He stuffed a tart into his mouth lest he commence a diatribe on the benefits to Matilda of becoming his countess. He was prepared for her to laugh, to refuse, to make a jest of his offer, or to leave the house in fear for her safety.

Only a fool or a madman proposed to a woman as Tremont had just proposed, and yet, he’d meant those words more sincerely than he’d ever meant anything in his life.

Chapter Eight

“The ’ouse is neat as a pin from what I can see,” Sparky said, settling into the second wing chair before Harry’s meager fire. “Somebody ’as tidied up the back, swept the cobbles, pointed up the masonry. Windows are spotless and all the boards taken down.”

Harry passed over his flask, though so far, Sparky was repeating old news. “What do the good Puritans of St. Mildred’s have to say?”

“I couldn’t ask ’em. This isn’t your usual tipple.”

“Winter ale, winter tipple.” The cheap stuff warmed a fellow as well as the other kind. “If you aren’t any more effective on reconnaissance, we might be here until spring.”

“I done told ye. I’m fer Dublin at the end of the month. Your missus was at services. Had the boy with her. He’s growed like a weed.”

Thoughts of Tommie were complicated. He’d been a lovely, happy baby, but he hadn’t been Harry’s baby. That had made married life much easier when Tilly had got various bees under her bonnet, but still… The lad was sweet and lovable, and Harry hadn’t known much of sweetness or lovableness.

Probably for the best the lad wasn’t truly his.

“If the boy has grown, then Matilda has landed on her feet. Any daughter of Rev. Quartus Samuels had to learn self-reliance.” What Matilda had lacked was guile and the sense to trust her own instincts. Harry had lived in dread of the day she acquired those skills.

“Missus is looking well,” Sparky said, taking another sip from the flask. “A bit trim-ish, but she seemed to know everybody. A couple fellows were with her. I thought I recognized one of them.”

“That’s the problem with London,” Harry said. “You stand on a street corner here long enough, and somebody who knew you when you were in short coats will eventually walk by. Give me a backward English village any day over the blandishments of the capital.”

Sparky corked the flask and returned it to Harry. “And then when you ran your rigs in the shires, you got chased outta one village after another. You came to London, and you could still run those rigs, but you could stay put because you didna shit where you et.”

Harry thought about draining the flask, but instead put it away. Even these modest bachelor quarters cost handsomely in the Old Smoke—another reason not to bide here overlong.