That was the best part, of which Michael Delancey had been very certain. “No, he cannot. Harry lied, Matilda, and for once, he lied to an organization in a position to hold him accountable. You make your petition and put your proof before the bishops, and Harry can argue the case if he wants to, but the facts tell the tale. You need not mention faked death, swindles, or the fact that Harry tried to extort a house from you. The marriage license and some testimony will be enough to make the case.”

Matilda paced back to the sofa and picked up her drink. “I signed that house over to him. Executed a legally binding quitclaim.”

“You executed a quitclaim to Harry Merriman, who does not exist. I had occasion to remind Harry of the legalities, and he conceded my point.” Grudgingly, of course. He apparently truly thought himself in need of the funds.

Matilda held her brandy up to the firelight. “Then Harry has neither house nor wife nor son. He’s in trouble with the bishops, and his family in Bristol might have had him declared legally dead. Maybe there is some justice in this life. Shall we sit down? You have to be exhausted.”

He remained on his feet. “Are we to be married?”

She set her drink aside without tasting it and took to studying the flames crackling on the hearth. “I am afraid…”

Oh God. No. “Don’t be afraid. We can face anything if we face it together.” Brave words, though Tremont was at that moment terrified. If Matilda rejected him, if she chose legitimacy for Tommie rather than happiness for herself… Tremont would cope, eventually.

He hoped, but it would a bitter, empty coping, and lonelier than he could sanely contemplate.

Matilda wrapped her arms about her middle. “I am afraid,” she said again, “that if we embrace, I will never let you go. I will make a complete cake of myself, turn into a watering pot, and abandon dignity entirely…”

“And,” Tremont said, holding his arms wide, “I will yield all my pretensions to self-possession without caring a whit for the loss.”

She hurled herself against him, and they clung to each other in silent rejoicing. When Madame Howard tapped gently on the door half an hour later, she found Tremont and his beloved lady entwined, fast asleep on the sofa.

She draped two blankets over them, banked the fire, and left them to their dreams, which were sweet indeed.

“Harry stayed put,” Alasdhair MacKay said, taking a tea tray from the footman. “What honor could not accomplish, Dorcas’s fine table, clean sheets, and a roaring fire did. I believe our Harry is tired of being without funds, cold, and haunted.”

“He is not ‘our Harry,’” Matilda snapped as MacKay set the tray before his wife. “He is nobody’s Harry, and that is entirely his fault. What are we to do with him?”