Page 66 of Miss Dauntless
Yes, please. The details and the great, much-dreaded reunion.
Harry stood when Matilda entered a stuffy little chamber that smelled of old books and countless pipes. He bowed with all the graciousness of a great actor acknowledging a standing ovation.
“Mrs. Merridew, a pleasure.” His smile conveyed a perfect blend of hope and hesitance, the attitude of a fellow who intended to make a good impression and a better deal. His eyes told Matilda he was enjoying himself, daring her to make a fuss and knowing full well she would not.
Harry Merridew was alive and well and very much on his game—though he did look a bit skinny.
Matilda tossed off a shallow curtsey. “Sir.”
“Mr. Glover is representing the lady’s interests,” Drees said. “Shall we be seated?”
Tremont held Matilda’s chair, and the situation took on an air of unreality. While Drees launched into a monologue that made selling one small house sound more complicated than annexing a French province, Matilda tried to study Harry discreetly, looking for some sign that he was not Harry.
Oh, but he was. The same tilt of his head when he asked a question—the lady does have clear title to the domicile?—the same habit of pursing his lips when he wanted to convey that he pondered a delicate point.
In the space of moments, years of widowhood evaporated, and Matilda was returned to the ordeal of marriage to the mannow masquerading as Harrell Merriman. His disappearances, his moods, his philandering, his unwillingness to take on honest work, and his offhand affection toward Tommie—and occasionally toward her—had all conspired to keep Matilda perpetually off-balance and upset.
She had learned to deal with the upset by keeping busy. Their lodgings had been immaculate, the mending always done, and—when matters had grown desperate—other people’s mending had been taken care of as well, and without Harry’s knowledge.
Such misery, and for what? So an intelligent, healthy, reasonably good-looking, and outlandishly charming grown man could survive on schoolboy schemes and think himself clever.
“You expect Mrs. Merridew to surrender the deed to the house in exchange for a promissory note?” Tremont asked when Drees came to a pause in his droning.
“That is how the agreement reads,” Drees said, “the draft agreement. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with real estate transactions here in the capital, Mr. Glover? When a provincial banking institution is involved, and with the posts being unreliable, the promissory note assures good faith and a contractual obligation. The courts are happy to enforce such obligations, provided good fellows such as ourselves write them up properly.”
He offered a vicar’s patient smile to a gossipy dowager.
Tremont offered the same smile, not to Drees, but to Harry, the poor sod who had the misfortune to retain such a bumbler as his attorney.
“And because,” Tremont said, “the postsareunreliable, the courts slow and whimsical, and a widow’s lot trying at best, I could not advise Mrs. Merridew to accept anything other than cash or a bank note—made out on a London account—before sheexecutes the deed. When the funds are in her account, she will surrender that deed to me for transfer to you, Mr. Drees.”
Ye gods, Marcus sounded for all the world as if he were indeed a lawyer. And yet, the legal posturing was just that, because Harry had no intention of paying for the house and probably noabilityto pay for it either.
Drees grasped his lapels and filled his oratory sails, clearly prepared to lecture Tremont into submission, and that bootless endeavor could go on for the rest of the afternoon. Matilda was abruptly unwilling to afford Mr. Drees a captive audience.
“If you lawyerly gentlemen will absent yourselves,” she said, “Mr. Merriman and I will take a moment to confer directly.”
“I cannot approve,” Drees said, shaking a finger at Matilda. “Rank foolishness to allow the clients to go off in corners. Never a sound idea. Glover doubtless agrees with me.”
Marcus gathered up the paper and pencil he’d used for taking notes and aimed a look at Matilda over his satchel.
“I take my orders from Mrs. Merridew,” he said. “If she seeks a moment to negotiate directly with the prospective buyer, then I am prepared to do as I’m told, though I will remain just beyond the door, available to my client at a moment’s notice.”
“I’m happy to hear what Mrs. Merridew has to say,” Harry so helpfully added. “In my experience, lawyers can needlessly complicate the simplest transactions.”
“I leave under protest,” Drees said, heaving to his feet. “Let the record reflect my protestations. Glover, you are my witness.”
He huffed and harrumphed his way from the room. Marcus followed, though he left the door open three inches. Harry—of course—rose and closed the door the rest of the way.
“You are looking splendid, Tilly, but then, I knew you’d manage. The boy appears to be thriving as well.”
Five years ago, Matilda would have responded to the challenge in that opening salvo, to the latent taunt—I knewyou’d manage—sandwiched between superficial compliments. Five years ago, she’d been perpetually exhausted, anxious, and without allies.
Now, she saw the scuff marks on Harry’s polished boots, the cravat carefully folded to hide a stain. His right cuff had been mended inexpertly, and the sharpness to his face suggested he’d been on short rations.
“Sit down, Harry, and stop trying to goad me. Widowhood has been challenging, but I prefer it to resuming wifehood at your side.”
He sank into the seat across from her, which put the door at his back. “You’ve learned some plain speaking in my absence.”
