And she, being observant and astute, could gain that sense over the course of only a few discussions.

“You will work wonders, I am sure. Shall we confer again in a week’s time?”

“Of course, my lord. I’ll look for you Tuesday next.” She rose, and Tremont was obliged by manners to get to his feet as well. Why was adult life an unrelenting exercise in doing things a fellow did not want to do?

“Shall I look in on the boy?” he asked. “One has wondered how Tommie is faring.”

Mrs. Merridew’s smile shifted from polite to bewildered. “He speaks to me of nothing but skipping rocks, and hot chocolate, and making another trip to the bakery to choose our Sunday dessert. You have made quite an impression, my lord.”

And that, apparently, was not a cheering development. What boy would not want an earl among those taking an interest in his welfare? As Mrs. Merridew escorted Tremont to the library, it occurred to him that the problem was not the boy, the problem was the mother.

She was ambivalent about Tremont’s notice of her son. “Was your marriage happy, Mrs. Merridew?”

She halted six paces from the library door. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your marriage, was it happy? The question is doubtless impertinent—I do apologize—but you did remark about my sister’s union with Powell, and you seem inordinately wary of allowing me to form a connection with your son. Tommie is a delightful child, and I mean him no harm.”

Mrs. Merridew ran her hand over a deal table and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. The table wanted dusting. By the time Tremont paid his call next week, the whole house would have the sort of contented shine he’d seen in the guest parlor.

But would Mrs. Merridew be any easier in Tremont’s presence—would she have a contented shine?—and why did he want that for her?

“I am supposed to tell you,” she said, “that Harry Merridew had many fine qualities. A wonderful sense of humor, charm, industry, ingenuity, determination… And I would not be lying.”

“But you would be prevaricating.” Tremont hated Harry Merridew in that moment, though if Harry had been a paragon, would Tremont have hated him more? “The late Mr. Merridew disappointed you.”

“When I got word of his death, I wept, my lord, with relief rather than grief. This doubtless makes me monstrous in your eyes—my father certainly regarded me as such—but if I’m to be a monster, at least I can be an honest monster.”

“Matilda Merridew, you are not now, nor have you ever been, a monster. Shame upon him who said you were, and shame upon him who disappointed you.” Tremont included both her father and her late husband among that number.