Matilda marched over to him. “I am not sending my son to perishing Finland when he’s barely old enough to dress himself. Besides, Harry would get wind of it somehow, and he is Tommie’s legal father, as he has been at pains to remind me, and…”

Her breath caught. A small sound, one easily ignored, and Matilda would doubtless prefer that Tremont did ignore it.

“Harry threatened Tommie.” Tremont waited for Matilda to refute that conclusion. She instead sank back into her seat.

The rotten, revolting rat had accosted Matilda when she’d been without allies and played a hand she could not beat. Sound tactics and very unsound honor.

“Harry has consulted the attorneys,” Matilda said. “They tell him paternity is not remotely at issue.”

Tremont took the opposite chair, feeling as if the discussion had just now reached productive ground. Difficult ground, but productive.

“Harry Merridew is dead, Matilda, if we’re to resort to legalities.”

She brushed her fingers over the arm of her chair. “I haven’t a death certificate, and Harry does have a convincing tale of lost memory and destitute circumstances.”

“Convincing? How does he explain that letter from a nonexistent innkeeper from a nonexistent inn, written in Harry’s own hand? Shall we exhume the corpse and find dog bones in the coffin?”

Matilda regarded him with something like pity. “Harry will claim he was the victim of a scheme, left for dead, and all in a muddle. He makes the most outlandish tales credible. I’ve seen him do it. Everybody believes Harry—I believed him enough to marry him—and I believe him when he says he’ll take Tommie with him when he sails.”

“He can’t sail without blunt.” Tremont had made inquiries, and Harry apparently had no creditors in London—no legal creditors. That didn’t mean he had enough to pay for transatlantic passage.

“He can only sail if I deed him the house, my lord, and I very much want that man out of my life.”

Tremont sat back and forced his mind down logical paths. “You brought up that business with Mama and the estate because you are protecting Harry. I commend the subtly of the strategy, but we have already established that I will not physically harm your… I will not do violence to Harry.”

“I might.” A grudging thread of humor illuminated those words, but only a thread. “I’ve arranged to deed the house to him. Major MacKay connected with me an affordable solicitor. With the wages you’ve paid me, I can leave England.”

Tremont’s worst fear stated in the calmest tones. Another grief, another bereavement coming from out of nowhere.

“What you mean is, you can leave me,” Tremont said softly, “because I must be fruitful and legitimately multiply, lest the family barbarian sack Shropshire.” He was barely making sense. He knew only that Matilda, for admittedly sound reasons, was conceding the battle and the war.