“You think you are so clever.” Sparky patted a battered top hat onto his head. “But if your widda has got her ’ooks into a real gentleman, you may get the worse of the whole scheme, ’Arry Misery-Do. London ain’t your turf no more, you don’t got but a bit of coin, and the Quality stick together. You also ain’t ’alf so ’andsome and dashing as you was in your misspent youth. Best tread lightly and move along soon as may be.”

“Easy for you to say.” Harry stood as well, because the bench was hard, and the discussion had been oddly unsettling. “You can scarper back to Ireland and spend the rest of your days cuddling up to your darling Mary. I can’t go back to Dublin, and I’ve also worn out my welcome in Liverpool and Manchester. I don’t speak Frog, and I’ve no taste for Scottish winters.”

“Ain’t it a shame how nobody has any use for Old ’Arry?” Sparky smiled at his own joke, Old Harry being one of the devil’s many monikers. Sparky touched a finger to his hat brim, put a coin on the table, and nodded to the barmaid.

Some youthful brawl gone awry had left Sparky limping, though he quit the premises with an odd sort of dignity. Harry took a moment to gather up his walking stick, hat, and gloves. He was too old to play a university graduate trying to acquire Town bronze, so he was a prosperous squire in London on business. True, he wasn’t as dashing as he’d once been, but he could now project an air of substance that a younger man only dreamed of.

He consulted his squire’s pocket watch, which hadn’t kept accurate time since Hambletonian had won the match race against Diamond, though the timepiece was a convincing prop. For one instant, staring at the unmoving hands of the little clock face, Harry considered doing as Sparky had suggested—throwing himself on Matilda’s mercy, asking for her forgiveness, taking what funds she’d spare him, and leaving her in peace.

Tilly would like that—being asked for forgiveness.

But would she like it enough? Once upon a time, Harry had known what Matilda was thinking simply by watching her eyes. She’d learned to don disguises of her own in the course of the marriage, a useful skill for any woman, and one that meant Harry could not stake his future on what he’d known of her years ago.

The barmaid called a greeting to a patron sauntering through the door, a young gent, clearly from means. He tipped his hat to her and blew her a kiss. The barmaid brought him his drink before he’d taken off his gloves.