“That boy can focus keenly on a task,” she said. “My husband had the same capacity for single-mindedness. If Harry Merridew fixed on an objective, he let nothing and no one stand in his way.”

Tremont crossed the room, took Mrs. Merridew by the wrist, and drew her closer to the fire.

“Think of a time when you spoke directly to your son, and he did not even notice. What was he doing?”

Mrs. Merridew’s brows drew down, and she looked in that moment like the boy when he’d decided to master skipping stones—wholly concentrated on the challenge.

“The cat at St. Mildred’s,” she said. “Give Tommie a piece of string, and he will play with that cat until the last trumpet shall sound.”

“Mrs. Winklebleck is not fond of cats,” Tremont replied, “but a few have privileges in the stable. Come along. If Tommie went out to use the jakes, and a cat strutted past, he probably followed his quarry without a thought to asking your permission.”

“But if the cat ran off…” Mrs. Merridew caught herself. “Right. Tommie would try to make friends with the cat. A good thought. I’ll fetch my cloak and have a look in the stable.”

Two men had been dispatched to search the back garden and alley, but not the stable itself. Nobody was due to report for at least forty-five minutes, and some fresh air and activity would doubtless do the lady good.

Tremont accompanied Mrs. Merridew across the garden and into the alley. MacIvey was halfway up a sturdy maple, having a look around from the higher vantage point, while MacPherson admonished him not to fall on his fool head and expect anybody to pay for his burial.

“Tommie is in awe of horses,” Mrs. Merridew said. “He loves Copenhagen the way I used to love Christmas pudding.”

What had happened that Mrs. Merridew no longer cared for Christmas pudding? “MacIvey and MacPherson would have come this way when they finished reconnoitering from the upper boughs. I should have ordered them to climb the tree. With the leaves gone, MacIvey can doubtless see into every backyard on this side of the street.”

A fat marmalade tom scampered across the alley. His head was nearly as wide as his body, and many a mouse had doubtless added to his girth.

“He’s a regular,” Tremont said. “I think the lads call him George, owing to his size and propensity for self-indulgence.”

“Is he tame?”

“Tucker leaves milk out for the cats…”

Mrs. Merridew knelt and wiggled her fingers. The cat took notice, sat upon his haunches, and sent Tremont a look that conveyed that earls, being useless, were excused for the nonce. Lydia could achieve the same look, though she never aimed it at her dear Captain Powell.