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He went to her side and bent close to her ear. “Come upstairs with me for a moment,” he whispered.
“Not yet, rogue. We’re devising a plan. Foxton has no idea what’s in store for him.”
“If he proves difficult, we have knitting needles.” Miss Beaton brandished a pair of needles. “And we know how to use them.”
“We’re not going to use weapons of any kind,” said Beatrice. “We’re going to vanquish him with kindness.”
“And tea,” said Mrs. Kettle. “A nice piping hot cup of tea.”
“Or we could lock him in the cellar,” said Ford. “With the rats.”
“I thought you got rid of those,” said Beatrice.
“I can always bring up more from the river.”
“I think our plan is better,” she said.
“He’s only one man, and we’re an army,” Miss Mayberry said, standing and giving him a salute.
The shop bell rang. Coggins creaked past them, muttering about all of the comings and goings.
“Another of your friends?” Ford asked Beatrice.
“I don’t think so. Unless it’s my mother...? There’s still an hour before Foxton’s arrival.”
“Mr. Foxton,” they heard Coggins say in an affronted tone. “I’ll thank you to moderate your language. There are ladies present in this house. Far too many ladies.”
“Oh no!” Beatrice’s brow wrinkled. “He’s early.”
“Then it’s the cellar,” Ford said roughly. “I’ll tie him up. Mrs. Kettle, where can I find some rope?”
Beatrice swatted his arm. “No brute force. Kindness, remember? Now, ladies, Ford and I will meet him in the front room, and then you will play your parts, as we discussed.”
Her friends and his mother and aunt all nodded.
“Come with me,” she said.
Ford had a bad feeling about this. Foxton had given him absolutely no indication, not one glimmer of hope, that his heart could be thawed.
“Well?” Foxton asked when Ford and Beatrice entered the room. “Have you decided to finally sign this property over to me?”
The duke was sitting in a high wingback chair, hidden from Foxton.
“I haven’t,” said Beatrice.
“You’re going to agree to leave us alone, instead,” Ford said.
“Not a chance, Wright.”
“We know about your childhood, Mr. Foxton,” Beatrice said. “We know that you were raised in a workhouse. It must have been a harsh and a brutal upbringing. I can understand why you wish to better yourself, but what I can’t understand is why you would want to build a factory that mistreats children.”
“Pardon me?” Foxton staggered before righting himself with his walking stick. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Lady Beatrice.”
“She’s speaking about compassion, Grandfather. About understanding and forgiveness.”
Foxton glowered at them, his face a venomous mask. “We have no further business here. I’ll go straight to the newspapers, and I’ll see you in court.”
He turned to leave, but Ford’s mother and aunt headed him off at the doorway.
