“I am sure that is not what he meant,” said Weston. Having eaten his fair share of lamb and mutton stew, he knew that was exactly what the boy meant, but why alarm Evie any more than she already was? A pot of boiling water wasn’t the ending he’d foreseen for poor Posy, but then life was often cruel and unforgiving. If that lesson had somehow escaped Evie thus far, it was better she learn it now than later.
“Aye,” said the lad. “What else would we do with it?”
“Lord Hawkridge, you cannot mean to allow Posy to be turned into stew!” Evie cried. “Tell him we’ll pay for her. Whatever price he wants. Please!”
“The lamb’s yers for fifty pounds.” Wiping her hands clean on an apron, a stringy beanpole of a woman with the lad’s red hair and none of his youthful naivety sauntered up to the doorway and gave a shrewd smile. “Fifty-five, and we’ll toss in a ribbon to go round its neck.”
Weston almost choked on his own tongue. “Fiftypounds? It’s worth half a shilling, if that.”
“It is worth what someone will pay for it,” said Gertie.
She wasn’t wrong, but Weston would be damned if he spent a fortune on asheep. Then he made the mistake of looking at Evie. A single glimpse at her heartbroken countenance, complete with a wobbling bottom lip, had him reaching into his pocket.
“I can give you ten now, and have the rest sent later.” Given the recent rise in highwaymen scouring the roads for easy victims, Weston had stopped carrying large quantities of money on his person several months ago.
“The price is fifty,” said Gertie, jutting out her chin.
Weston resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “I am the Earl of Hawkridge. Here, this is my family signet.” He extended his left hand to show his gold seal ring with the family crest engraved on the top. “I can assure you that I am good for it.”
“Fifty,” Gertie repeated. “Or the lamb goes in the pot.”
“As I told you, I do not have that sum currently, but I can easily acquire it once I reach my estate.” Beside him, Evie tensed. Without giving much thought to what he was doing, he reached across the front of Posy and gently covered Evie’s hand with his own. His fingers intertwining with hers, he gave a reassuring squeeze. It was, to his knowledge, the first time he had ever deliberately sought to give a woman comfort.
“Surely we can come to a mutual agreement,” he said, speaking with the calm assurance of an entrepreneur accustomed to striking any manner of deals. Following a ten-hour negotiation, he’d leveraged his money and reputation to gain a position on the board of the Midland Railway Company at a time when investors were divesting themselves of railway shares as quickly as possible.
Within half a year, Weston had secured enough private land leases to build a new railway from London to Bath. The more direct route had undercut their top competitor’s time by nearly two hours, leading the Midland Railway Company to buy them out and become the second largest railway in all of England.
If he could accomplishthat(no inconsiderable feat), then surely he could negotiate the simple sale of a lamb.
Except it appeared Gertie had no intention of negotiating.
“Tom,” she said, her brown eyes hardening to chips of rock, “get Pa’s pistol.”
“You are being utterly unreasonable.” Weston frowned as the lad obediently scampered off.
Gertie arched a scrawny red brow. “Ye’ve come tomyparents’ house, and ye stole one ofourlambs, and I’m being unreasonable? Count yerself lucky I didn’t have my brother shoot first and ask questions later. How do I know ye aren’t the poachers that’ve been after our flock?”
“We did not steal anything,” Evie cut in with a sniff. “We saved Posy. You should be thanking us.” She gave Weston a hard nudge with her elbow.
“What was that for?” he snapped.
“Itoldyou we shouldn’t have come here.”
Tom returned swiftly with the item his sister had requested, and gingerly handed it over.
Without hesitation, Gertie drew back the hammer and pointed the pistol at the ceiling. “Give my brother the lamb,” she said threateningly. “Or else.”
Had Weston been by himself, he would have tossed Posy over directly. He was a stubborn sod who didn’t like to lose, but he wasn’t an idiot, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to get shot over a sheep.
But there was Evie and her wobbling lip to consider.
Along with the fact that he’d left his own pistol with his driver in case any passersby got it in their heads to help themselves to the contents of the town coach.
“No one puts Posy in a pot,” he growled.
He looked at Evie.
She looked at him.
