Sublime

“What would a toff like you know about fighting? Even with my ribs cracked, you couldn’t take me down.” The older man’s stare was that of a seasoned lion being challenged by a brash cub.

West came into the room with his arms full of folded umbrellas. Justin, dressed in a little velveteen suit, was at his heels. “Aren’t you supposed to be upstairs in the nursery with your little brother?” St. Vincent asked his five-year-old nephew. “Dad needed my help,” Justin said self-importantly, bringing an umbrella to him.

The boy heaved a sigh and reached up for her hand. Looking up at West, he explained, “Stephen is my baby brother. He can’t talk, and he smells like rotten turtles.” “Not all the time,” Lady Clare protested. Justin only shook his head, as if the point weren’t worth debating.