Page 35 of Miss Dauntless
“Tell me more about the mean-looking men doting on my son.”
Sparky let the lie pass. Harry had been knocking around with Sparky in Bristol nine and a half months prior to Tommie’s birth, revisiting the home port, so to speak. Sparky had likely come to his own conclusions regarding Tommie’s paternity.
“Former military,” Sparky said. “I know the look, and I trailed the lady ’ome after services. If the word of a London crossing sweeper is good, then she’s bidin’ with a lot of former soldiers as their governess or landlady. Something like that.”
“If you can’t trust a London crossing sweeper, the End Times approach. Was one myself, once.”
Hard, thankless, dangerous, smelly work, even for a large, healthy adolescent. Then Harry had figured out that wrangling street dung wasn’t half the job. Spying, running errands, startingrumors, and spreading a juicy lie all paid much better than manual labor.
“You do have a way with horseshite, ’Arry Merchant.”
Harry cuffed him on the side of the head. “Never use that name. Not ever. Not when you’re drunk, not when you’re at your last prayers. You use that name, and I could end up dead for real.”
“Remind me to send your wife flowers, but mebbe not. You ain’t worth the price of posies, and she’s apparently got over her loss the once-t already.”
“Hilarious.”
Sparky rose. “I’ll keep a watch on the ’ouse and the soldiers’ ‘ome, but you’d best tread lightly, ’Arry. Those men are careful with yer widda. They hold doors for ’er, escort ’er like they was promenading through the park with their best girl. You threaten the missus or the boy, and them won’t take it kindly.”
“They are a lot of drunks who knew which way to march only when somebody shouted orders at them. I won’t threaten my wife. I’ll present her with opportunities.”
Sparky tapped his hat onto his head. “I might be just another drunk out of uniform, but I known you a long while, ’Arry. Good times and bad.”
Not this again.“If I’d wanted to hear a sermon, I’d have gone to services.” Though Sparkyhadknown Harry forever, and that made all the talk of deserting for Dublin more bothersome than it should have been.
“She’s too good for ye. Ye never shoulda married ’er, and ye ought not to steal from ’er and the boy now. That crosses a line, my friend, even for the likes o’ ye.”
Harry rose, abruptly out of patience. “She is my lawfully wedded spouse. I can black both her eyes, and Scripture will applaud my willingness to use husbandly discipline on a wayward wife.”
The look Sparky sent him was infuriating for its pity. “Ye could, and it would be the last stupid thing ye do, ’Arry Whoever the ’Ell You Are This Week. I won’t have to kill you. That lot of drunks out of uniform will see to the job for me, and nobody will have to give ’em the order. You been beggin’ for a bad end since we left Bristol the first time. Watch your step is all I’m sayin’.”
He gave a mocking salute and limped out the door.
Harry produced his current deck of cards—marked, of course—and began beating himself at solitaire just for practice. The hardest part of any rig was patience, and thanks to Matilda, Harry had oceans of it. She would have left him if he’d treated her roughly, and the shame of her potential abandonment—no matter that the law would have marched her straight home—had stayed Harry’s hand many a time.
Matilda had taught him that he had more patience than he’d known, and more cunning. The way to get to Matilda was through the boy, and that had not changed.
Fortunately for Harry Merriman.
“Not well done of me,” Tremont said, setting his plate aside. “One doesn’t raise the topic of holy matrimony between ‘have another crumpet’ and pouring the second cup, but please hear me out.”
Matilda had also apparently lost interest in her food, which was encouraging. Tremont had her attention, and that was a place to start.
“I believe I just heard a proposal of marriage from you, my lord.” Her tone was carefully neutral, probably offering him the opportunity to turn the moment to levity—at which he would fail, of course.
“Marcus. My name is Marcus, and you are doubtless thinking that I’m headlong and precipitous and so forth, but that’s not true. I am the least rash man you will ever meet.”
This earned him a frowning perusal. “You don’t hotspur about, yielding to every whim. I like that about you.”
“The historical Hotspur came to a bad end, if I recall correctly.” Drawn, quartered, and named a traitor, though the ancient past was of no moment when a man was offering his heart to the woman he most greatly esteemed.
“You do recall correctly,” Matilda said. “You have a good memory, and you are honest, but what on earth makes you think I’m suited to be your countess?”
Not a no. Every particle of Marcus’s being demanded that he get up and pace, the better to reason Matilda’s replies closer to a yes. Instead, he took her hand.
“I think,” Tremont said. “It’s what I do. I ponder, I cogitate, I ruminate. Other men write poetry or give great speeches in the Lords. They are clever with money or charming in any company. They have cachet. I have a compulsion to contemplate.”
“And you have been contemplating marriage, but the notion of searching out a wife holds no interest for you. Here I am, theoretically a lady, and your pondering has led to the conclusion that I’ll do?”
