Grayson nodded. “Isn’t she, though?”

“Have you tasted her—”

“Stop it, both of you!” Camille glared. “Regardless of how well they are working out, as far as I know, the staff we do have does not include anyone with any experience with children. And, I daresay, neither Mrs. Montgomery-Wells nor Miss Murdock has any more familiarity with the needs of children than Beryl and I do. In addition, how am I expected to explain an influx of children in the house?”

“Hmph.” Grayson’s brow furrowed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“No doubt.” She gritted her teeth. “Now, send them back.”

“Oh, dear.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

Beryl stared in stunned fascination.

Camille braced herself. “And why can’t we?”

“Well . . .” He shook the note at her. “It says right here that the family Win leased the children from—”

Beryl made a strangling sound.

“The butcher in the village,” he continued.

Camille nodded. “Go on.”

“It seems his wife hasn’t been to London since she was a girl, so Win sent them on a bit of a holiday. In the manner of a Christmas gift, apparently. It was very kind of him.” Gray smiled. Her hand itched to slap that smile away.

“A Christmas gift?” Camille could barely choke out the words. “When will they return?”

“Tomorrow. Unfortunately, we can only have them for one night.”

“You leased the butcher’s children?” Beryl’s eyes widened. “The butcher—Mr. Carroll?”

He glanced at the note. “That’s what it says here.”

Beryl stared at him as if she wasn’t sure if he was brilliant or insane. “We have Carrolls for Christmas?”

“Oh.” He paused. “My God, that is brilliant.”

“ ‘Brilliant’ is not the word I would use,” Camille said sharply. Surely, he was not this thick? To think that orphans would make this . . . She narrowed her eyes and studied him. He smiled in an overly innocent manner, but the vaguest hint of unease shone in his eyes.

Realization slammed into her. Of course he wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what he was doing. It hadn’t been said aloud, but he was as much as wagering she couldn’t create this perfect Christmas as he was that he could snatch Mrs. Fortesque from her. Well, two could play whatever game he was playing. And she would play it better.

“There is nothing to be done about it then, I suppose.” Camille shrugged. “Save make the best of it.”

“The best of it? How on earth do we make the best of it?” Beryl clutched her sister’s arm. “You haven’t seen them yet, Camille, but they’re fast.”

“Then we must be even faster.” She gave her sister a firm look. “They are children and we are adults. And we outnumber them. However”—she turned her gaze on Grayson—“we shall all have to do our part.”