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As they watched, she tried not to wince at the color gathering below Benedict’s eye. They’d hit him again. But at least this time he was smiling. He grinned when the boys rushed off, yelping, leaving their cricket gear unattended.
He stood, walked back to the pitch, and left a note. She’d watched him write it last night, and so she knew what it said.
Dear Dean, Ralston, and Viridian—
I know what I’m worth.
Do you?
You Know Who
Benedict dry-washed his hands as he returned. “There we are,” he said. “Revenge isn’t sweet. It’s salty. It’s like they always say: Revenge is the only response to injustice. Come. Let’s go home.”
Judith stared at her little brother. Like they say? Which they said that? She had heard those words before.
From Christian, who had been quoting… Anthony. And there should be nothing odd about Benedict quoting Anthony, but he had been four years old when Anthony was transported. Benedict didn’t remember his brother; what he knew about him, he knew because Judith had told him stories.
It could have been anything. Those words could have come from anywhere. For all she knew, it could have been an old Eton saying.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, but suspicion, great and terrible and painfully hopeful all at once, filled her. It couldn’t be. It absolutely could not be.
She’d thought everything had been going well. Too well.
If she was right, everything had just become better. Better and impossibly worse.
She had a sudden memory of Mr. Ennis sitting behind his desk, resting his forehead against his hand, and saying, “Agh.”
“Agh,” Judith said.
“Agh?” Benedict looked at her, frowning.
Judith took hold of his wrist before he could dart away. “Wait,” she said. “We’re not going home. Not yet.”
“Where are we going?” Benedict asked as Judith dragged him down the street.
“Are we there yet?” asked Theresa behind them.
“We’re going on a walk.” Judith bit out the words.
In truth, it was something closer to a forced march. She gripped her brother’s hand, and she wasn’t letting go. She would have yanked him by the ear, except that would have made him suspicious.
More suspicious.
More suspicious, perhaps, than Theresa. She followed behind them, carrying the basket of things they’d planned for their victory picnic afterward.
“Why are we going on a walk?” she asked. “Where are we going? Why now? Is Benedict in trouble?” The last was said with an almost hopeful gleam in her eyes.
If Judith’s suspicions were true, Benedict was in so much trouble. “We’re going on a walk,” Judith said, “because our legs need stretching. So do our minds.”
It couldn’t be true. It would hurt too much if it were. And yet… Finally, everything fit, all of it, from the confusing answers that Mr. Ennis had given her to the way he’d fobbed her off with such apologetic helplessness. It all finally made sense, if having her world turned upside down for the second time in her life could be said to make sense. If she was right, she was going to collapse in a heap and cry.
Or commit murder.
Murder seemed a good option at the moment.
Possibly she could combine the two, and at her inevitable trial, she’d be able to use her tears as evidence of her mental unsoundness. She would have to ask Mr. Ennis, once she was done murdering everyone.
“I love you, Benedict,” Judith made herself say as a reminder as they marched down the pavement. No, she was not actually going to kill him.
“Wait.” Benedict suddenly stopped as Judith turned a corner. “Why are we going to see our solicitor?”
And there was her confirmation. She didn’t let go of his wrist. “I don’t know, Benedict,” she said. “You’ve never been here with me. How did you know this was our solicitor’s office?”
He gulped. “Ah. Um. I’ve seen the direction. On correspondence and such that he sent to you?”
“Smart boy.” She gave him a grin, not relinquishing his hand. “Good try. Except you’re a terrible liar.”
“I could help him with that,” Theresa said earnestly. “You see, you have to—”
At the forbidding look on Judith’s face, she shut her mouth. “Or…perhaps not.” She shook her head. “Benedict, you are going to have to make so much punishment bread.”
Judith turned around. “Theresa, if you can’t hold your tongue, I will…”
Theresa clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Good.” Judith swept into the office.
The front room clerk, a distracted-looking fellow in spectacles, stood at her arrival. “Lady Judith.” He frowned at her brother. “And young Mr. Worth. How good to see you both.”
