How she itched to slap him. “Is that genuine remorse, Harry, the manipulative show of humble contrition, or something in between?”

He glanced at MacKay, whose expression was one of supreme indifference. “It’s a statement of fact. Tremont destroyed the quitclaim deed.”

“And you nearly destroyed me.”

“I never meant…”

Matilda glowered at him, and Harry took to studying the green and white plaid pillows on the sofa.

“You, sir, meant to bilk me and my son out of our only security. Then you would doubtless have set about blackmailing me to keep word of your resurrection from becoming known. I married you—more’s the pity—but you willingly took on responsibility for Tommie, and you betrayed that trust. One day, you will have to explain to Tommie how you could contemplate wronging a small boy so grievously.”

The parlor door clicked open, and somebody cleared his throat.

Tremont, and thank heavens he’d arrived, because Matilda, for the first time in her adult life, was on the verge of flying into a rage.

“You’re free of me,” Harry said in a voice without inflection. “I cannot imagine anything I could say or do would improve upon that result in your eyes, Tilly.”

“Matilda. My name is Matilda, and unlike you, I do not duck behind aliases at the first sign of difficulty.”

“I apologize,” Harry said, with some force. “I abjectly, endlessly apologize, Matilda, but I was raised to be a gentleman, which is the same as saying I was raised to be useless. I can spout Shakespeare and Etherege and Sheridan by the scene because my sole rebellion was an interest in the theater. I can do sums in my head correctly to the penny because my father was an abacus. That is the totality of my accomplishments. My esteemed father did not allow me into the family business, and my mother would never have gainsaid her husband. If I have descended into vice, I am merely living down to Octavian Merchant’s prophecies for me.”

I will not feel sorry for him. I will not feel sorry for him. I will not… “Your apology is rejected. Words are too easy for you, Harry. The question becomes, how do you intend to show me—and Tommie—that your words mean something?”

“I will leave you alone, Matilda. I promise that. I vow that. Send me to New South Wales, to darkest Peru. I will stay the he—the blazes away from you and the boy.”

“Not good enough,” Matilda said, rising. “Not nearly good enough. You ran from us before and hadn’t the courtesy to stay dead. Running away is your third skill, Harry—after sums and a taste for the theatrical—and I can tell you from experience, running creates as many problems as it solves. I want you to put right what you have put wrong.”