Chapter Fourteen

Matilda had never once indicated that her husband was a strikingly handsome man. Harry was not quite in the same league with Michael Delancey, but his looks were attractive in a way Delancey’s perfection was not. Harry’s smile had a quality of conspiratorial charm. His air was friendly and unassuming.

Dear old Harry, come to pull off another swindle.

A young, pregnant Matilda would have thought him quite the gallant knight, though she was clearly unimpressed now.

“I am Matilda’s husband,” Harry said as Tremont latched the door, “and I have much to answer for in that regard, but that is between me and Matilda.”

“No, Harry, it is not,” Matilda said, motioning for Tremont to take the place beside her. “You never consider the repercussions of your schemes beyond how much risk or reward is involved for you, but this time you have gone too far.”

“Matilda, I was left for dead on the king’s highway.” Harry’s version of injured dignity could have rivaled the late Mr. Garrick’s. “I was friendless and bleeding without a coin to my name. You know how twitchy I get without a few coppers in my pocket. I mucked stalls to put bread in my mouth, suffered terrible headaches—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Merridew, spare us your histrionics.”

Harry sent a look of noble long-suffering across the table. “I go by Merriman now.”

“You go by whatever name suits your current criminal scheme,” Tremont retorted, “but you neglected to change your handwriting when you changed your name.” Tremont withdrew two documents from his satchel. “This is the cordial invitation you penned, inviting Mrs. Merridew to this meeting.”

Tremont lay a single page of foolscap faceup on the table. “This,” he went on, laying a second, yellowing page next to it, “is supposedly from the Hungry Hound’s innkeeper, informing Mrs. Merridew of your death and asking her to remit a sum certain for the expenses resulting from her bereavement.”

Harry studied both missives and had the sense to keep his lying gob shut for a change.

“Matilda sent you the money,” Tremont said, returning the letters to his briefcase. “The penmanship is the same, despite the documents having been written years apart. You even make the same flourish beneath your signature, no matter which name you choose to use.”

Harry sat back, not a hint of charm in his countenance. “Coincidence, my lord. Not proof, and if Matilda is such a penmanship expert now, why didn’t she recognize my handwriting when I supposedly wrote to her from the Hungry Hound?”

Matilda studied the ceiling. “Because I was too busy wondering how I’d pay for your funeral and Tommie’s next meal? Because it never occurred to me that my husband would swindle me out of the bed and board he owes me by law until death us do part? Because I do not have a criminal mind?”