“This is no sort of game at all, Matilda. Harry’s appearance means you are married, and as you can have only one legal husband at a time, Harry becomes a problem. The best tool I have for solving problems is logic. Therefore, I apply it when I’d instead like to apply my fists. Would you care for a brandy? You’ve had a shock, after all.”

Papa had always said ladies did not take strong spirits. To blazes with you, Papa. “Please, and you will join me, because you’ve had a shock as well.”

“Half a shock. A fellow like Harry Merridew will come to a bad end sooner or later, but under the circumstances… Later was the more likely possibility.”

Matilda sipped some very good brandy that warmed her insides and let the fire in the hearth warm her from the outside. Another thought warmed her heart: Tremont had not fled in dismay when he’d learned that Matilda was married. He had not despaired. He had not even been much surprised.

And thus, relief joined the other feelings racketing about in Matilda’s soul. Harry was back, and that was bad, though as Marcus had said, better to know now before she’d innocently committed bigamy, better to deal with the truth.

Harry would want money, and then he’d go away. She finished her brandy, and when Tommie scampered into the library, Matilda was discussing the terms upon which she would sell the house and doing so with every appearance of calm.

“Merridew is probably running out of coin,” Tremont said, warming his hands before MacKay’s roaring fire. “Two weeks ago, he or his minions were snooping about the house. Last week, he accosted Matilda on the street. This week, he’s purporting to be a buyer interested in relieving Matilda of her only tangible asset.”

Matilda had received Harry’s letter yesterday, delivered by a street lad to the soldiers’ home and purported to be from a Mr. Harrell Merriman. The note had been cordially businesslike, a pitch-perfect overture to a widow regarding a financial matter.

Matilda had recognized the handwriting, and for some reason, that fact had bothered Tremont far into the night. She should, of course, recognize her husband’s hand. Harry had probably been counting on her ability to do so.

“Brandy?” Alasdhair MacKay asked. “Whisky? Don’t tell me to ring for the damned tea tray. Dorcas’s brother is supposed to call later. Michael’s visit will necessitate swilling an hour’s worth of scandal broth while he drones on about the archbishop must this and the Bishop of London demands that.”

When MacKay’s burr thickened, he was in the grip of strong emotion. “You don’t care for your brother-in-law?”

“I like the man well enough, but he’s not cut out for the clergy, and… I know what it is to be stuck in a bad situation. Dorcas worries about him.”