Page 76 of Miss Dauntless
“I am leaving the house to your son, Matilda, because I know you would not accept it for yourself. Besides, I am in roaring good health and plan to stay that way for some time. You will write?”
“I shall. You will support the fiction that I have gone to Philadelphia?”
“I will not lie, Matilda, but when it comes to prevaricating, I can be skillful. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
And that was as close to a promise as Matilda was likely to have from Portia. “I will be on my way. Thank you for the brandy and for your kindness.”
“I could not do enough for you and Tommie when your uncle was alive, but you made time to look in on me, to attend your uncle’s funeral, and to bring Tommie around. He is so lively. Perseus has no idea what to make of him.”
Perseus being Portia’s familiar, of course. Matilda took her leave, surprised nearly to tears when Portia imposed a fierce hug on her at the door.
“Be happy, Matilda. Find a way to be happy, and if you cannot be happy, at least don’t be bitter. You have Tommie, you are in good health, and for what it’s worth, you have me.”
Matilda could not be happy, not now and no time soon, but she knew what Portia was saying: Don’t stuff your whole future into one of those linen closets, shoved between decorum and prudence, stashed next to living within one’s means and never giving cause for offence.
What do youwant, Matilda. What doyouwant?
She wanted to safeguard Tremont’s good name and his hard-won self-respect. She also wanted to be the sort of mother of whom Tommie could be proud.
“You be happy too, Portia, and I will write.”
Matilda slipped out the door and into the chilly wind. The drive back to the soldiers’ home passed in a preoccupied blur. The pony seemed to know the way, while Matilda’s thoughts wandered. When she passed Hyde Park, she was reminded of the day she’d thought Tremont was propositioning her.
She’d been mortified at the time, and so, apparently, had he. The memory was sweet now, as were most of her memories of Marcus, Earl of Tremont. That was fortunate, because those memories would have to last her a lifetime.
“Where is the boy?” Tremont asked, his gaze taking in a library filled with people trying to look as if they hadn’t been having some sort of war council. “I was very clear that Tommie wasn’t to be without the escort of an adult male at all times.”
Alasdhair MacKay rose from a wing chair in the corner. “Tuck and Jensen took the lad for a hot chocolate, with Mrs. Merridew’s prior permission. She’s calling upon her aunt and made certain we knew to keep a sharp eye on Tommie.”
What are you doing here?Rather than pose that rude question—MacKay was clearly a reinforcement brought in from the former officer ranks—Marcus bowed.
“MacKay, good day. Has anyone thought to offer you refreshment?”
Nanny Winklebleck, who occupied one of the chairs before the hearth, shook a finger at her employer.
“Don’t you be gettin’ all lordly on us now, sir. We’re trying to sort out what to do for Missus, and a tea tray won’t make that exercise go any better.”
“A wee dram never went amiss,” Cook muttered, brandishing her flask and tipping it to her lips.
Mrs. Winklebleck’s chin came up. “I’m for putting that Harry Merriman on a transport ship and giving the ship’s mate a false name for him. He’d stay dead for a proper long time that way, long enough that no magistrate would believe him if he showed up again fourteen years later, claimin’ to be some old swindler nobody much liked to begin with.”
“Her plan has merit,” MacKay said, resuming his seat.
Her plan was criminal. Kidnapping was a hanging felony, bearing false witness a sin, and Tremont was tempted to commit both. He set the decanter before MacIvey, who’d parked at the reading table.
“Cook should not drink alone,” Tremont said. “MacPherson, the glasses, please.”
Tremont took the desk beneath the mezzanine, and while the business of passing drinks around occupied the assemblage, he mentally set aside the scheme to put Harry on a transport ship. The plan did have merit—Harry had committed many crimes—but also risk.
Matilda said everybody believed Harry, and Tremont believed Matilda. Cousin Wesley had that same ability to charm,wheedle, and deceive. Some people were given great good looks, others had beautiful singing voices.
The Harrys and Wesleys of the world had guile.
While I have… logic? Reason? Honor?Those gifts were not much comfort when a man’s heart was breaking.
“My objective,” Tremont said, “is to ensure that Mrs. Merridew need not leave familiar surrounds to make her way alone in the world without friends or allies. I intend to accomplish that goal by guaranteeing Harry cannot set foot on British soil without taking an enormous risk.”
“You’d put him on remittance?” MacKay asked.
