Tommie drained his cup to the dregs, and his mother passed him her unfinished serving.

“Please say you will take the fifty pounds,” Tremont said. “We can discuss the rest of it later, when you have had a chance to consider what subjects might benefit the men most, and I have given the same topic some thought. If you get the men to ‘please pass the salt’ and using ‘dratted’ instead of the less genteel options, I will be most appreciative.”

“Then you set the standard too low,” Mrs. Merridew replied. “These fellows bested the shrewdest military leader the world has seen in many a century. They were born the sons of shopkeepers and yeomen and became an army of unprecedented ferocity. They can master table manners.”

“Mama sets great store by table manners.”

“Manners maketh the man,” Tremont said. “At least in the opinion of some old Etonian. Will you please help me, Mrs. Merridew?”

Mention of the money made her uncomfortable. Tremont should have seen that sooner.

She watched the boy delicately spooning whipped cream into his mouth. “I will help you.”

“Thank the Merciful Creator. How soon can you change your residence?”

Mrs. Merridew fixed her gaze on a plate of tea cakes, each one decorated with a tiny icing flower, and remained silent. She was not glib. When she spoke, she spoke confidently, but she wasn’t above pausing to reflect.

“No time like the present,” she said, taking one tiny tea cake. “If you will send along some of your men, I can have the necessities packed in a few hours.”

To pack up a life should take longer than that.

“We mustn’t forget Copenhagen,” Tommie said. “Cope is my horse. He’s stuffed, but I’ve had him since I was little. Papa gave him to me.”

“By all means, bring your horse,” Tremont said, thinking of a stuffed dog named Charles. “I will come by your new abode tomorrow morning to see that you’re settled in.”

He expected second thoughts and last-minute renegotiations. Instead, Mrs. Tremont allowed Tommie one tea cake, and both mother and child were quiet on the walk back to their dwelling.

“You were wrong about something,” Mrs. Merridew said as Tommie scampered down the steps and let himself into the house.

“I am frequently in error and even more frequently in doubt,” Tremont replied. “Don’t you lock your door?”

“Tommie knows to find the key beneath the boot scrape. You said you have no charm.”

“Nor do I any longer aspire to acquire any.” Forlorn hopes were notoriously bad odds.

“You do have charm, my lord. Whoever told you otherwise wasn’t paying attention.”

She disappeared down the steps, and Tremont set a measured course in the direction of the men’s house. The encounter had gone splendidly, in that Mrs. Merridew had agreed to take a lot of unruly former soldiers in hand.