“You dwell on her in your mind,” MacKay said, sounding oddly wistful. “The thought of her replaces all your worries and idle imaginings. Her smile becomes your Holy Grail and her form the standard by which you measure all other females.”

“You forgot the part about no old master ever penned an air to compare with the melody of her voice and her laughter… I haven’t heard her laugh, MacKay. I must hear her joyous outpourings, or I shall perish… and so forth. I have no idea how this has happened, and I’ve hoped that the malady would fade as swiftly as it befell me, but she lectures me, MacKay.”

“About?”

“My perfect countess, how to go on with the men, and then she looks at that child… She is fierce and brave and shrewd, and all the while, she has the world thinking she’s just another genteel lady living a quietly penurious life on a quiet street and in a quiet neighborhood.”

“You seek to rescue her?”

“The boot rather goes on the other foot, Major. You should see what she’s done with the soldiers’ home in just a few days. The lady was born to command.”

“An odd thing to say about a woman, Tremont.”

“My father died when I was a boy. My uncle soon began pillaging the estate as my trustee, and thwarting him was left to my mother and sister, the housekeeper and staff. They hid what jewels my mother didn’t pawn. My sister kept household books for Uncle that bore no resemblance to reality. She and Mama and the tenants held the estate together while I was off playing soldier. For a woman to command takes all the same skills a man has, plus a complement of determination, thespian skill, and deviousness men never develop. Ask your Dorcas who ran St. Mildred’s when she was at the vicarage.”

“I take your point.” MacKay finished his drink and set the glass aside. “She’s still doing half her father’s job. Dorcas says you notice more than you let on. You should ask her about Harry Merridew, or better still, ask Vicar Delancey. He notices more than he lets on too.”

“I will do just that, though I must take my leave of you if I’m not to be late for tea with Mrs. Merridew.”

“You should move along, then,” MacKay said, rising. “That sky means business, and a fellow doesn’t make the best impression when he’s sopping wet and shivering.”

Tremont rose, though the cozy chair by the fire tempted him to linger. He’d accomplished his purpose—to learn what MacKay knew of Harry Merridew, though that amounted to precisely nothing useful.

“Who are Mrs. Merridew’s friends?” Tremont asked. “With whose children does Tommie play on fine days? With whom does she walk to services or linger in the churchyard?”