“Tommie and I are leaving London,” Matilda said. “I’ve put it about that I am sailing to Philadelphia for a fresh start. You will please support that fiction should anybody inquire.”

“Phila—Philadelphia? Matilda, what on earth precipitates this unseemly drama?”

Matilda would have objected to the implications, except that Portia sounded genuinely worried.

“Harry Merridew, alive and well, precipitates my decision. He is not dead, Portia. He concocted a scheme to make me, and probably his creditors and enemies, think he was dead. He’s short of funds and has come around, expecting me to sign my dower house over to him. He will assert custody of Tommie if I balk. Harry is unwilling to divorce me because the press would become involved, but he doubtless knows enough crooked judges and magistrates to quietly take my son from me.”

The cat climbed onto Portia’s lap and stropped himself against her such that his tail waved before her face. She scratched the base of his neck, and he settled on his haunches and began a stentorian purr.

“Harry Merridew,” Portia muttered. “Well, of course. I am ashamed to say I rejoiced when he supposedly died, Matilda. He was a desperate measure indeed, and you paid dearly for throwing in with him. When your father told me he’d approved the match, I nearly did him an injury.”

What on earth could motivate Portia to violence? “Papa was likely paid—by Harry—to bless the match.”

The cat settled to all fours, a miniature smoky sphinx, doubtless getting hair all over Portia’s gray skirts. Did she dress to accommodate her presuming cat?

“Your father was not paid to allow Merridew to wed you,” Portia said, setting her drink aside without disturbing the cat. “Whilst kicking his heels in the village and courting you, Harry got to nosing about the parish registers. He happened across the record that showed when your father, while still a curate, had taken a bride. Less than seven months later, you showed up in the birth registries, and whatever else was true about your Harry, he could count.”

“I came a bit early, then?” Even as Matilda spoke, another explanation was beating on the door of one of her mental linen closets.

The cat sent Matilda a sagacious squint, his expression oddly mirroring Portia’s.

“From what your mother intimated, Matilda, you came precisely when you were due to arrive.”

Matilda felt an odd prickling down her arms. “Mama and Papa anticipated their vows?” She could barely recall her mother, a quiet, pretty woman with an air of patient good humor.