What if Matilda had taken up with a lord or finagled an engagement to a retired sea captain? That would change the game considerably, and not in her favor. Harry left the pub with the brisk gait of a man who was punctual for all of his appointments and entirely at home navigating the vast labyrinth of London’s streets.

“Harry Merriman,” he muttered to himself, “the opportunities for an enterprising man are endless.”

“What do you know of the late Harry Merridew?” Tremont asked, trying to make the question sound casual.

Alasdhair MacKay lifted the eagle-shaped stopper of a crystal decanter. “A wee nip to ward off the chill, my lord?”

Tremont gave his mental backside another stout kick. Small talk. A gentleman made small talk when calling on his acquaintances. MacKay, fortunately, appeared more amused than offended at Tremont’s lapse.

“A wee nip of your whisky will knock me upon my lordly fundament.”

“Half a nip, then, with a few drops of water, because you would otherwise force me to drink alone. I haven’t had my tot for the day, and the temperature is dropping.”

“Snow on the way,” Tremont said, going to the window. The parlor was cozy, made especially so by the green and white tartan blanket folded over the back of the sofa, and the green, white, and purple thistle motif embroidered into both pillows and draperies. The sky, by contrast, was a sullen gray.

“Early for snow,” MacKay said, “but the sinking feeling in my Highland bones agrees with you. Now that we’ve discussed the weather, why do you want to know about Harry Merridew?”

It became necessary to study the overcast. “Did she love him?” Tremont had considered and pondered and thought on the matter at some length. Harry Merridew had been a disappointment to his wife, but a lady could only be disappointed in a man she esteemed.

Ergo, Matilda had loved her husband, despite his shortcomings. Did she still pine for him, or would she be amenable to reentering the state of holy matrimony with a suitable party?

A theoretical question—mostly.

“My Dorcas was right, then.”

Dorcas was Mrs. Major Alasdhair MacKay, also the daughter of the current vicar at St. Mildred’s. A brisk, practical sort of woman, who put Tremont in mind of his sister.

“Your Dorcas suggested I find a widow to manage my soldiers’ home, and she was right about that. A discerning woman, despite her choice of spouse.”

MacKay laughed and poured a few drops of water into a scant portion of whisky. “We can say that about many ladies. Perhaps your Mrs. Merridew was one of them.” He passed over the glass and poured a more substantial portion for himself. “Slàinte!”

“Slàinte mhath.”

MacKay’s dark brows rose. “Do you speak the Erse, Tremont?”