“You must not tarry in the cold,” Matilda said, though she was loath to allow anybody to see her home. The place was spotless, also pathetically shabby. “Do come in.”

Tremont had to duck to pass through the doorway. He took off his hat, but did not pass it over.

“I was wondering if you and Tommie might join me for a walk in the park? This is one of those days where it feels colder inside than out, and I am consumed with the need for a constitutional. We could pass by the bakery on our way home if a certain party manages not to fall into the Serpentine or frighten anybody’s horses.”

“He means me,” Tommie said, slipping his hand into Matilda’s. “Say yes, Mama. Please.”

Tommie’s fingers were like ice, while the earl was politely not glancing about at Matilda’s bare floor and curtainless windows. He did not wrinkle his lordly beak at the stink of tallow and coal pervading the air, nor did he press Matilda for an answer.

“The days are getting shorter,” she said, feeling Tommie’s cold fingers right down to her soul, “and the mending will keep. A brief outing to enjoy the sunshine will be good for our spirits.”

Tommie wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed hard. “Thank you, Mama. I will get my coat, and Mr.… Tremont will hold your cloak for you. When I am taller, I will hold your cloak for you too.”

The boy rocketed back to the parlor—he and Matilda wore their outer garments indoors on the coldest days—and the earl took Matilda’s cloak from its hook beside the mirror.

“You have made two fellows exceedingly happy with your decision. When winter arrives in earnest, we’ll consider a day such as this balmy.”

He settled Matilda’s cloak around her shoulders and no doubt noticed the careful stitching that attempted to hide the wear at the collar. The cloak was one of the last fine articles Harry had bought for her, because never let it be said that Harry Merridew’s missus went without.

“I won’t keep you for long,” Tremont said, “and I meant what I said about stopping at the bakery. The boy will hold me to it, and I do fancy a rum bun on such a day.”

“You did not stop by to talk of rum buns, my lord.” Hunger was making Matilda snappish, or perhaps earls paying casual calls did that.

He passed her the gloves sitting on the rickety sideboard. “You are right, and I am an utter failure at small talk, but I cannot appear on your doorstep without making some attempt at polite conversation, can I?”

Tommie thundered back to the door. “I buttoned my coat right this time!”