“This isn’t the way home,” Tommie said, glancing around.

“We are paying a call on Lord Tremont.” And, please God, let him be home.

“I like his lordship. He is teaching me to whistle, but so far, I can only whistle when I draw in my breath. I want to learn to whistle when I let my breath out. Biggs whistles like that. He can sound like a bird when he wants to, and he can whistle much louder than me.”

“Than I. Much louder than I can whistle.”

How easily Tommie had made new friends among the soldiers and staff. And how cunning of Harry to choose one of few moments when none of them was on hand.

Harry, who was damnably, unapologetically, robustly alive.

“Lord Tremont is a good whistler,” Tommie said as the town house came into view, “but Biggs is better. When I grow up, I will be as good a whistler as Biggs. Will there be berry tarts on his lordship’s tea tray, Mama?”

“We just had hot chocolate with whipped cream, Tommie. I do not plan to put his lordship to the inconvenience of a tea tray.”

I simply plan to tell him that we cannot marry, that my scoundrel of a husband is alive, and the dearest man in the whole world can never be mine unless we do, indeed, face the scandal and expense of a divorce.

“You don’t need to hold my hand so tightly, Mama.”

“Sorry.” Matilda eased her grip, barely, and led Tommie up the steps. Please let him be home, please let him be home. Her heart was racing, and the rich hot chocolate she’d enjoyed had turned traitor in her belly.

Matilda knocked, and after an eternity of less than ten seconds, Tremont opened his own door.

“Mrs. Merridew, good day. Tommie, greetings. Won’t you come in? It’s half day, and the house is as quiet as a cathedral. I can well use some company.”

The measured sound of Marcus’s voice, his air of calm, and his graciousness were a tonic to Matilda’s nerves. She handed off her bonnet and gloves and dealt with Tommie’s jacket—his new jacket. Rather than surrender his booty, Tommie passed the parcel of buns from one hand to the other.

“The breakfast parlor is across from the library and still warm,” Tremont said. “That side of the house gets the morning sun. Shall we allow Tommie half a bun while we partake of half a brandy in the library?”

He knew. Despite the good cheer in his voice, despite the hospitality he exuded, Tremont somehow knew that Matilda was in difficulties.

“Please, Mama?”

“Half a bun, Tommie, and you mustn’t let it spoil your luncheon.”

“I promise, Mama.”