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“You tell them to let me go,” James yelled at him, “or I start wagging my tongue!”
Will stopped in front of him. He’d been looking forward to this bit. “Young man,” he said, “I have long supported London’s efforts at policing and justice. You may say whatever you wish, but I do feel it my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used by these gentlemen as evidence of your ongoing criminal activity. And from what I’ve learned, you’ve done a great deal well before now. You’re not as forgotten as you’d hoped.”
“He kidnapped my brother and sister.” James tried to wriggle away from them, but the solicitor clamped a hand on his shoulder.
Of course, this would be the pleading bit, but they all knew enough of the story that none of them had any sympathy for the boy. “Shut it, you.”
“The Pershings have been lying to the Duke of Welshire about having children, so they took Rose and George from the orphanage. Paid for the use of ’em, too.”
“They paid for the children?” Harry—Mr. Dawkins—asked.
“Yes. Paid for ’em.”
“That doesn’t sound like kidnapping then, does it, Mr. Allen?”
Mr. Allen shook his head. “It does not, Mr. Dawkins.”
“It was! And they lied! They had to have children to keep the house, and they didn’t!”
“The affairs of the gentry aren’t my concern,” Francis said, clearly remembering his dialogue. “You are, James Fletcher. You were released from prison in order to fulfill an agreement. You didn’t do that. In fact, you went right back to thievery. A man doesn’t cross the magistrate and escape justice.”
“Fletcher? I ain’t Fletcher. I’m Reed. James Reed. Ask any of these coves.”
Dawkins snorted. “Mm-hmm. Come along, then. You’ll stay in the stable until he gets here.”
“Who? Who, for God’s sake?”
Francis smiled grimly. A nice touch. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
He and the farmer dragged Fletcher into the stable and sat him on a stool. “I have information!” the boy wailed as Will and Harry Dawkins left the building.
The farmer paused. “Good. We’ll see if it can save your hide.”
It hadn’t been anything they’d rehearsed, but damn if it didn’t feel good to hear the farmer say it. Will clapped Mr. Dawkins on the back as they headed to the house. “Perhaps you have a bit of actor’s blood in you, after all.”
“Ha. After this, I’m never doing a pantomime again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Will paced. It could be a delicate balance, the difference between giving a man enough time to panic and enough time to seize on another strategy. “It’s been an hour,” he said, turning from the window. “I don’t think we should wait any longer.”
“Mr. Pershing,” Harry Dawkins said, the borrowed beaver hat in one hand as he tugged again at his red waistcoat, “this has been a day I won’t forget. I am worried for Mr. Allen, though, alone with that fellow.”
“I suppose it’s my turn, then.” Michael Fenmore, seated at the small table in the morning room, closed his leather satchel and buckled it. “I still don’t know how you talked me into this, Will,” he said, “or how I talked Francis into it, but let’s get it over with.”
Nodding, Will gestured at the farmer. “Harry? Mr. Dawkins, will you lead the way?”
“Certainly, Mr. Pershing. I’ll never have it said that Harry Dawkins didn’t do his part for Winnover Hall.”
It had been a stroke of luck that he’d had a red waistcoat and an older blue greatcoat, that Michael owned a similar coat, and that there’d been enough of that old red curtain in the attic that Hannah could sew a second waistcoat for Francis. The entire staff had jumped in to support his plan, in fact, without a complaint among them. Mrs. Brubbins, with a nephew at Bow Street, had been especially helpful. All this from a respected, respectable staff of servants he’d thought dutiful, obedient, and unobtrusive. It seemed everyone had a surprise for him these days.
They headed for the kitchen and the servants’ entrance. A few weeks ago he would have thought this a mad idea, and he still did. But neither had they been able to summon a better plan. And after seeing James going after George and Rose even after he’d been warned, Will couldn’t wait to see the back end of young Mr. Fletcher.
As they entered the kitchen, Emmeline and the children were seated at the table together with Hannah and Billet, while Mrs. Brubbins set biscuits onto a platter and Powell lurked. His wife, the one who could balance a social calendar in one hand while organizing a soiree honoring the prime minister in the other, had been just as deft at putting together this play. Her imagination had become as mesmerizing as the rest of her.
Will shook himself. There would be time for ogling later. “Are you two well?” he asked, looking at George. “You played your parts magnificently.”
“We are magnificent,” Rose agreed, daintily taking two biscuits from the platter. “Especially me.”