Mrs. Winklebleck’s chin came up. “I’m for putting that Harry Merriman on a transport ship and giving the ship’s mate a false name for him. He’d stay dead for a proper long time that way, long enough that no magistrate would believe him if he showed up again fourteen years later, claimin’ to be some old swindler nobody much liked to begin with.”

“Her plan has merit,” MacKay said, resuming his seat.

Her plan was criminal. Kidnapping was a hanging felony, bearing false witness a sin, and Tremont was tempted to commit both. He set the decanter before MacIvey, who’d parked at the reading table.

“Cook should not drink alone,” Tremont said. “MacPherson, the glasses, please.”

Tremont took the desk beneath the mezzanine, and while the business of passing drinks around occupied the assemblage, he mentally set aside the scheme to put Harry on a transport ship. The plan did have merit—Harry had committed many crimes—but also risk.

Matilda said everybody believed Harry, and Tremont believed Matilda. Cousin Wesley had that same ability to charm, wheedle, and deceive. Some people were given great good looks, others had beautiful singing voices.

The Harrys and Wesleys of the world had guile.

While I have… logic? Reason? Honor? Those gifts were not much comfort when a man’s heart was breaking.

“My objective,” Tremont said, “is to ensure that Mrs. Merridew need not leave familiar surrounds to make her way alone in the world without friends or allies. I intend to accomplish that goal by guaranteeing Harry cannot set foot on British soil without taking an enormous risk.”

“You’d put him on remittance?” MacKay asked.

“Of course, if I must, which will be the carrot, but I also need a stick. Mrs. Winklebleck, what else can you tell us about the man’s past?”

A few bits and bobs of information emerged from a general discussion. Harry was a confidence trickster of some renown, but had few friends. He eventually left any accomplices in awkward circumstances, and women soon realized he was more parasite than protector.

While the talk eddied and a second decanter was emptied, Tremont realized that Harry Merridew must be a profoundly lonely man. No home, no friends, no family… Harry, while telling himself London was his own personal patch, was lost in the stews of vice and deception.

“Who are his people?” Tremont asked. “He has family somewhere—cousins, an auntie, somebody. What do we know of them?”

Silence crept over the library.

“He never mentioned family,” Mrs. Winklebleck said. “Never mentioned a village, never talked about going ’ome for Yuletide or to pay a call on his granny in ’igh summer, but then, who’d ’ave a grandson like ’im? I’ll ’ave another tot, if you don’t mind, MacIvey.”

“Best give it a rest, Nanny,” MacIvey said, making no move to surrender the decanter.