Page 59 of Miss Dauntless
“You are not,” Tremont said, rubbing a hand over Matilda’s back. “We are not. We’ve flushed the fox from his covert, and now the chase is on.”
Matilda stepped back. “That’swhy you set patrols on the house? To provoke Harry into showing himself?”
“A confrontation was only one of his options, but I’m glad he chose it. We suspected he might be underfoot, and now we know the truth. That’s a stronger position, tactically, and he handed it to us without anybody firing any figurative shots.”
Matilda felt some wonderment that Marcus could think logically. Also, horror that Harry was alive. Dread, because whatever lay ahead would mean suffering for somebody—very probably her—and anger. Old frustration, new rage, and everything wrathful and frustrated that lay between those two poles.
“This is a war game to you?”
“This is no sort of game at all, Matilda. Harry’s appearance means you are married, and as you can have only one legal husband at a time, Harry becomes a problem. The best tool I have for solving problems is logic. Therefore, I apply it when I’d instead like to apply my fists. Would you care for a brandy? You’ve had a shock, after all.”
Papa had always said ladies did not take strong spirits.To blazes with you, Papa.“Please, and you will join me, because you’ve had a shock as well.”
“Half a shock. A fellow like Harry Merridew will come to a bad end sooner or later, but under the circumstances… Later was the more likely possibility.”
Matilda sipped some very good brandy that warmed her insides and let the fire in the hearth warm her from the outside. Another thought warmed her heart: Tremont had not fled in dismay when he’d learned that Matilda was married. He had not despaired. He had not even been much surprised.
And thus, relief joined the other feelings racketing about in Matilda’s soul. Harry was back, and that was bad, though as Marcus had said, better to know now before she’d innocently committed bigamy, better to deal with the truth.
Harry would want money, and then he’d go away. She finished her brandy, and when Tommie scampered into the library, Matilda was discussing the terms upon which she would sell the house and doing so with every appearance of calm.
“Merridew is probably running out of coin,” Tremont said, warming his hands before MacKay’s roaring fire. “Two weeks ago, he or his minions were snooping about the house. Last week, he accosted Matilda on the street. This week, he’s purporting to be a buyer interested in relieving Matilda of her only tangible asset.”
Matilda had received Harry’s letter yesterday, delivered by a street lad to the soldiers’ home and purported to be from a Mr. Harrell Merriman. The note had been cordially businesslike, a pitch-perfect overture to a widow regarding a financial matter.
Matilda had recognized the handwriting, and for some reason, that fact had bothered Tremont far into the night. She should, of course, recognize her husband’s hand. Harry had probably been counting on her ability to do so.
“Brandy?” Alasdhair MacKay asked. “Whisky? Don’t tell me to ring for the damned tea tray. Dorcas’s brother is supposed to call later. Michael’s visit will necessitate swilling an hour’s worth of scandal broth while he drones on about the archbishop must this and the Bishop of London demands that.”
When MacKay’s burr thickened, he was in the grip of strong emotion. “You don’t care for your brother-in-law?”
“I like the man well enough, but he’s not cut out for the clergy, and… I know what it is to be stuck in a bad situation. Dorcas worries about him.”
And thus, MacKay worried as well. “Whisky, then.”
MacKay poured two generous servings and passed one to Tremont. “Slàinte.”
“Slàinte mhath.” Tremont nosed his drink, then took a sip. MacKay, by contrast, had bolted his at one go, then pouredhimself another half serving. The chill of approaching winter—or of the brother-in-law’s duty visit—would be stoutly warded off.
“Without meeting Merridew,” MacKay said, “how do you know this buyer is him?”
“I am not absolutely certain, of course, but one plans for the worst possibilities. Matilda reports that Harry changes his alias as often as you change your socks, though he tends to use the first name Harry or its variants. The men have seen a fellow walking past the house—on the street and in the alley—more than once. This man limps, and Bentley claims the limp is familiar.”
“Former Private Benjamin Bentley?”
“Is that his first name?”
“He’s a good man,” MacKay said, gesturing to the wing chairs before the fire. “Never lost his head in the heat of battle, knew how to handle a team. If he tells you a fellow’s limp looks familiar, then believe him.”
“I do.” Tremont sank into a comfortable chair whose back had been warmed by the fire. A green and white plaid pillow provided just the right support to make the chair’s embrace a bit of heaven. “If the men see the limping fellow again, they will approach him with a few questions. Matilda says Merridew did not have a limp, though he might have acquired one on the occasion of his supposed death.”
MacKay took the second chair with the sigh of a man whose backside was greeting an old and dear friend.
“What do you know of that death?” he asked.
“Very little. Matilda has a letter from the proprietor of the Hungry Hound, an inn just south of Oxford on the Oxford Road. The innkeeper expresses his condolences on her loss, alludes to a sudden illness, and begs that she remit a sum certain for the departed’s expenses, which he elucidates to the penny. He further informs her that Harry’s bill has been paid by the samegood, Christian folk who arranged for the deceased’s remains to be carted to London and that she can make repayment to them at a specific address.”
“What about that strikes you as odd?”
