If that was the scheme. Tremont thought simple theft might be at the bottom of the matter, though why move the damned key and make those intentions obvious?

“While Mrs. Winklebleck pours the nightcaps,” Tremont said, “I will light Mrs. Merridew and Tommie up to their apartment and then rejoin you.”

A round of good-nights followed, and Tremont tarried in Matilda’s apartment long enough to read Tommie the fable about the tortoise and the hare, while Matilda got ready for bed. Bowing a proper good-night to her took considerable self-discipline, but then, Tommie was on hand to aid the cause of decorum.

Tremont did the pretty, comforted by the knowledge that for Tommie’s sake, Matilda was doing the pretty, too, and someday soon, such strictures could be cast off.

He returned to the library and went straight to the sideboard. “A top-up, anyone?”

Mrs. Winklebleck spoke up first. “I’ll have another nip to ward off the chill.”

“A wee dram for me,” Cook said, brandishing a flask, “and keep yer fancy brandy.”

Tremont served, and the conversation had soon broken up into groups. MacIvey got out his fiddle, and somebody began to sing.

“Nanny,” Tremont said, coming down beside the housekeeper. “What about Mrs. Merridew’s situation made you think about house-stealing schemes?”

She took a dainty sip of her brandy. “I knew a fella who ran rigs like that, but his name were Harry Merryfield, not Merridew. Odd coincidence, but then, London is the sort of place that happens. He were a right handsome corker, were Harry, and didn’t limit hisself to stealing houses.”

She paused for another taste of her brandy. “He were a card sharp, a professional compromiser of innocents—he didn’t ruin ’em in truth, but he did compromise ’em for coin, then he’d blackmail the fellow what wanted the lady ruined in the first place. He could do a lovely thimble rig… Very enterprisin’ was Harry, and charming. Not much of a lover, if you take my meaning. A nibbler and always in a hurry. I cannot abide a man who’s always in a hurry. From time to time, a quick poke has its appeal, but that Harry wouldn’t know how—”

Tremont nearly clapped his hands over his ears. “Could you sketch him?”

Mrs. Winklebleck took another placid sip of her nightcap. “I’m not a Cruikshank, but I can wield a pencil as good as I ever did. Can get you tossed in jail, though, drawing cartoons and such. Being on the stroll is legal.”

“Being a housekeeper is safer and pays just as well.”

She saluted with her glass. “Pays better, and you know it, milord. Some housekeepers is even married.” Her gaze had narrowed on MacIvey, who had shifted into a lilting ballad. He caught Mrs. Winklebleck’s eye and winked.

“Indeed, they are,” Tremont said. “The sketch is a matter of some urgency.”