“I could not do enough for you and Tommie when your uncle was alive, but you made time to look in on me, to attend your uncle’s funeral, and to bring Tommie around. He is so lively. Perseus has no idea what to make of him.”

Perseus being Portia’s familiar, of course. Matilda took her leave, surprised nearly to tears when Portia imposed a fierce hug on her at the door.

“Be happy, Matilda. Find a way to be happy, and if you cannot be happy, at least don’t be bitter. You have Tommie, you are in good health, and for what it’s worth, you have me.”

Matilda could not be happy, not now and no time soon, but she knew what Portia was saying: Don’t stuff your whole future into one of those linen closets, shoved between decorum and prudence, stashed next to living within one’s means and never giving cause for offence.

What do you want, Matilda. What do you want?

She wanted to safeguard Tremont’s good name and his hard-won self-respect. She also wanted to be the sort of mother of whom Tommie could be proud.

“You be happy too, Portia, and I will write.”

Matilda slipped out the door and into the chilly wind. The drive back to the soldiers’ home passed in a preoccupied blur. The pony seemed to know the way, while Matilda’s thoughts wandered. When she passed Hyde Park, she was reminded of the day she’d thought Tremont was propositioning her.

She’d been mortified at the time, and so, apparently, had he. The memory was sweet now, as were most of her memories of Marcus, Earl of Tremont. That was fortunate, because those memories would have to last her a lifetime.

“Where is the boy?” Tremont asked, his gaze taking in a library filled with people trying to look as if they hadn’t been having some sort of war council. “I was very clear that Tommie wasn’t to be without the escort of an adult male at all times.”

Alasdhair MacKay rose from a wing chair in the corner. “Tuck and Jensen took the lad for a hot chocolate, with Mrs. Merridew’s prior permission. She’s calling upon her aunt and made certain we knew to keep a sharp eye on Tommie.”

What are you doing here? Rather than pose that rude question—MacKay was clearly a reinforcement brought in from the former officer ranks—Marcus bowed.

“MacKay, good day. Has anyone thought to offer you refreshment?”

Nanny Winklebleck, who occupied one of the chairs before the hearth, shook a finger at her employer.

“Don’t you be gettin’ all lordly on us now, sir. We’re trying to sort out what to do for Missus, and a tea tray won’t make that exercise go any better.”

“A wee dram never went amiss,” Cook muttered, brandishing her flask and tipping it to her lips.