Page 34 of Miss Dauntless
She studied the plate she’d assembled, a tempting array of pretty tarts, delicious sandwiches, and two delectable tea cakes.
“No,” she said, sounding a little surprised. “I regret marrying Harry. I regret trusting Joseph Yoe. I regret not standing up to my father sooner and more loudly, but if I had not had Tommie, I would still be at the vicarage, probably keeping house for the next pious hypocrite. Worse yet, I might have married one in the desperate hope that he would not be as bad as Papa. I do not for a moment regret being Tommie’s mother.”
She smiled at her plate, apparently having settled something in her own mind, then bit into a jam tart. “These are scrumptious. Do you suppose I might have the recipe for Cook?”
Scrumptious sat before Tremont in all her fierce, honest glory. “I can give you the recipe, but I’d rather give you my name.”
Matilda paused in mid-reach toward the epergne on the tea tray, then assembled a second plate of delicacies and passed it over to Tremont.
He stuffed a tart into his mouth lest he commence a diatribe on the benefits to Matilda of becoming his countess. He wasprepared for her to laugh, to refuse, to make a jest of his offer, or to leave the house in fear for her safety.
Only a fool or a madman proposed to a woman as Tremont had just proposed, and yet, he’d meant those words more sincerely than he’d ever meant anything in his life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“The ’ouse is neat as a pin from what I can see,” Sparky said, settling into the second wing chair before Harry’s meager fire. “Somebody ’as tidied up the back, swept the cobbles, pointed up the masonry. Windows are spotless and all the boards taken down.”
Harry passed over his flask, though so far, Sparky was repeating old news. “What do the good Puritans of St. Mildred’s have to say?”
“I couldn’t ask ’em. This isn’t your usual tipple.”
“Winter ale, winter tipple.” The cheap stuff warmed a fellow as well as the other kind. “If you aren’t any more effective on reconnaissance, we might be here until spring.”
“I done told ye. I’m fer Dublin at the end of the month. Your missus was at services. Had the boy with her. He’s growed like a weed.”
Thoughts of Tommie were complicated. He’d been a lovely, happy baby, but he hadn’t been Harry’s baby. That had made married life much easier when Tilly had got various bees under her bonnet, but still… The lad was sweet and lovable, and Harry hadn’t known much of sweetness or lovableness.
Probably for the best the lad wasn’t truly his.
“If the boy has grown, then Matilda has landed on her feet. Any daughter of Rev. Quartus Samuels had to learn self-reliance.” What Matilda had lacked was guile and the sense to trust her own instincts. Harry had lived in dread of the day she acquired those skills.
“Missus is looking well,” Sparky said, taking another sip from the flask. “A bit trim-ish, but she seemed to know everybody. A couple fellows were with her. I thought I recognized one of them.”
“That’s the problem with London,” Harry said. “You stand on a street corner here long enough, and somebody who knew you when you were in short coats will eventually walk by. Give me a backward English village any day over the blandishments of the capital.”
Sparky corked the flask and returned it to Harry. “And then when you ran your rigs in the shires, you got chased outta one village after another. You came to London, and you could still run those rigs, but you could stay put because you didna shit where you et.”
Harry thought about draining the flask, but instead put it away. Even these modest bachelor quarters cost handsomely in the Old Smoke—another reason not to bide here overlong.
“I stuck to Town because Matilda was easier to manage if she stayed here with the boy, and I tended to business elsewhere.”
“What did you used to say? A swindler can lie to everybody but hisself. I wish I could place that fellow at the kirk. Had a mean look, but he was good with the boy.”
“Matilda is allowing another man to look after Tommie?”
“Why shouldn’t she? Her ’usband is dead and buried. She’s still wearing Sunday ’alf mourning, but women do that because they can’t afford new clothes.”
“Matilda owns a house, free and clear. If she wants new frocks badly enough, she can sell that house. Maybe that’s whyshe’s had it all spruced up. A pretty property will fetch a better price.” Except that Matilda would starve before she sold what she thought of as Tommie’s birthright. Lucky boy.
“She’s probably looking to rent it out. Proper ’ouses in London is ever so dear come spring.”
“Spring is months away. Maybe I should let her sell the house, then explain to her that half the money is mine.”
Sparky dumped a whole scoop of coal on the desultory fire. “Not if she’s a widda, it ain’t. Somebody should sweep these stones.”
“The landlord’s wife will tidy up on Thursday.” Matilda had kept a spotless house. More than once, Harry had found himself in some blighted village pub, working a thimble rig and wishing he were home instead, being fussed at by his wife.
She’d tried to make him soft, Matilda had. She’d had the knack of angling a chair just so, the hassock at the exact right distance, the candles positioned precisely where they should be so a fellow could read the paper without squinting.
