“Being dead disagrees with ye. Ye never used to be so ’ard-hearted.” Sparky pulled his chair closer to the fire. “So yer missus has caught the fancy of an earl. She’d probably be happy to let ye have the house and all the memories in it if ye just stay dead. Love has a way of making people daft.”

“You would know.” A daft idea—a daring idea—was germinating in Harry’s brain as he watched the feeble flames. All the best rigs had an element of daring. An element of art. Harry would have the house and the proceeds it fetched at sale.

What if he could have more? A good rig had a touch of daring, but the best rigs bore a hint of brilliance.

“Tilly will get money,” Harry said slowly. “If Tremont makes her his fancy piece. If she can get him to marry her, she will have pots of pin money.” That was the bolder prize—to coax not only the house but also a steady stream of coin from Matilda. She needed Harry to stay dead rather desperately, after all.

“And if ye try to bilk her out of her coin,” Sparky said, “her fella will have the means to put ye on a transport ship or worse, ’Arry. Tremont served in Spain.”

“Half the younger sons and titled wastrels in London served in Spain, and for the most part, they rode around in fancy uniforms and harassed the real soldiers into taking all the risks.”

Sparky had served, though he didn’t say much about his war years. He rose and went to the window, and of all the daft notions, he raised the sash a scant inch.

“Tremont was a puzzle,” Sparky said. “The men thought him one of yer wastrel dandies at first, or a fool. He was an earl even then, barely shaving, no sons of his own, and yet, he bought his colors.”

“Then he’s a patriot, and we know what Dr. Johnson said about that lot.” Harry had no use for sentimental drivel aimed at a flag or a particular patch of ground. A man should look after himself first and his mates thereafter. To blazes with Fat George and his art collection.

“If Tremont’s a patriot, then the same can be said of me. Boney had been rebuilding his Navy since Trafalgar, and I didn’t fancy learning to speak Frog.”

“Then you are a fool, Sparky, me lad. Take it from Harry Merriman.” Harry would love to know French—Matilda’s command of the language had been impressive—but his upbringing had favored Greek and Latin rather than useful subjects.

Matilda had tried to teach him some vocabulary in the first few months of their marriage, to no avail and much hilarity. She’d grown quieter after that. Not as fanciful. And once the boy had come along…

“What else do you know about Tremont?” Harry asked.