Biddle’s mouth fell open, so wide that Ward could see his fat tongue. Apparently it just dawned on the butcher that he was berating the man who owned the largest house this side of Oxford, and who employed twice as many servants as other estates in the vicinity.
“Good day, Mr. Biddle,” Ward said. Gumwater took Biddle by the shoulder and turned him smartly toward the front door.
Ward scooped up his brother and carried him to the library, followed by Miss Midge. He sat down before the empty fireplace, the boy in his lap. “Bloody hell, you’re a nuisance, Otis.”
“I hate Mr. Biddle,” Otis cried.
Miss Midge sat down opposite them, her hands folded and her heels neatly together.
“Tell us what happened,” Ward said.
“I wasn’t stealing his chain,” his brother said with an angry sniffle. “I was just nimming it for a little while.”
“Nimming it?”
“Thieves’ cant,” Miss Midge put in.
“I was hanging it between heaven and earth.” Otis dragged his sleeve across his eyes.
“I do not understand,” Ward said, with Herculean patience.
“I was hanging it in Mr. Biddle’s rosebush. His own rosebush, between heaven and earth.”
“It sounds as if Miss Lizzie made another attempt at a magic spell,” Miss Midge said. Her voice was tight.
Ward’s heart sank. Since her arrival, the new governess had shown herself to possess no discernible sense of humor, which meant she took Lizzie’s foolery too seriously.
“We must speak to Lizzie,” he said.
Miss Midge nodded and rose.
Otis collapsed against Ward’s shoulder and said something unintelligible.
“What did you say?”
And, after catching the import of it, Ward said, “You’re my brother, Otis. You’re stuck with me, no matter what. Forever.”
He didn’t reply, but Ward added, “Lizzie too. You’re wretched nuisances, but you’re my nuisances.”
He surprised himself.
It seemed he wasn’t going to hand his brother and sister over to his father and stepmother after all.
Chapter Eleven
Fawkes House
May 23, 1801
Dear Mrs. Snowe,
Miss Midge is adding her own note to this missive. I will keep my part brief. Otis was caught borrowing our village mayor’s chain of office, a crime which his sister instigated. His motive was not personal gain; Lizzie intended to use the power of the chain to transform a few roses into tools for finding true love.
If you find this confusing—never mind improbable—so do I. My sister has shown herself to have a prodigious imagination; unfortunately, her creativity is in direct proportion to Miss Midge’s dislike of magic, no matter how ineffectual (it promotes paganism and undermines Christian values). Miss Midge will no doubt expound on her feelings when she sees you.
The wherefores of the conjuration are vague, but apparently Otis was to hang the chain in a rosebush in order that the sun could shine “full” upon it, and thereafter bring four roses back to his sister.
We need your help,
Ward
“What on earth does he think I could do?” Eugenia asked, looking down at the letter. “Go back in time and stop the boy from stealing a livery collar?”
“I suppose Lord Darcy could have started his career as a burglar by taking something less valuable,” Susan remarked.
“Have any of our children stolen valuables before?” It was the sort of detail she should have at her fingertips, but she couldn’t bring anything to mind.
Susan snorted. “Surely you haven’t forgotten last year’s Most Misbehaved contest? One of the Duke of Fletcher’s children, I can’t recall which one, stole heaps of things. Don’t you remember the golden toothpick?”
“Well, of course, but that was different. It wasn’t for material gain.”
“Neither is this,” Susan pointed out. “The Fletcher governess didn’t even win Most Misbehaved for the toothpick, although after she mimicked the duke’s reaction, she earned a few nominations for Most Pitied.”
“I can’t remember anything like this before,” Eugenia said.
“I try not to burden you with unpleasant details, so that you can maintain a pleasant relationship with the parents.” Typically, Susan worked with the governesses, while Eugenia dealt with their employers. “Some of our children are proper little rotters.”
“We oughtn’t to insult our own,” Eugenia said, frowning.
Susan blithely ignored her. “If I were to embark on a life of crime, I’d take a gold chain instead of, say, a gold toothpick. It suggests that Otis possesses more intelligence than the Fletcher offspring, although I don’t imagine His Grace would agree.”