“The two are not mutually exclusive. You would never set foot in Paris, because it’s nearly overrun with Englishmen of all stripes. Merchants, nabobs, peers, debtors, and thus creditors. As ripe as the pickings might be for one of your ilk, you cannot risk trolling in those waters.”

Harry ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “I also can’t speak Frog. I’ve tried. Tilly used to laugh at my attempts. I can read it some, thanks to her and a few years of Latin, but attempting to ply my trade when I can’t understand the language is asking for disaster.”

“You have no trade,” Tremont said, “but you would make a first-rate actor.”

The longing that flashed in Harry’s eyes was astonishing. “Maybe once upon a time. Hadn’t you best be on your way, Tremont?”

“I have one small task to see to, and then I’ll gallop for the coast.”

“I’ll wish you Godspeed.” Harry swept off his hat and made an elegant bow. “And give my regards to Tilly.”

“You may offer them yourself upon her return to London, because any plans you had to quit the metropolis are now postponed. Ah, here come my reinforcements. Major Alasdhair MacKay, may I make known to you one Harry Merchant, late of Bristol and various unlucky locales. MacKay is assisted by MacIvey and MacPherson, and I suspect Bentley and Biggs are canvassing the surrounds. MacKay, your charge. If he tries to do another bunk, carve up his handsome face. Distinguishing scars would all but put him out of business as a swindler—and as an actor.”

MacKay nodded. “I’d let Mrs. MacKay have a go at him. She’s not as softhearted as I am. MacKay, at your service, Merchant. We’ve met.”

Harry was frankly staring at Tremont. “You never did tell me how you learned that name.”

“I asked a few honest questions of a mostly honest man. Now behave for the major and his missus until I return.”

Chapter Eighteen

“I don’t want to get on another ship,” Tommie said. “All we did was watch the shore go by, and pass other boats, and listen to that pale lady moan, and watch more of the shore go by. Sailing on the sea is boring. On-wee-ooze.”

He said this loudly enough that the lady at the inn’s reception desk smiled.

Boring, stupid, foolish… Tommie had asked for all manner of pejorative French vocabulary as the journey—and Tommie himself—had grown tedious. He was a prodigious mimic, which would serve him well learning a new language.

“The lad’s tired,” the lady at the desk said, evidencing a slight French accent. “Le garçon est fatigué. The mama is tired as well, I suspect.”

“Exhausted,” Matilda said, “but determined to press on. We need a decent meal, and then we’ll be on the evening packet for Calais.”