More to the point, Nan had known Tremont when he’d been eking out a living as a scribe and reader in the pubs of St. Giles. He’d been no sort of pillar at all, but he’d learned a thing or two.

“Have we thought of a name for this place?” he asked. And where was the wonderful Mrs. Merridew at that moment?

Nan took another slurp of her tea. “Missus says the lads have to decide because it’s their ’ouse. House, rather. We’ll be living at My Weary Arse if that lot gets their way.”

“The Home for Useless Reprobates,” Cook muttered. “They do appreciate a good meal, though.”

The ultimate test of discernment in Cook’s eyes. “How’s MacIvey working out?”

A look passed between Nan and Cook.

“He’ll do,” Cook said. “Hard worker, that ’un.”

“MacPherson’s jealous,” Nan said. “Missus wants to show him how to keep the books, but she hasn’t got ’round to it, what with the shoveling and all.”

Tremont set down his teacup. “If Mrs. Merridew is having to wield a snow shovel when this house is full of able-bodied men—”

“Listen to ye,” Cook said. “Cluckin’ like the king of the coop. She sent the men ’round to shovel snow for some old Puritan from the kirk, and the Puritan paid the lads and sent them on to her Puritan friends, and you never seen such a lot of grown men assuring each other that more snow was on the way. The lad Charles says they all shoulda been crossing sweepers, so skilled are they with their shovels.”

“So Mrs. Merridew has the men shoveling snow for hire. Enterprising of her.” What else had she found to do in the past week? Tremont had accomplished appallingly little, all because of a certain kiss from a certain lady on a certain chilly front porch.

He should have kissed her back then and there.

He should have brought her flowers the next day.

He should have sent her flowers along with a witty note, but how did wit apply to the sweetest, most luscious, unexpected…?

Or perhaps the correct course was to invite her over for more tea and conversation, because she seemed to think that had gone well.

He should have sent her a smarmy poem copied in his own hand.

But no. Those were the hackneyed maneuvers of a fatuous swain, and Matilda deserved a more impressive response to her kiss.

“He used to do this,” Nan was saying, “in St. Giles. Stare off into space as if the fairies stole his wits. War can leave a man dicked in the nob.”

“War did not impair my hearing, madam. I am preoccupied is all. Mrs. Merridew can leave us at the end of the month if she pleases to. I am here to ensure she’s not of that mind.”