Page 80 of Miss Dauntless
“Is that a problem?” MacKay dearly hoped it was, though in another hour or two, Matilda and Tommie would be on their way to a dockside inn. There’d be no revising the deed to suit Harry’s swindle of the moment.
“Harrell Merriman will do,” Harry said. “I’ve always liked him. He’s a personable chap, but nobody’s fool.” He poured a tot of brandy into a second glass and passed it over to MacKay. “To your health and Matilda’s safe journey.”
“And the boy’s.”
Merridew winked and drank up, something he likely did differently depending on whether he was Merriman, Merridew, or any one of his other names.
“Where will you go?” MacKay asked again. Dorcas had wanted to know this fact in particular, and MacKay was loath to disappoint his commanding officer.
“Someplace Matilda will never have to see me again,” Harry replied. “She never should have married me. I know that.”
Matilda doubtless knew it better. “You told her you were bound for New York, I believe.”
“Or Boston, but not Philadelphia. She can have that patch.”
The smile playing about Harry’s lips stirred MacKay’s instincts. “You told her you were going to the New World, and she knew that was a lie. She’s banishing herself to the one place you all but promised her you would not be. Why not simply tell her you’d leave her in peace?”
“I will leave her in peace. I wanted to leave her in peace, but Matilda knows better than to expect the truth from me. I do tell the truth when it’s advantageous, but with a wife… Marriage is the most complicated rig I’ve ever worked. I don’t care for it, and I daresay Matilda would agree with me.”
More lies. Something about marriage to Matilda had appealed to Harry strongly, and that had likely scared him witless.
“You are a coward,” MacKay said, rising without tasting his drink. “She cared for you, and in some misbegotten corner of her heart, she would still rather see you thrive than struggle. My wife would love to see you gelded—she has no patience with parasites strutting around in the guise of grown men—but you deserve her pity. You certainly have mine.”
“Spare me,” Harry said, all pretense of cordiality gone. He tossed back his drink and rose. “My thanks for delivering the deed. You can see yourself out.”
MacKay sketched a bow. “You never did tell me where you’re going.”
“Straight to the devil, of course.”
Oh, very well, then. MacKay made as if to button his cloak, but instead snatched Harry hard by his lapels and hauled him up to his tiptoes.
“For myself, I hope you and Old Scratch are soon personally acquainted. He has much to learn from you. Tremont is planningto put you on remittance such that wherever you go, you are inspired to stay there. My wife, however, wants to know where you are so that when you do expire, and let us hope your passing is humiliating and agonizing andsoon, news of your actual death can be conveyed to your widow. Your continued existence is a blight on her happiness, so now would be a good time to dredge up a bit of that advantageous honesty.”
He gave Merridew an admonitory shake and let him go. To assault a man in his own dwelling was a bitter insult, and yet, Merridew hadn’t offered the least resistance. MacKay entertained the notion that his host was flirting with inebriation and hiding it well.
Why get drunk? Why sit here swilling cheap brandy when victory was at hand?
“Why would Tilly care…?” Merridew paused, mid-brush at his lapels. “She loves that damned prig, doesn’t she? Has fallen for him, really fallen, not simply talked herself into him because he’ll look out for the boy.”
“Answer the question or prepare to part with a few teeth.” Dorcas would have advised him to relieve Merridew of what passed for his testicles. Mrs. MacKay wasn’t one to muck about when direct action was called for.
Harry took up the shawl and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Cheap, sunny Rome. Enough Latin was banged into my youthful head that I’ll be able to manage the language. Tell your wife I’ve gone to Rome, and the British Embassy will know my whereabouts. They’re fussy about that sort of thing in the Italian states. The French aren’t as bad, but I’d have a harder time with the language in France, and too many Englishmen find their way there.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Harry smirked, though the expression came across more tired than flippant. “You don’t. Good day, MacKay. Regards to your lady wife, and may God have mercy upon her soul.”
The insult was a distraction from the fact that Harry Merridew had for once in his life been honest, and not because the truth had served him any advantages.
“Start over,” MacKay said. “Clean slate, take yet another name if that helps. Get a legitimate job as a secretary, teach English, or offer your services to the embassy as a professional listener at keyholes, but make your peace with the past or be strangled by it.”
“You speak from experience?”
“I’m not quoting from The Rubbishing Book of Common Prayer. Of course I speak from experience.” MacKay let himself out and left Harry standing before the meager fire looking both dignified and ridiculous in his tattered shawl.
The encounter had been distasteful and somewhat informative, also sobering.
“There but for the grace of God and Dorcas MacKay, laddie…”
