“You and your damned aliases. Matilda is not trying to hide from me. She will travel as herself.”

The same porter had sidled closer, a tidy fellow with the wiry strength of a yeoman and the wheat-blond hair of a Saxon.

Harry droned on, about all the theatrical tricks he’d used to disguise himself, while Tremont focused on Matilda and what Matilda wanted. Safety, of course. Security. Peace and quiet. She’d go someplace affordable—most of the Continent was affordable compared to England. Someplace where nobody knew her. Someplace where she could find honest employment, which meant no tiny villages.

What else did she want? If granted three wishes, what would they be?

“Beg pardon, sir,” the towheaded porter said. “You’d be Lord Tremont?”

“I have that honor.”

The fellow stood straighter. “Thought that was you. Wanted to wish you a fine day.”

While Tremont wanted to toss the fellow into the river. Manners and something more—a niggling at the back of Tremont’s mind—stopped him.

“Thank you, and the same to you. I have the sense we’ve met.”

Harry glowered at the fellow, who was grinning as if he’d just been given the Freedom of the City and all its pubs.

“I knew you’d remember me. Shores, sir. Corporal Dennis Shores, which is a joke now that I’m working on the riverbank, innit? I served under Dunacre along with you, and I heard what you done for some of the men now Boney’s been trounced.”

Vague recollections, of a skinny fellow who’d advanced to corporal thanks to excellent aim with a rifle and a well-timed jest.

Every moment spent passing the time of day was a moment Matilda and Tommie were farther away. And yet, one did not snub a former comrade-in-arms.

“Shores, how good of you to introduce yourself. I hope you are thriving.”

“Keepin’ body and soul together. And it’s thanks to you I’m alive to do that. My brother was with us at Waterloo, too, and he’s got a fine job as a footman. I heard this’ un”—Shores jerked his chin at Harry—“asking after a young lady and a lad. Did the lad have a stuffed horse stickin’ out of his coat?”

Thank the angels of mercy and a small boy’s attachment to his friends. “He surely did.”

“They took ship for Dover not an hour past. Martin hauled their luggage for ’em, though ’tweren’t much. Long gone, given the tide, but she were Dover-bound, sir.”

“Shores, I could kiss you.”

“A handshake will do, sir.”

“No, it will not,” Tremont said, extending a hand. “If you or your brother are ever in need, you come by the soldiers’ home two streets from St. Mildred’s. Come by for a drink even when you’re not in need. The men will be glad to see an old friend, and Cook always makes enough for a guest or two.”