“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Mrs. Merridew opened her hand, and the cat deigned to stroll in her direction. A moment later, the beast was snuggled in her arms and rumbling like a feline artillery volley. “Where is my Tommie, Your Majesty? I’ve lost my boy, and my heart will break beyond all repair if we do not find him.”

The cat stropped his fat head against the lady’s chin.

“Tommie!” Tremont called, earning a scowl from the cat. “My lad, show yourself. There’s a fellow here who’d like to make your acquaintance.”

Nothing.

Mrs. Merridew, cat cradled against her shoulder, peered into the stable. “You have a cart pony.”

“Mrs. Winklebleck and Cook’s, though Mrs. Winklebleck isn’t keen on equines. She doesn’t know how to drive, so Cook or one of the men must drive her if she’s inclined to run errands.”

“Tommie!” Mrs. Merridew called, her voice conveying only brisk good cheer. “I have come across the most splendid orange cat, but the fellow needs a name, and I daresay you excel at naming. I think I would call this fellow Marigold, or Melon, or Honey, or…”

She went on in that fashion, suggesting ridiculously frivolous names for a grand tom cat.

Tremont inspected the stable as he’d been taught to do when on reconnaissance. Make a mental grid of squares and scan each quadrant, slowly, as if taking in a piece of art. Don’t forget to look behind, down at your own feet, and up…

A tousled dark head appeared in the gloom of the hayloft. Tremont touched Mrs. Merridew’s arm and pointed.

“Tommie,” she said. “There you are. Have you met Carrot?” Her voice was light, but not quite steady. The cat had ceased purring and was glowering at the boy.

“I hadn’t any string,” Tommie said. “I thought there might be string or twine in the stable, and I climbed up the ladder, but then the ladder went sideways, and I… It’s too far to jump.”

A ladder did, indeed, lie on its side along the empty stalls beneath the loft. The shaggy bay pony munched his hay and watched the boy with no more interest than if Tommie had been a barn swallow.

“The situation is easily remedied,” Tremont said, righting the ladder and putting a boot on the lowest rung. “Down you go.”

Tommie abruptly resembled a recruit who’d seen his first glimpse of an advancing French army. His breakfast might soon make a reappearance.

“Better yet, stay where you are,” Tremont said. “I’ll fetch you down. If you slipped on the ladder, your mama would not forgive me, so please don’t fuss.” He was up the ladder and into the hay mow before Tommie could muster the pride to object.