“The men will want their tea,” Tremont said to the housekeeper. “We’ll be along in a moment. I take it Charles is entertaining Tommie?”

“Teaching him card tricks,” Cook said. “And doubtless pinching biscuits from the jar.”

The corridor was again deserted, though the library door remained open. Tremont led Matilda a few steps away, though for all he cared, the whole world could overhear what he had to say.

“What provoked you to share your sentiments now, Matilda?” He wanted to understand this, because inspiring similar declarations had become his second-fondest aspiration after frequent shared reviews of the ledgers.

“You could sit upon your lordly fundament in Shropshire,” Matilda said, “the ranking title, the ranking bachelor, literally lord of all you surveyed. You could spend your days as your father apparently did, socializing, terrifying the game, and riding his acres. That’s a blameless existence.”

Papa had also loved his family and his homeland.

“If you’d rather…?”

Matilda plastered herself to his chest. “You have more regard for your fellow beings, more decency, more generosity of soul in your smallest finger than my ordained father had in his whole life. Get that special license, Marcus, please. I don’t care where we live, or how we live, as long as Tommie is with us and well cared for. You are my home, and I love you.”

Tremont held his intended—his beloved—and despite the gloom in the corridor and the chilly wind soughing through the eaves, warmth and light suffused him. He knew what to say—a veritable commonplace for some—but it was the truth, and the truth was sufficient for any moment.

“I love you too, Matilda Merridew, and you are my heart.”

They held each other, and thoughts of luscious kisses, skipping rocks in the park, and a carefully drafted letter to Mama all drifted through Tremont’s mind. His body hummed with pleasure—Matilda was a delight to hold—and his imagination began to embroider on all manner of happily ever afters.

“Tea’s served!” somebody called out.

Tremont bussed Matilda’s cheek. “For courage and joy.”

They joined the smiling, winking, nudging crowd in the library, and while people found places to sit and Matilda poured herself a cup of tea, Tremont mentally shook himself. This was a briefing, not a round of family charades.

“Mrs. Merridew,” Tremont said when Matilda was seated at the head of the reading table, “you have the floor.”

The smiles subsided, and the library grew quiet.

“Thank you, my lord.” She let a moment of silence stretch—rhetorical devices were not the exclusive province of parliamentarians, apparently. When she took up her narrative, she spoke quietly.

“I have reason to believe that somebody has intruded into my house.” She explained about her late husband’s peculiar habits where door keys were concerned and went on to allude to his dodgy circle of acquaintances.