Portia set the cat in Matilda’s vacated chair and rose. “Stumbling comes at a price, and we have both learned caution in a hard school. You are leaving London because you don’t want your earl to stumble, aren’t you? Has he offered to set you up?”

“No.” A relief, because Matilda would be tempted to stumble yet again. “I thought that was his interest in me initially, but I was mistaken. Tremont is unlikely to risk illegitimacy for his offspring, and he and I cannot marry with Harry so hale and whole. Tremont is a peer, he votes his seat. He cannot abandon his homeland.”

“So you will abandon him. This feels right to you?” The question was merely curious rather than judgmental.

“I took up with Joseph Yoe because he purported to offer me a way to leave the vicarage. I took up with Harry because he promised me a scintilla of safety and propriety. My motivations in both cases were selfish and desperate, and I hoped a man would solve my difficulties. My motivation in this case… Yes, the decision to leave England feels right. Miserable, but right, and my choice.”

“Because you love him,” Portia said, passing Matilda her unfinished drink and picking up her own glass. “To love, then, though your earl might well show up in Philadelphia, Matilda. What will you do then?”

She finished her drink. “I won’t be in Philadelphia.”

“I see. You will write from wherever you end up and let me know how you’re getting on?”

Marcus would doubtless turn to Portia once he learned Matilda was not in America. “I will write eventually, after Tommie and I are settled.”

Portia crossed the room and opened the central drawer of a delicate inlaid escritoire. “Take this,” she said, passing over a velvet bag. “Consider it a loan, or an early bequest to your darling Tommie. He’s such a dear boy, and you should know he will inherit this house when I die.”

Matilda did not want to take the money, but Portia had brought up Tommie. Shrewd of her.

“Tommie is no blood relation to you, Portia. You need not leave him anything, but I am most grateful for the assistance.”

“I am leaving the house to your son, Matilda, because I know you would not accept it for yourself. Besides, I am in roaring good health and plan to stay that way for some time. You will write?”

“I shall. You will support the fiction that I have gone to Philadelphia?”

“I will not lie, Matilda, but when it comes to prevaricating, I can be skillful. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

And that was as close to a promise as Matilda was likely to have from Portia. “I will be on my way. Thank you for the brandy and for your kindness.”