“I am the opposite.” Tremont tipped his hat to some dowager swaddled up to the eyes in furs. “My sister says I am a careful thinker, but the more accurate term is that I am a plodder. It’s within the realm of honesty to say I am simply dull-witted.”

“You are not dull-witted.” Mrs. Merridew took the boy by the hand as they approached a crossing. “You were three steps ahead of St. Mildred’s wiliest committee members and got exactly what you wanted from them. They consider themselves the souls of benevolence for taking a chance on your soldiers, when, in fact, they’ve spent two years tiptoeing around how to retire the sexton.”

“He is not a young man,” Tremont said. “I look for churches with aging sextons, if you want to know the truth, but Tommie won the day for me.”

A fancy coach rattled past. The Dorning crest registered vaguely in Tremont’s awareness. Recognizing crests had become a sort of game for him when he’d been living in the stews. Avoiding the enemy and passing the time.

“How did Tommie win the day?” Mrs. Merridew asked, setting a course across the intersection.

“He is charming, in his innocence and candor. He charmed them, and I slipped in behind his advance guard. The tea shop is up on the left.”

“Tommie is as charming as a rat terrier with a loud bark. My husband had real charm.” This was said with an interesting hint of wrath.

“Whereas I lack charm,” Tremont replied. “I have manners, though. My mama and sister saw to that. Then I grew all impressed with my own consequence—a young peer is susceptible to such nonsense—and went off to war. Combat was a humbling experience.”

He held the door for her and wondered if Tommie’s voluble nature was contagious. Spain was better left in the past, and Waterloo should be consigned to complete oblivion.

“Most men find war glorious,” Mrs. Merridew said.

“Then most men are either cursed with a faulty memory or they are liars. The table at the back is quiet. MacKay prefers it.”

Mrs. Merridew paused inside the doorway and inhaled through her nose. The little shop smelled of baking bread and sweet spices, and Tommie had gone quiet.

“The hot chocolate they serve here is not to be missed,” Tremont said. “One of few consolations for the colder weather.”

They got through the business of cloaks and bonnets, and Tommie took the seat facing the window, leaving Tremont to face the lady.

“How do you know Major MacKay?” she asked when Tremont had placed their orders.