“Shall we postpone our outing?” Tremont, looking handsome and windblown, stood in the doorway to Matilda’s parlor. She hadn’t seen him since he’d kissed her good night two days ago, though he’d sent her a note yesterday afternoon:

Solicitors drawing up settlements. Special license applied for. Te tam desidero. Donec cras. Tremont

No parson’s daughter was daunted by a little Latin—I miss you so much. Until tomorrow—but the sentiments were secondary to the simple consideration of the communication.

“Harry would disappear for days without a word,” she said. “I was expected to carry on in his absence and celebrate the prodigal’s return when he reappeared. Your note was much appreciated.”

And usually when Harry had done a bunk, there’d been no food in the house.

No coin to be had.

Creditors circling.

Tommie fretful over a new tooth.

Then Harry would show up, all smiles at some success he’d allude to mysteriously, or morose and the worse for drink.

“I wanted to send flowers and romantic effusions by the hour,” Tremont replied, advancing into the room and closing the door. “That note was a work of monumental self-restraint. What are you reading?”

Matilda passed him a paper yellowing with age. “Harry’s death notice, more or less. This is the letter from the proprietor of the Hungry Hound, the inn along the Oxford Road where Harry died. I hadn’t read it in quite some time, and I felt the need. The business with the house unnerves me.”

Tremont studied the single page that had set Matilda free, at the same time it had obliterated what little security Harry had provided.

“An odd blend of courtesy and avarice. This sounds more like a solicitor wrote it than an innkeeper.” He handed the missive back, and Matilda folded it into the pages of her diary.

“An innkeeper who somehow knew the exact direction of Harry’s London dwelling,” she said, “which Harry was usually careful not to disclose.”

Tremont took the seat next to Matilda on the sofa. “Your late spouse oppresses your spirit from the grave. Would you rather stay in, Matilda?”

She leaned into her suitor—her fiancé—and Tremont’s arm came around her shoulders. The sight of him was enough to settle her nerves, and being close to him took some of the chill off her heart.

“I agree with the men that an appearance of normality makes sense. That means I spend time with you.”

Tremont kissed her knuckles. “But you don’t want to leave Tommie here. Shall we take him to the tea shop? It’s a bit brisk for a walk in the park, but some fresh air would agree with him, I’m sure.”

“What do we know of Jessup and Jensen, Marcus?”

Matilda found herself hefted into Tremont’s lap.