“They didn’t actually name us,” Malcolm pointed out, touching his sister’s shoulder.
“They didn’t have to,” Rhys said. “We know what they meant.”
“The Black ones,” Libba provided, raising her brows.
“No,” said Rhys with a curl of his lip. “The posh one and the pantomime.”
Mal laughed, a short chuckle that seemed to ease his shoulders. “Yes, that’s what they meant, Lib.”
“Go on, then, Baron,” Rhys said, turning to Elias with something behind that customary sparkle that looked like sympathy. “What’s their shorthand for me? The thieving one? The skinny one? The beauty?”
“The eternal optimist?” Malcolm muttered.
Elias stared at them for a moment, his mind still stuck in the mire of before. “The Welsh one,” he heard himself saying. “Usually.”
“The…” Rhys repeated, his voice going up an octave in outrage. “‘TheWelsh one’?! That’s it?!”
“Oh, you’ve angered him,” Monica said with a little frown. “Rhys, it’s all right.”
“‘The Welsh one’!” he repeated, waving his hands at Monica like the jiggle of his fingers would punctuate the point. “Thatisan insult. Oh, well done, you sneaky snakes. They know just where to strike to cause maximum pain.”
Elias agreed with that. But he could not say so.
Instead, he turned to Harcourt and said, “Who is the Widow Starling?” And when the man looked up to him with a pained expression, he added, “You told me Willa was an orphan.”
“She was,” Harcourt said. “Lord Selwyn, you know very well that the widow they spoke of is Willa’s aunt.”
“I… do not know that,” Elias managed, his brow furrowing.
Harcourt’s eyes fell briefly to Elias’s hands, flicking over his new ring. “Elias,” said Harcourt, slowly. “It was in the letter.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Selwyn!” Malcolm said, exasperated. “You still haven’t read it?”
“And he’s wearing that ring, anyway,” Rhys said with a low whistle. “Brave.”
“Well, we can’t go fetch it right now,” said Hattie, standing and walking toward Elias as she spoke. “Mr. Harcourt, perhaps you can summarize the information for us, in the name of brevity?”
“I…” Harcourt said, wincing as Monica dabbed a particularly jagged cut. “I am not certain that is wise. There are decisions outlined in that letter that Lord Selwyn was to make of his own private accord.”
“I think they just became a sight less private, Harcourt,” Malcolm pointed out with a raise of his brows.
Harcourt sighed heavily. “It is up to Elias,” he said. “If he gives me leave, I will do as you ask.”
Elias was staring at him, his mouth dry and immobile, unsure he was even comprehending what was being asked of him.
Hattie slid her hands over his arm, gripping him lightly but firmly enough to pull him back to earth.
“Yes,” he managed. “Yes, you have my leave.”
Harcourt nodded, looking very tired all of a sudden. “Very well. As you all know, the Selwyn land and the Starling house are, or were until today, I suppose, independent pieces of property. When your uncle died, and you became baron, your parents attempted to take the house from Willa as part of your inheritance. She had anticipated the attempt and prepared legally for it ahead of their arrival on the day of the funeral.”
“They were going to try to evict her on the day of the funeral?” Rhys said, his face twisted up in disgust. “Jesus.”
“They failed, obviously,” said Harcourt with a shrug. “But seeing as young Elias here was already packed, Willa used the opportunity to bring him under her custody. She pointed out that she could oversee his tutelage and education as baron if he learned his own lands from standing upon them, even though he would not inherit her house until the time of her death.”
“Or ever,” Libba muttered.
“Yes, well,” said Harcourt with a frown, “that hadn’t happened yet. Hattie hadn’t happened yet. Much less the rest of the wards.
