The idea that Matilda had been so distrustful of her husband that she’d had to watch the blighter at all times made Tremont furious. How dare that varlet steal from his own wife, much less from a helpless baby? How dare he subject Matilda to freezing toes for the sake of his vanity?

Tremont’s usual means of corralling rage—a handy quote from the Stoics, a pithy Shakespearean observation, a determined examination of any unexpected good that had flowed from harm—were unavailing.

And in the midst of Tremont’s mental tirades at Harry Merridew, Matilda had flourished her question about kissing and marksmanship.

“You befuddle me on purpose,” Tremont said, managing to get his cloak onto the nearest brass hook. “You know that I am vexed past all bearing by the behaviors of your late spouse, so you distract me with an outlandish question.”

“My question is serious,” she replied with perfect equanimity. “You undertake everything you turn your hand to with singular thoroughness. I wonder if you are similarly thorough in pursuit of your pleasures.”

Where was the butler when a fellow needed time to concoct a witty retort? “I can see where Tommie gets his relentless logic from—and his curiosity. Let’s find a roaring fire, shall we?”

He led Matilda to the family parlor this time. Tremont allowed himself to enjoy the look of her among gleaming brass fixtures, embroidered pillows, and velvet curtains. He liked that she would turn her hand to hard work, and he liked even more that she wasn’t put off by his Town residence.

He gave the bell-pull the requisite three tugs and realized he’d left the ledger in the foyer.

“Shall I retrieve the account book?” he asked.

“Let’s do justice to the tray first. Is this your mother?” Matilda moved behind the desk to peer up at the portrait of Mama and her only begotten son. “You were a solemn little fellow, if that’s you.”

“I had been breeched shortly before we sat for this painting. Papa made a great to-do out of the occasion. His valet assisted me to don my manly attire as if I were being presented at a royal levee. I wish Papa had joined us for the portrait, but we have several good likenesses of him at Tremont.”

“I am trying to find the words to tell you something,” Matilda said, still studying the portrait. “Something that does not flatter me.”

“I do not care one flying pig if you pinched your husband’s watch to sell for sustenance, Matilda.”

She shook her head. “I sold myself in a sense.”