“Glover,” he said, giving his family name. “I was available to accompany Mrs. Merridew on short notice, and because the asset in question is substantial, she had the great good sense to bring me along.”

“Of course,” Drees said, beaming at Matilda. “One can never be too sensible, can one? Mr. Merriman awaits us in the library. Shall I have the clerk bring us some tea?”

“No, thank you,” Matilda said. “To business, if you please, though I must warn you, Mr. Drees, my objective today is simply to hear your terms. I will not be chivvied into any premature decisions.”

“Certainly not,” Drees boomed, chortling as if Matilda had made a jest. “Oh, certainly not, madam. Glover, your client has a good head on her shoulders.”

If he pats my arm, I shall smite him.

“She also has a competent advisor in me,” Tremont replied, smiling toothily. “Shall we get to the details, Drees?”

Yes, please. The details and the great, much-dreaded reunion.

Harry stood when Matilda entered a stuffy little chamber that smelled of old books and countless pipes. He bowed with all the graciousness of a great actor acknowledging a standing ovation.

“Mrs. Merridew, a pleasure.” His smile conveyed a perfect blend of hope and hesitance, the attitude of a fellow who intended to make a good impression and a better deal. His eyes told Matilda he was enjoying himself, daring her to make a fuss and knowing full well she would not.

Harry Merridew was alive and well and very much on his game—though he did look a bit skinny.

Matilda tossed off a shallow curtsey. “Sir.”

“Mr. Glover is representing the lady’s interests,” Drees said. “Shall we be seated?”

Tremont held Matilda’s chair, and the situation took on an air of unreality. While Drees launched into a monologue that made selling one small house sound more complicated than annexing a French province, Matilda tried to study Harry discreetly, looking for some sign that he was not Harry.

Oh, but he was. The same tilt of his head when he asked a question—the lady does have clear title to the domicile?—the same habit of pursing his lips when he wanted to convey that he pondered a delicate point.

In the space of moments, years of widowhood evaporated, and Matilda was returned to the ordeal of marriage to the man now masquerading as Harrell Merriman. His disappearances, his moods, his philandering, his unwillingness to take on honest work, and his offhand affection toward Tommie—and occasionally toward her—had all conspired to keep Matilda perpetually off-balance and upset.

She had learned to deal with the upset by keeping busy. Their lodgings had been immaculate, the mending always done, and—when matters had grown desperate—other people’s mending had been taken care of as well, and without Harry’s knowledge.