“I’m not quoting from The Rubbishing Book of Common Prayer. Of course I speak from experience.” MacKay let himself out and left Harry standing before the meager fire looking both dignified and ridiculous in his tattered shawl.

The encounter had been distasteful and somewhat informative, also sobering.

“There but for the grace of God and Dorcas MacKay, laddie…”

The major wrapped his scarf more snugly about his ears and turned his steps in the direction of the park. Tremont would expect a report by nightfall, and then MacKay, as was the duty of a true friend, would do his best to get his brokenhearted lordship roaring drunk.

Parting was not sweet sorrow, it was bitter hell.

Matilda came to this conclusion as Tremont handed her down from his coach and four and then assisted Tommie to alight. Had the stink of the Thames not been so intense, the earl might have been dropping them off at some elegant seaside resort.

The inn was an oasis of grandeur and decorum amid the otherwise indifferent offerings along the riverfront.

“London exerts itself to make a good first and last impression on certain travelers,” Tremont said, eyeing the wide veranda. Liveried footmen and porters bustled about with luggage, and swags of holiday greenery adorned the first-floor balcony. “They serve meals on that balcony in fine weather, but the best views are from the back. You can watch all the river traffic and pretend you are the harbormaster.”

That was said for Tommie’s benefit, and Matilda’s heart broke all over again. “Will you spend the Yuletide holidays in Shropshire, my lord?” she asked.

“I hardly know.” Tremont offered his arm, and Matilda took it, all too aware that the moment of separation loomed ever closer.

“Tommie, come along.” Tommie latched on to Matilda’s free hand. Copenhagen peeked out from the top of his coat, a measure suggested by the earl when Tommie would not stop fretting over the possibility of his stuffed friend going missing.

Tremont dealt with the business of room keys and fare for the accommodations. “Your meals will be brought up to you,” he said, “and your rooms are reserved until you board the packet for Portsmouth tomorrow. Shall I see you up?”

He’d been the proper, punctilious earl since retrieving them from the soldiers’ home. Matilda grasped that Tremont’s demeanor was intended to shore up her flagging composure, but she also resented that he was able to maintain such effective command of himself.

Did his mental linen closets and pantries never spill open? Never spew their contents forth at inopportune moments?

“I would rather not say good-bye in public,” she muttered. “Upstairs with us.” Tommie came along, though he dragged at her hand, gawking over his shoulder at every step.