“I could sell that house by sundown,” he said, “but desperation seldom wins the best price. You truly have brought the deed?”

How casually he inquired. MacKay withdrew a rolled-up document tied with a red ribbon. “A quitclaim, executed before witnesses in favor of one Harrell Merriman, and I can vouch for the solicitor who drew it up.”

“Merriman?”

“Is that a problem?” MacKay dearly hoped it was, though in another hour or two, Matilda and Tommie would be on their way to a dockside inn. There’d be no revising the deed to suit Harry’s swindle of the moment.

“Harrell Merriman will do,” Harry said. “I’ve always liked him. He’s a personable chap, but nobody’s fool.” He poured a tot of brandy into a second glass and passed it over to MacKay. “To your health and Matilda’s safe journey.”

“And the boy’s.”

Merridew winked and drank up, something he likely did differently depending on whether he was Merriman, Merridew, or any one of his other names.

“Where will you go?” MacKay asked again. Dorcas had wanted to know this fact in particular, and MacKay was loath to disappoint his commanding officer.

“Someplace Matilda will never have to see me again,” Harry replied. “She never should have married me. I know that.”

Matilda doubtless knew it better. “You told her you were bound for New York, I believe.”

“Or Boston, but not Philadelphia. She can have that patch.”

The smile playing about Harry’s lips stirred MacKay’s instincts. “You told her you were going to the New World, and she knew that was a lie. She’s banishing herself to the one place you all but promised her you would not be. Why not simply tell her you’d leave her in peace?”

“I will leave her in peace. I wanted to leave her in peace, but Matilda knows better than to expect the truth from me. I do tell the truth when it’s advantageous, but with a wife… Marriage is the most complicated rig I’ve ever worked. I don’t care for it, and I daresay Matilda would agree with me.”

More lies. Something about marriage to Matilda had appealed to Harry strongly, and that had likely scared him witless.

“You are a coward,” MacKay said, rising without tasting his drink. “She cared for you, and in some misbegotten corner of her heart, she would still rather see you thrive than struggle. My wife would love to see you gelded—she has no patience with parasites strutting around in the guise of grown men—but you deserve her pity. You certainly have mine.”

“Spare me,” Harry said, all pretense of cordiality gone. He tossed back his drink and rose. “My thanks for delivering the deed. You can see yourself out.”

MacKay sketched a bow. “You never did tell me where you’re going.”

“Straight to the devil, of course.”