Hattie watched her curiously.
Evidently, some things never did change.
“So shall we get started, then?” Ruby asked, raising her brows. “Here we all are. Here you are, Mr. Harcourt. I haven’t stolen any jewelry yet. Let’s get on with it.”
The barrister glanced at Hattie, tightening his lips, then turned back to the others. “We are still waiting for one more.”
“‘One more’?” Ruby repeated, furrowing up her brow. She turned and counted the heads, mouthing to herself, “Five, six, seven…” Then she said, louder, “No, sir, we are all here.”
“Eight,” Mr. Harcourt said, much to Hattie’s distress. “There are eight of you.”
And at that moment, another carriage pulled up on the drive, the pebbles and gravel crunching and popping from outside the window, drawing everyone’s attention around to observe it.
“Eight,” repeated Hattie, blinking away the stormy blue that had settled over her mind. “That will be Lord Selwyn.”
“Lord bloody Selwyn?” Ruby repeated, aghast. “The dead husband?”
“No, Ruby.” Monica tutted, her fingers at her lips. “Elias is Baron Selwyn now.”
“Oh, Elias,” Rhys said, his big, green eyes widening. “I’d forgotten all about him. Is he coming, then? Involved in all this?”
“Evidently,” Libba snapped. “Aren’t you listening?”
“Never,” Rhys replied with a gloating smile.
“Is that him, then?” Monica wondered, breathy and clearly nervous. “Lord Selwyn?”
“Yes,” Hattie confirmed, floating in slow, absent footsteps toward the window as the coach driver hopped down and made his way to the door. The crest on the outside of the coach was unmistakable. The embellished letterSfor House Selwyn was painted on the door in stark gold and green. “Elias is here.”
Chapter Three
Elias Selwyn brieflyconsidered turning the coach around and going directly back to Hounslow. He had a nice life there, he reasoned. He was respected. Well-liked. Happy.
He certainly never felt the doom and weight that was currently sitting on every single one of his ribs like dangling iron weights back in Hounslow.
Starling’s Rest rose up on its pert, little hill beyond the coastal townhouses of Brighton like a crow’s eye, glinting and smug and still so very, very tall.
Yes, he thought as they turned into the drive.
He should just go back to Hounslow. He’d made a home there, hadn’t he? He just wanted to go home.
The only reason he couldn’t was because as far as the law was concerned,thiswas home now. If Willa Selwyn was truly dead and gone, then there was nothing left between Elias and the full burden of his barony.
This was home now.
Or something like it.
He sighed, resisting the urge to rub the anxieties that prickled over his face, and straightened his shoulders as the driver’s boots hit the pebbled drive.
He was not a child anymore. And neither were any of the people inside.
It would be different now.
They were all going to be different now.
Still, the instant his body had moved from the cushioned embrace of the carriage to the windy landing of the house, Elias was certain he was no longer the man who had ridden here from Hounslow.
He had been that man, in the carriage. And as soon as he had stepped out, he’d been half as tall, still swaddled in baby fat, trembling in a coat that was a little bit too tight about the arms because his mother had refused to spend what had been left of their pin money every time he’d grown, either taller or wider.
