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“No regrets?”
“Nothing’s happened yet.” George took a quartet of biscuits for himself, but then both little ones had had a trying morning. “Just don’t turn your back on him, Mr. P… Papa.”
“I shan’t. Stay here until I return.”
“What if this plan of yours goes awry, Will?” Michael whispered as they left the house and walked to the stable. “You’ve never been one to wager on luck.”
“I am today.”
“Oh. Splendid.”
How odd that he, the one who’d helped create faux children, was the only one playing himself in this theater. Yes, he was accustomed to assuming a role of sorts during his negotiations, but this wasn’t about a canal or a bridge. This was about Winnover, and even more it was about Emmeline and those two children. Another few years under James’s leadership, and they all would see the inside of Newgate prison. Or worse. That couldn’t be allowed to happen, any more than he would let bad luck or circumstance see Emmie removed from her beloved home.
He walked into the stable. “Thank you again for getting here so quickly, Mr.… I’m sorry, what was your name again?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Shavely,” Michael Fenmore said. “Michael Shavely.”
The boy, seated on a stool in the corner, made a sound very like a whimper. Will, though, had no sympathy for him. They were giving him better than he deserved, and James could thank George and Rose for that. “Yes. Shavely,” he said. “I apologize; it’s been an eventful handful of days.”
“No doubt.” Michael motioned at Francis, who obligingly pulled up another stool. “So. You’re James Fletcher,” the solicitor said, sitting in front of the young man and making a show of opening his satchel. “Before your name crossed my desk yesterday, I thought you would be one of those people whom one knows all about but never sets eyes on. I’m glad I was wrong on that count.”
“I’m James Reed,” James said, his face a pasty gray. “I don’t know who this Fletcher is. And I don’t know you.”
“Of course you don’t know me,” Michael Fenmore went on. “I’m Peter Shavely’s cousin. He’s the one you’re acquainted with. In fact, your disappearance after you agreed to inform for him is the reason the magistrate’s court began looking into his… activities.”
“I didn’t—”
“Hush now.” Michael glanced up at the boy, almost as if James was an afterthought. “As it happens, Peter will be returning to England in six months. You are definitely a loose bit of netting he—we—would like to see tidied up. So to speak.”
“I have information,” James rasped, sweat dripping from his longish, unkempt hair. “I know the Pershings violated the conditions of their agreement with the Duke of Welshire, and I can tell you how.”
Michael lifted an eyebrow, glancing at Will. “Do you, now?”
The boy leaned forward. “I do. I’ll tell you everything I know if you take these shackles off me.”
Deliberately the solicitor patted his plump breast pocket. “Well, it so happens that Mr. Pershing and I have spoken. At length. And you know, gossiping about your betters, especially when they have no interest in being gossiped about, is a very good way for a foolish young man to end up at Bethlem Hospital, say.”
James jerked upright. “Bedlam? You’d send me to Bedlam?”
“That’s up to you, I suppose. If you continue wagging your tongue like a madman, then I imagine you could well end up at Bethlem or one of its sister institutions.”
Will watched as James absorbed that bit of information. Stopping him from gossiping had been the main goal here, but it was just as vital that James Fletcher go away.
“If you don’t want me to talk, then I won’t talk. I swear it. Just let me go.”
“You’re being foolish again.” Michael stood. “Mr. Pershing, I wonder if you would favor me with a cup of tea before we travel back to London.”
“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Shavely,” Will answered.
“Good, good.” Michael smiled. “Mr. Dawkins, please ride down to Birdlip and query if the constable has a patrol wagon we might borrow. And perhaps one of his watchmen, so that we may return it once we’ve delivered this fellow to Newgate.”
The farmer saluted, which wasn’t entirely correct, but he did it with such enthusiasm that it seemed natural. “At once, Mr. Shavely.”
That would leave Francis Allen alone again with James. If the solicitor did as they’d discussed he should be fine, but there was always the chance that something would go wrong. Faith, Will repeated to himself. Or luck. It had been with them thus far today.
As the farmer exited, Will gestured at Michael. “This way then, Mr. Shavely. And perhaps we might discuss future endeavors from which we might mutually benefit.”
“Delighted to, Mr. Pershing.”