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“You were also speaking in a foreign language,” the younger man pointed out.

“I see,” Reina said, recovering her composure. “If a woman speaks in a foreign language, that entitles you to accost her and steal her child.”

“No, good heavens, no,” the other man protested. “Miss Martin, do allow us to introduce ourselves; I am Mr. Godfrey York, solicitor of Lincoln’s Inn, and this is my colleague, Mr. Lionel Bracknell. We represent the interests of the Kingsley family of Northampton. We carry letters of introduction and documentation, should you require them. If we may sit with you for a few minutes and discuss—”

“Kingsley?” Reina exclaimed, the color draining from her face. “No, you’re not welcome in my home. You may state your purpose right here.”

“In the entrance hall?” Mr. York asked. “In front of the servants?”

“If you’ve come to speak on a matter involving Tuppence Higget, they have every right to hear it. She was a friend to all of us.”

“Very well,” the solicitor said. “We’ve come on behalf of the Kingsleys, concerning a matter of guardianship. Lord and Lady Kingsley were recently informed of the birth of their grandson, who is presently in your care. They—”

“Who informed them?” Reina demanded. “And when?”

“Mr. William Farlow, a friend of the family, the day before yesterday.”

Reina turned to share a glance of outrage with John. William Farlow had never had any intention of housing Benjamin under his roof. Immediately after having learned of Reina’s intentions to keep the baby, Farlow had gone to the Kingsleys with the news of their grandson’s birth.

“The Kingsleys are prepared to offer financial remuneration—” the solicitor began.

“Piffle,” Reina interrupted with a disdainful flick of her hand. “I don’t need their money. What do they want with Benjamin?”

Mr. York answered soberly. “Tragically, there is doubt as to whether Victor Kingsley will ever be able to father a child, after the injury inflicted on him by Miss Higget.”

John heard Enid mutter behind him, “Serves him right.”

“Therefore,” York continued, “in light of the fact the child is male, Mr. Kingsley and his parents wish to take him in. If no legitimate male child is begotten by Mr. Kingsley in the future, this boy would inherit considerable wealth and property.”

“So their plan is to keep Benjamin as a contingency child,” Reina remarked. “A spare. In case they can’t obtain a better one.”

“I wouldn’t put it in such cavalier terms,” Mr. York replied. “But . . . yes.”

“The answer is no,” Reina said flatly. “Not ever. Leave my house now.”

“I fear we can’t be dismissed so easily, Miss Martin. If you refuse the Kingsleys’ generous offer, they’ll have no choice but to ask Chancery Court to appoint them as legal guardians.”

“The court will refuse,” Reina fired back. “Tuppence asked me to be the guardian of her son, in front of witnesses.”

Bracknell spoke up then, the bowler hat turning slowly in his hands. “If the child is a bastard, the mother isn’t allowed to name a guardian. Because you see, the child is nullius filius, which means—”

“Nobody’s child,” Reina said.

“Precisely. Which is why only a court, not its mother, can decide what’s best for the baby.”

“Nevertheless,” Reina countered, “Chancery Court always does its utmost to honor the mother’s wishes.”

York replied in a superior tone. “Only if those wishes are clearly written out in a document signed by two witnesses. I rather doubt such a document exists, given the circumstances.”

“I’ll file my own petition for guardianship,” Reina said coolly, “and let both the court and the public know all about Victor Kingsley’s assault on Tuppence. Every horrifying, repellent detail of what he did.”

“That was an unfortunate event,” Bracknell hastened to tell her, “and Mr. Kingsley regrets his error deeply.”

“Error?” Reina repeated.

“The mistake was made after an excess of whisky. However, Mr. Kingsley has moderated his drinking since then. We believe the public would forgive his indiscretions in light of his sincere regret. Besides, it wasn’t really his fault: Whisky, not the man, was on deck.”

“What an interesting view,” Reina marveled. “Unfortunately, your argument is shite. According to precedent—specifically Regina vs. Meade—not only is drinking not an excuse, it makes the crime far worse in the eyes of the court. If a captain voluntarily abandons his post and allows whisky to run the ship into a bridge, the law won’t blame the bridge, nor the ship, nor the whisky. It’s his fault.”