He huffed and harrumphed his way from the room. Marcus followed, though he left the door open three inches. Harry—of course—rose and closed the door the rest of the way.

“You are looking splendid, Tilly, but then, I knew you’d manage. The boy appears to be thriving as well.”

Five years ago, Matilda would have responded to the challenge in that opening salvo, to the latent taunt—I knew you’d manage—sandwiched between superficial compliments. Five years ago, she’d been perpetually exhausted, anxious, and without allies.

Now, she saw the scuff marks on Harry’s polished boots, the cravat carefully folded to hide a stain. His right cuff had been mended inexpertly, and the sharpness to his face suggested he’d been on short rations.

“Sit down, Harry, and stop trying to goad me. Widowhood has been challenging, but I prefer it to resuming wifehood at your side.”

He sank into the seat across from her, which put the door at his back. “You’ve learned some plain speaking in my absence.”

Matilda had learned how it felt to be respected and cared for. Powerful lessons. “Harry, what in God’s name happened to you?”

“I doubt God had anything to do with it.”

“You prevaricate to give yourself time to concoct a taradiddle because you did not think I’d demand a private audience. Please tell me the truth.”

He linked his hands on the table before him, as if preparing to recite grace before a meal. “I wish I knew, Tilly. One moment, I was playing a friendly hand of cards at ye old posting inn, the next I was in the ditch, my head throbbing, not a coin to my name.”

“Which inn?” The door behind Harry had eased open two inches. Matilda willed herself to gaze fixedly at Harry’s handsome, lying face.

“I don’t know. That’s the hell of it. When I roused from my injuries, I not only had no purse, I had no memory. I knew I was Harry, but I couldn’t even settle on a last name. The past came back in bits and dribbles, and that took months. The whole business was humbling, and I still have gaps in my recollection.”

A part of Matilda wanted to believe this outlandish tale—Harry had regularly invited life to hand him a sound thrashing—and wanted to believe the bewildered tone, the bent head. Five years ago, she might have.

“Why, then, when you recalled you had a wife waiting for you back in London, didn’t you return to me?”