“His cousin is married to my sister. I am thus a cousin by marriage to him, and he is cousins with a host of other luminaries, all of whom are panting for the chance to find me a countess. I did not directly rejoin my family after Waterloo, and in recent years, I have been occupied with some business matters here in London. This, they claim, is very remiss of me.”

That recitation put a pretty bow on years of wandering the stews and more recent efforts to collect fellow former soldiers who were also prone to wandering the stews.

Mrs. Merridew produced pencil and paper from her reticule and passed both to the boy. “Toads were too easy for you. Draw me a dragon, please.”

Tommie set to work with a focus that was doubtless characteristic of his mother.

“You are not capable of finding your own countess?” she asked.

“I have tried telling my matchmaking relations that I am better suited to that task than they are, but I haven’t taken the time to tend to it. They are right to feel a sense of urgency. The heir in line for the Tremont title is a rascal kicking his heels in America. The notion that my cousin might become the earl is insupportable, and thus I must stop lollygagging and find a wife. That’s where you come in.”

Mrs. Merridew sat up straight. “I am not in the business of finding wives for peers, my lord.”

“Alas for me, though you are in the business of making unruly males behave with a modicum of civility. I house a dozen former soldiers at lodgings not far from here. They are good fellows, but rough, and if they are to set up as groundkeepers and gardeners for hire, they must learn some… some decorum. Everything from basic table manners to that business of how to escort a lady. For good and sufficient reasons, they don’t listen to me—not about that. But they will listen to you.”

The food arrived—bowls of steaming pepper pot soup and a tray stacked with half sandwiches—and Tommie sent his mother a questioning glance.

“His lordship will say the grace,” Mrs. Merridew announced, “bearing in mind that the Almighty appreciates brevity.”

As did little boys and hungry earls. “We thank Thee for this food,” Tremont recited in his best earlish drone, “and for the delightful company, and also for dragons. Amen.”

The sketch disappeared into Mrs. Merridew’s reticule, and Tommie’s table napkin went onto his lap. The boy’s manners were exemplary for his age, though when the hot chocolate arrived, he did get whipped cream on his nose. Mrs. Merridew addressed that situation with brisk measures, though the moment sent Tremont’s thoughts careening in odd directions.

“You seek a deportment instructor for your men?” Mrs. Merridew said.