“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, dearest wife.”

“And I knew it would.”

Harry sighed. He gazed about with an air of heroic long-suffering. He pursed his lips and frowned at the table. Matilda would have applauded this grand performance of a man deliberating over a difficult choice were she not so bored by it.

“Tommie’s father came from a good family,” he said. “Tommie is their only grandchild, the son of their fallen firstborn.”

“And they rebuffed your efforts to extort money from them on that basis.”

“They are older now. They’ve lost a daughter, and they don’t know that you and Tommie are biding with a house full of drunks and ne’er-do-wells. They don’t know that Tommie is tagging around for much of the day after streetwalkers wearing maids’ caps. They don’t know that the boy has no father even in name, but I can make them aware of all those details, Tilly, and there’s not a judge in this country who’d leave Tommie with you if the squire decides to petition for custody.”

Matilda felt a familiar fissuring in response to Harry’s threat. While she was tempted by the very reaction Harry had intended—you cannot take my son!—she had also learned to doubt every word out of Harry’s mouth.

“Harry,” she said, conjuring a semblance of amusement from some latent well of thespian talent. “Give it up. The squire and his goodwife have known of my widowhood for years. They’ve made no overture, sent not so much as a groat to their grandson, nor asked after his wellbeing. They weren’t about to fall in with your schemes years ago, and they don’t give a holey sock for Tommie now. You are bobbing about in the River Tick, and I’m your last option. Why don’t you simply find another bride, this time with more of a dowry?”

Harry merely shook his head, and Matilda had the sense that was the first honest response he’d given her. Bigamy was apparently not a crime he was willing to commit—one of his quaint little rules—though he’d gladly see Matilda take that step.

“Then we are at point non plus, Harry. You cannot threaten me into giving up that house, but fortunately, for you, there is something I want even more than that dower property. My lord, you can come in now.”

By the most fleeting consternation in his eyes, Harry betrayed surprise as he shot to his feet.

Marcus walked back into the room. “Tremont, at your service, sir, family name Glover. I hardly know what to call you, though cheat, liar, and scoundrel come to mind. Sit down, and don’t even think about issuing me a challenge, because I will refuse. I am a peer and a dead shot, while you are”—he wrinkled the lordly beak—“Matilda’s husband. For now.”