“I refuse to be the reason your birthright and your good name are put at risk, Marcus, and I will not let you be the reason I lose Tommie. In my undistinguished life, I have done the easy thing, the tempting thing, the too-good-to-be-true thing. For once, I shall do the right thing, as you so often do.”

Despite that unflattering characterization of her past, Matilda had reason on her side, dammit, and logic and—most powerful of all—mother-love.

“When do you sail?”

“Tuesday. Philadelphia seems like a worthy place to start over. Aunt Portia knows some people there who will look kindly upon Tommie and me. Harry says he will avoid that city owing to a surfeit of Quakers. His family were prosperous members of the Society of Friends, if you can believe that, and Harry became a prodigal after a falling-out with his father—assuming what he told me was true. I will send an executed deed to him on Monday. He’s keeping rooms in Knightsbridge.”

Not as fancy as Mayfair, but a more than respectable neighborhood. “Did he give you a specific direction?”

Matilda recited the name of a modest lodging house catering to bachelors enjoying a limited stay in Town. “You must leave him alone, Marcus. As unfair as it is, Harry has the law on his side, and he does not make idle threats.”

“Right now,” Tremont replied, rising, “I do not give a shovel full of Charlie’s finest for the law, for common sense, or for reason. The woman I love is leaving me, and I haven’t even the comfort of arguing with her motivations.”

He kissed Matilda’s forehead and lingered near her long enough to breathe in her scent, then took his leave of her.

And she, to his eternal sorrow, let him go without another word.

Matilda drove the market pony along Park Lane and barely felt the cold. Obliviousness to discomfort warned her that she’d relapsed into a mode of coping that she’d doubtless pay for.

Married to Harry, she’d learned to keep her feelings in a locked emotional linen closet. Anger sat stacked on top of worry, worry was folded atop fear. Thoughts of vengeance occupied a wide shelf, as did regret. She tucked away that most unruly impulse, hope, in a dim and dusty corner.

When Harry had “died,” unpacking that linen closet had been the substance of her mourning. She had felt some genuine sorrow. Harry had in his way tried to be the best husband he could—and failed miserably—but he had tried. He’d never put Matilda at serious risk for criminal charges. He’d never taken out his frustrations on Tommie.

At the time, though, she’d been convinced his demise was the result of some scheme gone awry, the just deserts of a professional swindler.