Page 19 of Miss Dauntless
Oh, the possibilities when a fancy lord took up with another man’s wife. Harry should have seen those possibilities much sooner.
“I miss Dublin,” Sparky muttered. “One of yer ’ouse-sellin’ rigs will keep a man in style for ages—or it should. Blackmail lacks fy-nesse.”
“I have a gentleman’s tastes, Sparky. What can I say?” And Sparky disliked blackmail precisely because it did take a delicate and patient touch, albeit such schemes lacked originality.
“Why don’t you just sell her ’ouse like you done them others? Pretend you own it, which you almost do, and then let it go at a fair price to another half-pay officer with six brats.”
“He had only five brats, and his brother bought the house for him rather than have the brats invade the family seat. The brother didn’t need the money, and I did.”
Sparky finished his drink. “And the brats needed that ’ouse, but now there’s no money and no ’ouse, thanks to you. You used to limit your marks to grown men who oughta know better.”
Sparky’s reproach stung a little, because it was true. A confidence man was allowed to lie to anybody but himself. “The officer was a grown man, and his brother should have known better.”
“End of the month,” Sparky said, rising, “I’m fer Dublin. Told Mary I’d tarry in London but a few weeks, catch up with old friends and look in on me sister. I’ll stop around St. Mildred’s and see what I can learn, but you’d be better off approaching yer missus quietlike and throwin’ yourself on her mercy. She’s not using the ’ouse, so maybe she don’t need the money. She for damned sure don’t need you.”
Sparky had a sister. That dubious blessing could skew a fellow’s perspective in sentimental directions.
“Matilda did need me,” Harry said, “and I came to her rescue, and then there’s the boy.”
“You think you are so clever.” Sparky patted a battered top hat onto his head. “But if your widda has got her ’ooks into a real gentleman, you may get the worse of the whole scheme, ’Arry Misery-Do. London ain’t your turf no more, you don’t got but a bit of coin, and the Quality stick together. You also ain’t ’alf so ’andsome and dashing as you was in your misspent youth. Best tread lightly and move along soon as may be.”
“Easy for you to say.” Harry stood as well, because the bench was hard, and the discussion had been oddly unsettling. “You can scarper back to Ireland and spend the rest of your days cuddling up to your darling Mary. I can’t go back to Dublin, and I’ve also worn out my welcome in Liverpool and Manchester. I don’t speak Frog, and I’ve no taste for Scottish winters.”
“Ain’t it a shame how nobody has any use for Old ’Arry?” Sparky smiled at his own joke, Old Harry being one of the devil’s many monikers. Sparky touched a finger to his hat brim, put a coin on the table, and nodded to the barmaid.
Some youthful brawl gone awry had left Sparky limping, though he quit the premises with an odd sort of dignity. Harry took a moment to gather up his walking stick, hat, and gloves. He was too old to play a university graduate trying to acquire Town bronze, so he was a prosperous squire in London on business. True, he wasn’t as dashing as he’d once been, but he could now project an air of substance that a younger man only dreamed of.
He consulted his squire’s pocket watch, which hadn’t kept accurate time since Hambletonian had won the match race against Diamond, though the timepiece was a convincing prop. For one instant, staring at the unmoving hands of the little clock face, Harry considered doing as Sparky had suggested—throwing himself on Matilda’s mercy, asking for her forgiveness, taking what funds she’d spare him, and leaving her in peace.
Tilly would like that—being asked for forgiveness.
But would she like it enough? Once upon a time, Harry had known what Matilda was thinking simply by watching her eyes. She’d learned to don disguises of her own in the course of the marriage, a useful skill for any woman, and one that meant Harry could not stake his future on what he’d known of her years ago.
The barmaid called a greeting to a patron sauntering through the door, a young gent, clearly from means. He tipped his hat to her and blew her a kiss. The barmaid brought him his drink before he’d taken off his gloves.
What if Matildahadtaken up with a lord or finagled an engagement to a retired sea captain? That would change the game considerably, and not in her favor. Harry left the pub with the brisk gait of a man who was punctual for all of his appointments and entirely at home navigating the vast labyrinth of London’s streets.
“Harry Merriman,” he muttered to himself, “the opportunities for an enterprising man are endless.”
“What do you know of the late Harry Merridew?” Tremont asked, trying to make the question sound casual.
Alasdhair MacKay lifted the eagle-shaped stopper of a crystal decanter. “A wee nip to ward off the chill, my lord?”
Tremont gave his mental backside another stout kick. Small talk. A gentleman made small talk when calling on his acquaintances. MacKay, fortunately, appeared more amused than offended at Tremont’s lapse.
“A wee nip of your whisky will knock me upon my lordly fundament.”
“Half a nip, then, with a few drops of water, because you would otherwise force me to drink alone. I haven’t had my tot for the day, and the temperature is dropping.”
“Snow on the way,” Tremont said, going to the window. The parlor was cozy, made especially so by the green and white tartan blanket folded over the back of the sofa, and the green, white, and purple thistle motif embroidered into both pillows and draperies. The sky, by contrast, was a sullen gray.
“Early for snow,” MacKay said, “but the sinking feeling in my Highland bones agrees with you. Now that we’ve discussed the weather, why do you want to know about Harry Merridew?”
It became necessary to study the overcast. “Did she love him?” Tremont had considered and pondered and thought on the matter at some length. Harry Merridew had been a disappointment to his wife, but a lady could only be disappointed in a man she esteemed.
Ergo, Matilda had loved her husband, despite his shortcomings. Did she still pine for him, or would she be amenable to reentering the state of holy matrimony with a suitable party?
A theoretical question—mostly.
