He rubs his fingertips over his temples. “I should have never indulged Greta.”

“Like you ever have any say in what Greta does, Billy,” Gabriel says absently. He tilts his head back on the armchair and puffs at his pipe, teeth biting into the carved ivory.

Which is entirely true. They’re of like ages, and their families have been dear friends since years before either of them had been born, but if anyone’s the bully in their relationship, it’s Greta. William’s sure that’s how he’d gotten saddled with Butcher and Jon in the first place. If it’d been up to William, they both would’ve been raised in Derbyshire by Uncle Orlan, and William would’ve spent his bachelor years gallivanting about London, racking up massive gambling debts. Instead, he’s got Gabriel and a houseful of big-eyed orphans – but he thinks, in the end, he’s gotten a rather good deal. He’d never ever tell Gabriel or Greta that, though.

“You fret like an old woman,” Gabriel says. “Butcher’s known Siska for years, it’ll all work out fine.”

William is disinclined to believe him, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

William is not entirely certain how this happened, how he became a veritable magnet for downtrodden orphans, but he’s going to blame Jon. Jon, who currently looks like a common street rat, dirt streaking his rosy cheeks and just south of his pert smile, perfectly serviceable breeches just that morning now torn beyond repair. Victoria isn’t going to like this one little bit.

“Care to explain yourself, Jonathan?” William asks, arching an eyebrow.

Jon just grins wider.

Honestly, William’s been saddled with the cheekiest ward. He doesn’t think he was this much trouble when he was fourteen.

“This reminds me exactly of you,” Gabriel says, slouching negligently against the hearth mantel, curve of his mouth much too amused for William’s comfort. William’s trying to be firm here, to lay some ground rules, so as young Mr. Walker can’t, er. Walk all over him. It’s bad enough Jon’s talked him into having the laconic, kitten-eyed Ross and his fierce little protector hanging about, snagging his best guest rooms, pestering Cook for warm tarts and hot cocoa.

“Stuff it, Gabe,” William says, cutting him a small frown before turning once again to Jon and the little bit of a thing clutching the back of Jon’s once snowy-white shirt. “Jon.”

Jon’s smile falters the slightest measure at William’s tone, and William watches as the little bit of a thing’s eyes widen, suddenly fearful, and William isn’t an ogre. William’s entirely too soft for his own good, apparently.

“You,” William says, and Jon’s mouth downturns even further, like William doesn’t have a good ten years on him, and his voice is practically a reprimand when he says, “Brendon.”

Jon is a whelp and the bane of William’s existence. He’s lucky William’s so fond of him.

William pinches the bridge of his nose and ignores Gabriel’s snickering. “Just. Clean him up, would you,” he says, because he won’t stand for grubby little paw prints all over the manor.