“I did not. The notion appealed in the same way that being Queen of England appeals. I had sense enough by then to see that impulsive behavior had landed me in nothing but trouble. I had also begun to develop some weapons of my own. Harry sought desperately to be regarded as respectable, and thus I attended services. The self-same Church of England that had been such a source of frustration in my youth became a means of checking Harry’s worst notions.”

“If you were to pay calls, then your domicile had to have sufficient furnishings that you could receive calls, and so forth. You needed food in the larder, an acceptable wardrobe.”

“Precisely. Harry had pawned every pearl brooch or nacre button I owned by then. If that man had worked half as hard at legitimate ventures as he worked at confidence games and swindles… but he did not, and most of his games came to naught. Everything about him was false, and as his lies piled atop one another, he needed to range farther afield. He was off to Oxford when he died, hatching some scheme to bilk university boys of their allowances.”

Matilda started on the second sandwich. For a woman who longed to gobble, her manners were exquisite.

“Harry was not in London when he died?”

“On the Oxford Road. Food poisoning, if I’m to believe what I was told. A jealous husband is another possibility. The innkeeper made the final arrangements and sent Harry home to me in a plain coffin. I still have the letter condoling me on my loss and requesting payment for expenses incurred. Early in my widowhood, I read that letter several times a day.”

“To make certain that you hadn’t imagined his passing.”

“I dwelled in that peculiar land between a nightmare and waking, the place where you reassure yourself that ‘it was only a dream,’ but your heart is pounding, and you cannot make your mouth form coherent words. Fortunately, I had Tommie, and that child demands constant supervision and regular meals.”

“He’s a wonderful boy. You must be very proud of him. Are you even a little bit proud of yourself? You should be.”

Matilda set aside the empty sandwich plate and took to blinking at the fire. “Damn you.”

Damn you. The only other person in the room was Tremont, and thus she cursed at him. A tear slipped down the curve of her cheek. Making a lady cry had to be at the top of the list of things a fellow did not do when trying to win her favor.

“Mrs. Merridew?” Tremont produced a handkerchief and dangled it before her. “Matilda?”

“I don’t speak of my marriage,” she said, snatching the linen and blotting her eyes. “I don’t mention my late husband. I don’t bring him up… He’s dead, and buried, and gone… and…”