“You’re still a prodigious scold, Til.”

“The fine Christian woman,” Tremont said, “who took care of your supposed funerary expenses—Mrs. Brent of Worthy Street—is a madam of considerable renown among Oxford’s randy scholars. There is no Hungry Hound, unless I behold him at this moment, and if you ever were in Ireland, you were driven from those shores because some scheme—some other scheme—went badly awry.”

“My lord eavesdropped on the private conversation between a man and his wife?”

Matilda snorted. “Tremont, at my request, knew better than to allow you any unwitnessed discourse with me, Harry. We set you up, and you waltzed into the snare, spewing predictable lies and offering not a word of apology.”

She rose, bracing her hands on the table and looming over her husband. “You left me alone, barely a coin in the house, with a small child to raise. I don’t care that you stole from me. I married you, and the cost of some mistakes never ends. I care very much that you turned your back on Tommie, when I married you solely for his sake. You broke your word to me, Harry, and for that, I will not forgive you.”

Harry’s bravado faltered, and he had the grace to look abashed. “I do stupid things when I’m desperate, Tilly. You of all people know that. I hate to be desperate. But I just can’t seem… I thought maybe I’d go to America. They have land for the asking there, opportunity, a chance to start fresh, but I can’t start fresh if I’m penniless.”

America was a desperate measure indeed. Harry would have no old chums in the New World to turn to in a bad moment, no familiar bolt-holes, and his assortment of British regional accents would do him little good.

“You can have that fresh start, Harry,” Matilda said. “All you have to do is divorce me.”

Harry looked honestly puzzled. “Folk like us don’t get divorced, Till. That’s for the prancing lords and…” The puzzlement faded. “I see. And if I am unwilling to divorce you for his lordship’s convenience, would you rather be his fancy piece than my wife? You do so value your respectability.”

Matilda patted Harry’s hand. “I’d rather be Tremont’s anything than your wife. His scullery maid, his fancy piece, his undergardener. Tremont treats everyone with honor and respect, while you regard other people as so many marks for you to bamboozle.”

Harry winced. “You never used to be so harsh, Till. I work with what’s on hand, same as any man who has to earn his keep.” He rubbed his chin and sent Tremont an assessing look. “His nibs could kill me in a duel. It’s been done, to escape creditors, to dodge a nagging wife. Says he’s a dead shot, so folks would believe he’d done away with me.”