Tommie twisted about to send Matilda a questioning glance.

“Two raps,” she said. “One right after the other. And then you say, ‘This meeting will now come to order.’”

Tommie vigorously executed the duties of his office. For the next forty-five minutes, he seemed quite content to occupy the earl’s lap and draw all manner of mythical beasts while quietly humming Burns’s ode to the ladies.

In the opinion of Marcus, Earl of Tremont, churches had more in common with the military than either organization liked to admit. Both were devoted to strict hierarchy, strange rituals, peculiar uniforms, and formidable edifices. Both were much concerned with cadging a substantial share of the common weal and doing with it nobody was entirely sure what, but the work was held to be very important nonetheless.

A useless observation, but then, a man of a philosophical bent was prone to such musings. Tremont concluded the meeting when he’d secured an offer from the parish committee to hire the men on a trial basis.

“No scurrilous behavior,” Mrs. Oldbach had said, with a fraught glower in the direction of the boy on Tremont’s lap. “More specific than that, I cannot be in present company.”

If only Wellington had commanded an army of church ladies. They would have ordered Bonaparte into exile as effectively as…

More useless thoughts.

“Master Merridew,” Tremont said, setting the boy on his feet. “If you would return the gavel to the vicar’s office, I would appreciate it. No making free with it on any handy wall, floor, or parishioner, if you please. Gavels are not hammers.”

Tommie ran a small finger along the smooth, glossy handle. “I’ll put it on Vicar’s desk, Mr. Earl.”

Tremont risked leaning within gavel-smiting range. “We need not be so formal. You may address me as Tremont or my lord.”

“Mama has no use for idle lords.”

Mrs. Merridew bent closer to her notes, though the side of her neck, then her cheek and her ear turned a delicate pink. Tremont had been aware of her throughout the meeting. Aware of a light, rosy scent, the graceful curve of her jaw, thick brown hair in a severe bun, and serious gray-blue eyes that had remained fixed on the page before her.

“I have no use for idle lords either,” Tremont replied. “Might I call you Thomas?”

“Mama calls me Thomas when I’m naughty.”

“Tommie, then. Away with you. That gavel cannot levitate.”

“Fly,” Mrs. Merridew said. “Levitate means fly.”

Tommie silently mouthed levitate, twice. “I wish I could levitate!” And then he was off at a gallop, the gavel clutched in his little fist.

“A lively boy,” Tremont remarked. “You must adore him.”

He’d apparently surprised Mrs. Merridew, who turned slowly—warily?—from her notes. “I do. He’s a wonderful child, but too smart for his own good, and he has no siblings to play with.”