“But we are who we are,” Tremont replied, “and I would not have you any other way. I will miss you, too, Matilda, but I will also love you and thank the benevolent powers that you have been a part of my life.”

“Tell me you’ll take a wife, Tremont. Please. You need to take a wife.”

He kissed her cheek and stepped back. “I will write to Tommie, through Portia if you insist, and I will wish you a safe journey. I promise not to follow you to Philadelphia, and I will keep some eyes on Harry in Rome for the good of all concerned. Be well, Matilda.”

He bowed and withdrew, closing the door softly before she could disgrace herself by begging him to stay. He’d given his word not to follow her, and Marcus, Earl of Tremont, would not break that word.

She should have been relieved. Instead, Matilda sank into a chair and commenced silently weeping.

Chapter Seventeen

“The MacKays mean well,” Michael Delancey said, “and Dorcas sets a fine table. Shall we walk together for a bit?”

Tremont would rather have walked alone, but left to his own devices, he’d find himself standing outside a certain genteel riverfront inn, baying at the inky winter sky.

“Thank you, Delancey,” he said. “I’d be happy for the company. Do you ever refuse your sister’s invitations?”

“I don’t feel I have the right.” Delancey set a relaxed pace along the deserted street. “I was off in the north for years, while Dorcas was all but running St. Mildred’s and contending with other challenges. I should have been here for her and for my father. She still keeps a hand in at St. Mildred’s, while I…”

Delancey’s voice trailed off, and his gaze narrowed on a heap of shivering blankets tucked against the door of a grocer’s shop.

“You are to rise swiftly through the ranks at Lambeth,” Tremont said, “and make your father proud of you?” The reminder that other men had burdens was timely. Matilda and Tommie would sail out of Tremont’s life tomorrow, and some comparable sorrow had apparently sailed into Mr. Delancey’s pious and worthy existence.

“Oh, something like that. MacKay pulled me aside and said I was not to mention Mrs. Merridew’s name. I gather she’s left her post?” Delancey approached the heap of blankets and knelt. “You’ll catch your death out here, my friend. Do you know where St. Mildred’s is?”

The heap scrabbled back against the wall, revealing the crossing sweeper Patrick. “Don’t touch me, mate. I’ve got a knife aimed at yer…” The boy leaped to his feet. “Milord. Evenin’.”

“Mr. Delancey means you no harm, Patrick. It’s too cold to weather the elements tonight. Take yourself off to share the kitchen fire with Charlie and tell him you’ve missed your supper.”