Her face reddened. “My son is dead.”

“So he is,” the earl said with a sardonic glint. “I must assume, then, that you know what he wished. I daresay he spoke to you about it frequently?”

A nervous titter arose. Everyone knew Lady Putney and her son hadn’t traded a word for over ten years. “My relationship with my son is no concern of yours,” she said stiffly. “My concern is for my grandchildren.” She turned to Mr. Hebershem. “Isn’t there something you can do?”

Mr. Hebershem was not used to members of nobility asking for ways to disinherit an earl. Especially not when the earl in question was sitting a mere fifteen feet away. “I, ah, my lady, you can’t mean to—please, madam. Lord Greyley has the care of his cousin’s children unless he voluntarily assigns their care to someone else.”

Lady Putney turned to face Greyley, but he held up a negligent hand. “Don’t.”

“But you don’t even want them!”

“No, I don’t. But I have never shirked my duty, and I’m not about to begin now.”

A faint stirring of appreciation warmed Mr. Hebershem. Few knew the extents to which the Earl of Greyley had gone to salvage his family name. Since he had assumed his responsibilities at the age of seventeen, he had pulled the Elliots from the dregs of their own waste and ruin. He had paid their debts, bettered their lands and profits, smoothed over scandals, and brought the entire, unruly family to heel.

In a normal man, the wear and tear of such an endeavor would have had some sort of effect—left him ill or wan or perhaps just bitter. But Lord Greyley’s broad shoulders seemed to handle the heavy burden with ease. Oh, it was true that Mr. Hebershem could detect a slight hint of arrogance that had not been present before. But that was, after all, only natural.

Lady Putney’s numerous chins quivered. “Greyley, if you think for one moment I’m going to accept this, you are sadly mistaken. Those children cannot—”

“Mother.” Rupert Elliot, Lady Putney’s last remaining son, stood and crossed the room to his mother’s side. Tall and lanky, his dark hair falling over his pale brow, he stood out among his Elliot relatives, his fashionable attire nearly as well wrought as Lord Brandon’s.

Rupert frowned down at his mother. “You have said more than enough.”

“But I—”

“No,” he said again, more firmly this time. “You will not make a scene. Not here. Not now.”

The two glared at each other, the room fraught with tension. Just as Mr. Hebershem thought Greyley would have to intervene, Lady Putney flushed an ugly red.

“Oh very well,” she snapped. “But I will not be silenced forever.” She freed her arm from her son’s grasp and plopped back into her chair.

That was the end of the theatrics, and Mr. Hebershem reluctantly finished reading the last few paragraphs of the will. The second he reached the final word, Anthony Elliot rose in an unhurried manner from the small, spindly chair and glanced down at his half brother. “Thank God that is over.”