pants to match

Ryan never remembers to eat, but Spencer has long since stopped trying to collect him for dinner. It’s just as easy to cajole a tray out of Cook later than to ferret out wherever Ryan’s wandered off to.

So Spencer’s alone when he slips into the dining room and finds someone who he doesn’t know, grinning at Jon like Jon’s discovered chocolate ice cream or shoe buckles – Spencer’s awfully fond of shoe buckles – and Spencer’s stomach does this flip. This truly annoying giddy flip that he quickly covers with a frown and narrowed eyes. Spencer isn’t all that comfortable around strangers.

Victoria stops by Spencer’s side where he’s hovering in the doorway. Victoria has always been the greatest of tomboys, but she’s recently ceased lacing their fingers together, and she’s recently started donning the most ridiculous dresses that Spencer supposes are stylish, somewhere, but seem a great deal more hassle than the lighter skirts she could ruck up to her knees when they went tree climbing out back. She clasps his hand now, though, and tugs him further into the room, whispering out the side of her mouth, “His name’s Brendon, and I’m afraid he’s the most adorable boy I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“More than me?” Spencer asks, smiling now, like he’s sure she meant to have happen.

Victoria pinches his arm playfully. “I just said, didn’t I?”

“Shrew,” Spencer says.

“Harpy,” Victoria counters.

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.