“Yes, I was told,” Harcourt said with a frown. “Hardly a Christian name, and evidently not legally registered anywherein the parishes around Canary Wharf. Did they give you a surname?”
Lem shook his head. “No. We were all just Foundling.”
“He can have mine,” Libba said. “Lennox.”
Harcourt grimaced. “Not that simple, I’m afraid. Your father would have to consent.”
Libba’s lip curled. “Oh, indeed? Just him or our grandsire too? Shall we take a trip up to Scotland and dig up the Lennox clan founder? He might have an opinion as well.”
“Miss Lennox,” Harcourt said with a little frown.
“But she is right. Why?” Hattie asked, blinking at him like an owl. “When the foundling home here in Brighton names us, they do not consult every family that also carries one of the names they choose. Ruby and I were given names that are quite common throughout England, weren’t we? How was that done?”
Harcourt turned to her, still frowning. “It is different for children,” he said. “Especially in the custody of an orphanage. I am not saying this cannot be done, or that Mr. Lemuel cannot and will not have the name he chooses, just that it will be a longer and more complex process than it was to change Elizabeth Lennox to Liberty Lennox.”
“Very well,” said Lem, inclining his head. “I can wait.”
Harcourt’s shoulders eased some. He craned his neck from side to side, patting down the swoop of silver hair that fell over his brow and giving a little smile.
“That is good to hear,” he said. “This will be less of achangethan anestablishment, I think. We will need to sort out your papers and records as though you were just as new to the world as Lady Selwyn’s unborn child. I think we ought to start at the Brighton parish. Once you are registered as a congregant there, we have a starting point. You will also require witnesses to your identity, which it seems you already have in spades.”
“Of course he does,” Libba said, frowning. “He is who he says he is.”
“I will speak for him, Mr. Harcourt,” Hattie said softly. “As will Elias, if our station will smooth the process.”
Harcourt nodded in approval. “It will. Wonderful. Well, then, with your consent, I’ll go get started.”
Libba stayed seated until he’d left, twisting a ringlet around her finger as she stared out the parlor window at the churchyard below, her mind turning in spirals that matched the set of her hair.
“You’ll come to church with me this week,” she said to Lem once he’d moved to leave. “The vicar is fond of me. He’ll be fond of you too.”
“All right,” said Lem. “You do love your sermons.”
“It’s theater, darling,” she said, blinking up at him. “I might need you for something else too. Something discreet.”
“Hm,” he said, smirking. “Smuggling again?”
“Lem!” she gasped, shushing him immediately.
“It’s all right,” Hattie put in, so mildly that she appeared aware that they’d both forgotten she was there. “I was present when we had to get you out of jail for that, remember? I never told anyone.”
Libba frowned at her. “No, I suppose you didn’t.”
“It was for a good cause,” Lem assured her, which got him shushed again.
“Get out,” she said, pointing at the archway. “Go find Rhys and practice killing him.”
Lem gave a somber nod, clearly battling the urge to grin, and spun on his heel to go off and presumably do just that.
Libba waited until he was gone to sigh.
“I don’t mind the smuggling,” Hattie said, clearly still stuck in the pocket of time when that had been relevant. “Even if the only cause was getting better wine and silk.”
“What? Oh,” said Libba, glancing at her. “It was wartime trade. I was facilitating some unofficial prisoner exchanges by selling not-quite-legal wine and so on at my shows. Doesn’t matter now. War’s over.”
Hattie nodded, toying with the rim of her glass. “All right.”
Libba frowned. “You don’t mind, do you? When I scheme? Princess Xandine doesn’t bother you?”