Judith raised an eyebrow at her little brother. “Never been here before?”
Benedict sighed.
“It turns out,” Judith said, “I have a rather urgent question for Mr. Ennis. Has he a moment?”
The man actually looked to Benedict for permission first.
Her brother shrugged. “The jig is up,” he said mournfully.
“The jig?” She was trying not to be incensed. “You—you—”
The solicitor came into the room. “Why, Lady Judith. Young Master Benedict. And this must be Lady Theresa.”
“Maybe,” Theresa responded. “I’m considering the matter. I don’t have to decide for years, though.”
Mr. Ennis made a confused face at that and shook his head. “How may I be of service?”
“Benedict.” She pulled him forward. “It’s Benedict, isn’t it?”
Mr. Ennis gave a hopeful smile. “Your brother? Why, yes. Your brother is Benedict. Absolutely.”
He was a worse liar than even Benedict.
“That’s not what I meant. You said the guardian had turned over decision-making to someone else. That someone else is Benedict.”
Mr. Ennis’s face became very still. “In a hypothetical sense? Yes. I suppose it could be. He wouldn’t be the guardian himself; he’d merely be acting in an advisory capacity. But Lady Judith, your brother is twelve. Who would ever do such a ridiculous thing?”
If Benedict hadn’t looked so dreadfully unhappy, she might have believed Mr. Ennis. Except he hadn’t actually denied that Benedict had been put in that position. He’d just said it was ridiculous. And it was.
“It is utterly ridiculous,” Judith said. “Let’s not discuss this for now. We have another issue that must be discussed. Anthony has been missing for eight years. It is time to move on. We should have him declared dead, once and for all, so that Benedict can take his rightful title. If Anthony is dead, Benedict is the Earl of Linney.”
“Ah.” The solicitor frowned again. “Um.”
“Might I suggest…” Judith leaned in. “Agh.”
“You appear to be legally astute.” He sighed. “Yes. ‘Agh’ is my off
icial legal response.”
She had thought so. God, she was furious. “Lady Theresa has a guardian,” Judith said, “but it is not me. The appointment of said guardian did not go through Chancery, and yet you accepted it unequivocally. And you won’t file whatever necessary forms you need to declare Anthony dead.”
She felt sick, elated, confused, and angry, all at once. Oh, God, she was so angry.
“That algae-sucking son-of-a-rooster.” Her fists clenched. “I hate him. I will never, ever forgive him.”
“What?” Theresa asked behind her. “Who? Who’s in trouble?”
She would never do to Theresa what he had done to her. Never. She’d never keep her little sister in the dark, lying to her for whatever reasons she’d imagined.
“Anthony,” Judith said. “Anthony is alive.”
Theresa rolled her eyes. “Of course he is. I always said so, didn’t I?”
“No,” Judith said. “He is actually alive. He is in literal communication with our duck-nibbled solicitor. He left me to worry about you two all these years with no aid, without a word in communication, and then—”
“For what it’s worth,” Mr. Ennis put in, “I don’t believe he was able to communicate until a few years ago.”
“And he put Benedict in charge?”
“Yes, well.” The solicitor pinched his spectacles. “That was not my idea. But it is rather difficult to argue with a man who leaves no forwarding address, and who takes five or six months to respond to any inquiry, which must be placed in the London papers in code. Trust me, Lady Judith, I wholeheartedly share your outrage over the situation. I’ve sent the earl a most harshly worded message.” Mr. Ennis sighed. “He may receive it in another five months. Or not.”
“If it takes that long,” Judith said, “why did nothing regarding Lady Theresa’s trust come to my address? Surely Anthony…” She trailed off and looked at Benedict. “Surely…”
Benedict shrank in on himself. “I received the notice my first month at Eton,” he whispered. “You said you had a plan. I’d go to school. I’d make friends. I would introduce my sisters about, and with a little money, they would make decent matches.”
“Yes?”
