Of all the schemes Harry could have concocted… “No,” Tremont said. “For reasons which Mrs. Merridew will understand, I refuse to commit murder, or its theatrical equivalent. Besides, you have a tiresome propensity to rise from the dead. The simple, legal, effective solution to your problems, sir, is to divorce Matilda. You will be awarded handsome damages in the criminal conversation case. You can start afresh, and so can she.”

“How handsome?”

Tremont named a figure which was not at the limit of what he could afford, but which would set him back more than a few years.

Harry gave a low whistle. “His lordship must love you, Till, and I’m all for aiding the course of true love, but in this case, I simply can’t.”

Matilda crossed her arms. “You won’t. I know you are ruthless, Harry, and endlessly self-interested, but I never thought you were gratuitously mean. You worship the twin gods of Mammon and your own dunderheaded cleverness, so why won’t you just once—after having wronged me repeatedly—give me what I want?”

Harry shot his cuffs. He rubbed his chin again, and Tremont knew exactly why the blighter was stalling.

“He cannot, Matilda, because it’s worth his life to keep his name out of the papers. Every person he’s swindled, every debt he’s run out on, every friend he’s double-crossed will recognize him as the supposedly dead husband of Matilda Merridew and come for him with pitchforks and warrants. I should have seen this. A man who will cheat his blameless wife will cheat half the realm, given the opportunity.”

“It weren’t like that,” Harry said, a note of some dialect creeping past his public school diction. “Tilly was miserable with me. Hated every minute of being my wife, and I knew the Puritans at St. Mildred’s would look out for her and the boy. I left the rent paid up and the larder stocked. The Puritans lent Tilly a hand, and now you want to look out for her too. She’s already said she didn’t miss me, so you can sod your sanctimonious—”

Tremont did not plan to snatch Harry up by his cravat and yank him to his feet, but one minute Harry was clothing himself in a martyr’s robes, and the next he was clawing at Tremont’s wrists.

“Cease. Lying.” Tremont shook Harry once, to emphasize the point, and let him go.

“He’s not lying,” Matilda said, “not entirely. That’s part of Harry’s arsenal. He dribbles a little bit of the truth into all of his dissembling. I was utterly miserable married to him—though the rent was coming due and the larders empty—and now I’m apparently to pay for his sins as well as my own stupidity. Pay with the rest of my life.”