A dozen doors on, Tremont led her up a set of steps to a modest, tidy house. Somebody had already swept the walkway free of snow once, and the brass fixtures around the door lamps gleamed despite the day’s gloom.

“Before we go in,” he said, pausing inside the recessed doorway, “you should know something.”

The lamps had not yet been lit, and the alcove was out of the wind, giving it a confessional air. “Say on, my lord.” If he was leaving for Shropshire, that might be for the best, though Tommie would be disappointed.

“I had a definite purpose for calling upon MacKay, and not an entirely noble purpose.” His tone was serious, his expression unreadable. “I wanted…” Tremont turned Matilda so the wind was to her back, and the meager light fell across the earl’s face. “I inquired of the major regarding your late husband.”

And here Matilda had hoped Tremont had inquired regarding her. “What possible interest could Harry Merridew hold for you?” Unless Harry’s lingering and larcenous shadow was about to cost Matilda her post.

Tremont studied her, then seemed to come to a decision. “What was your reason for calling on Mrs. MacKay?”

Once upon a time, Matilda had been curious and forthright. Her father had called her ungovernable and bold, but such were the labels applied to women who failed to simper and scrape. Matilda would never entirely escape the damage marriage to Harry had done, but with Tremont, she could be a little less cautious and a little more honest.

“I inquired regarding you, my lord.”

“Because I hired you to manage the men?”

Dignity whispered to Matilda to retire behind that proffered fig leaf. Courage demanded that, with Tremont, she put such cowering aside.

“I did not ask my questions of Mrs. MacKay because you hired me to manage the men, not entirely.”

Tremont stared past her shoulder. “I see.” He lifted the latch and bowed Matilda into the foyer.

I see? What did I see mean? Matilda had developed the ability to read Harry as closely as she’d ever attended to Scripture. She’d learned to parse his silences, to listen for the schemes brewing beneath his jests and cryptic asides. By the time he’d died, Harry had been an open book to her, one she had studied out of dread necessity.

Tremont appeared preoccupied as he set her bonnet on a hook, took her scarf and gloves, and then her cloak. Matilda slid his cloak from his shoulders, and when he turned to her, he still had the look of trying to solve a puzzle in his head.

“Let’s find a roaring fire,” he said, “and ring for tea. I am at your disposal to answer any and all questions you might have regarding my humble person, and perhaps you might answer a few questions for me as well?”