Lem nodded and Mr. Harcourt beckoned her in.
“I was eavesdropping,” she confessed, frowning as she pushed into the room. “My apologies. Difficulty with a magistrate?”
“Difficulty with the law and its lack of provisions for foundlings whose orphanages did not file the proper paperwork,” said Mr. Harcourt with a frown. “I’m afraid even with your father’s leave, we are running into a few issues. The first is issue and legacy. Lem would combat your brother and yourself for any inheritance left in your father’s wake at the time of his passing.”
“Oh, no,” said Libba sarcastically. “Not the vast riches of Ulysses Lennox!”
Harcourt gave her a patient, if tight, little smile. “Not the problem,” he said. “And I think you know that.”
She crossed her arms at him and raised her eyebrows, which made the barrister sigh.
“We need someone to swear to my identity,” Lem said to her. “The first one, not the new one. Because I already filedsomepaperwork, we cannot fabricate a history.”
“Yes, and that was my error,” Harcourt agreed with a frown. “I should not have started the process in full candor, it seems. Now that it is known that Lemuel here grew up in a Poplar foundling home, the only person in Brighton who can attest to his origins and identity, my dear, is you.”
“Only me?” she repeated, confused. “We have an entire acting troupe of people who know Lem.”
Harcourt shook his head. “The fact that they are in your employ and at your direction, quite literally, has made the magistrate strike down that suggestion. We must find someone else from the London days, or even better, a blood relative.”
“If he had a blood relative, he wouldn’t need a new name!” Libba exclaimed, crinkling her brow. “Is this because someone at the courthouse saw him? Because he’s… because of how he looks?”
Harcourt grimaced. “Possibly. I hope not, but I won’t say for certain it isn’t.”
“Liberty,” Lem said with a twist of his lips. “It is just as possible the prejudice is against actors, not Black folk. It is perhaps the worst profession to have while trying to claim an identity.”
“Yes, all right,” she said, frowning at him. “We lie for a living. That’s not illegal.”
“It’s sometimes illegal,” Harcourt said with a quirk of his lips. “But I take your meaning.”
“An orphan who never gets adopted,” said Lem with a sigh and an opening of his large hands. “Never will.”
“You’ve been adopted, fool,” said Libba, hugging herself in the chair. “Don’t say things like that.”
But it had made Harcourt go quiet, his head tilting thoughtfully to the side as his pale, silver-blue eyes swam out of focus. “Well,” he said softly, “that is something to consider.”
“What is?” Libba asked, only to get a finger aloft in the air that, in no uncertain terms, meantbe silent.
“It will only work,” Harcourt said after a moment, “if he is adopted by someone who does not already have a legal heir. Otherwise, we end up in the same mire of inheritance interception and the question of ulterior interests.”
“Fine,” said Libba. “Lem, you want to become my son?”
Lem laughed at that, his chest shaking as he dropped his chin to his chest.
Harcourt was frowning at them. “It has to be feasibly true, of course. But that does preclude the use of your father. And you, Miss Lennox, as you likely did not give birth shortly after being birthed yourself.”
“I am older than Liberty,” said Lem.
“I need to think on this,” the barrister announced, pushing to his feet. “I need to check some writ. Give me a day or two. Nothing more than that. Do not involve your father just yet, in fact. We need to avoid any cross-intentions or confusion that might reach the magistrate’s ears.”
Libba grimaced at him, glancing at her discarded pelisse. “All right.”
As soon as Harcourt was gone, Lem turned to her. “Did you not already tell your sire?”
“I gave him the gist,” she said with an apologetic wince. “But he doesn’t actually know anything about you yet. I’ll shut him up. Don’t worry.”
“You said he likes his whiskey,” Lem pointed out. “Whiskey likes to talk.”
“I said, I’dshut him up,” she said again, firmer.
