Perhaps that’s what Tremont had seen in the child—loneliness. Adults were often lonely by choice, but not so a small boy.

“He has you,” Tremont said. “You were prepared to deal with me severely if I thought to castigate your son. A mother’s devotion is no small blessing.”

An odd look flickered through her eyes—consternation or longing. Tremont was a poor hand at socializing with the ladies, or with much of anybody in polite circles. If he’d ever had the ability to make pointless small talk, he’d left it on myriad Continental battlefields.

“I do love my son,” Mrs. Merridew said, making her words a confession of some sort. “He is doubtless snooping in the vicar’s office, though, so I ought to collect him and get him home before we’re in full darkness.”

Well, yes. Small boys were a curious lot. So were earls. “I’ll fetch him. Do you need a moment to finish copying your minutes?”

“I do not. I make two copies as the committee members exchange their comments. They do tend to discuss every point thoroughly, and if the minutes are finished as the meeting concludes, they owe me for only a single hour’s work.”

That slight flush of color came again.

“I am remiss,” Tremont said. “A vale for the scribe is the normal course, isn’t it? Very bad of me.” He passed her one of the coins he always had in his pocket for the occasional urchin, crossing sweeper, or beggar. “You would have let me prance off without tending to my obligations. Not well done of you, Mrs. Merridew.”

Before she could protest, he made his exit and followed in Tommie’s wake down the corridor. What was wrong with St. Mildred’s that they begrudged a congregant a few coins for an extra hour’s work?

Though that question was just another version of Tremont’s favorite question, upon which he could dwell for eternities: What was wrong with the world?

He found Tommie inspecting Vicar’s desk drawers, though the child did not appear bent on larceny.

“Find anything interesting?” Tremont asked.

“Spectacles. Vicar forgets where he puts them, and he hasn’t a mama to remind him, so he has extra spectacles. Miss Dorcas used to remind him, but she married Major MacKay. I like Major MacKay. He says God made small boys lively, so it’s not my fault that I climbed on the roof of the lych-gate. Did you ever climb on the roof of a lych-gate?”

“I did not. Earls are forbidden from doing that sort of thing. My father permitted me to climb my share of trees, though, where I went for a sail among the fjords of the Viking north, then returned to my homeland in my longship. My brothers-in-arms and I made many a victorious raid upon the wealthy castles of Normandy.”