mournful look on his round face.
“And so you shan’t, my boy. Will, I trust you do have some sort of method behind all this madness. Perhaps offer it to me in writing, so we may be friends again. If you wish my name to be joined with your northern Africa roads cause, especially.”
“I give you the same suggestion, Emmie,” Mrs. Hendersen stated stiffly. “Good evening.”
Powell hurried after the Hendersens to assist them out the front door. The two footmen lowered themselves to their hands and knees and began searching for bits of lemon cookies beneath the table.
“Leave it,” Will said. “Out. Everyone.”
Emmeline set her napkin aside and stood, turning for the door. God, what a mess she’d made. It was remarkable. But another dinner or two like that, and they would both be ridiculed as societal outcasts even without her lie becoming public knowledge.
“Not you, Mrs. Pershing. You shall remain.”
“I don’t blame you for being angry,” she stated as the staff vacated. “After all, I’ve been lying to the Duke of Welshire for seven years. On the other hand, you viewed the agreement for Winnover Hall at the same time as I, and you don’t seem to be cursed with a failing memory. You had to know that without children to appease him, eventually the duke would demand Winnover’s return.”
“Sit,” he said, noting the more logical tone of her argument. This evening’s catastrophe seemed to have somewhat sobered her up.
“I may be the one to blame for lack of offspring,” she said, seating herself primly, hands folded in her lap, “but at least I am attempting to aid our situation.”
Will shut the dining room doors one by one. “We’re at the moment where we fault me for not also deciding to conjure imaginary children, then?” he asked mildly, facing her again.
“I—No, of course not. I only mean that at least my fiction gave us three years in residence past the original five.”
“I did see and agree to the contract. Since we continued to live here, I thought your grandfather had decided not to abide by the terms of our residency, especially after you informed him of our unsuccessful efforts. I had no idea, of course, that we were raising two children.”
Emmeline shrugged. “Not those two children. Selfish Hendersens.”
“You were acting like a madwoman, Mrs. Pershing. I can’t blame them for fleeing.”
“I am not a madwoman.” She folded her arms over her chest.
“No, I have always found you to be sensible, even-tempered, and highly intelligent,” he agreed, meaning every word. He could add a few more: beautiful, for one, and as of this afternoon, surprising. “In the future, however, when you decide to abduct children, I would appreciate a bit of advance notice.”
“We are in desperate circumstances.”
“And if you had troubled yourself to recall that in addition to being rather charming I negotiate with obstinate, unyielding people on a regular basis, our odds of success might have improved.”
Emmeline lowered her arms again, her mouth opening and closing. “You… don’t disagree with my plan? It wasn’t at all logical, I’m afraid, and you—well, if they built a statue to logic, it would look like you.”
He sighed, not the least bit flattered. “How much did you have to drink, anyway?”