Harry cuffed him on the side of the head. “Never use that name. Not ever. Not when you’re drunk, not when you’re at your last prayers. You use that name, and I could end up dead for real.”

“Remind me to send your wife flowers, but mebbe not. You ain’t worth the price of posies, and she’s apparently got over her loss the once-t already.”

“Hilarious.”

Sparky rose. “I’ll keep a watch on the ’ouse and the soldiers’ ‘ome, but you’d best tread lightly, ’Arry. Those men are careful with yer widda. They hold doors for ’er, escort ’er like they was promenading through the park with their best girl. You threaten the missus or the boy, and them won’t take it kindly.”

“They are a lot of drunks who knew which way to march only when somebody shouted orders at them. I won’t threaten my wife. I’ll present her with opportunities.”

Sparky tapped his hat onto his head. “I might be just another drunk out of uniform, but I known you a long while, ’Arry. Good times and bad.”

Not this again. “If I’d wanted to hear a sermon, I’d have gone to services.” Though Sparky had known Harry forever, and that made all the talk of deserting for Dublin more bothersome than it should have been.

“She’s too good for ye. Ye never shoulda married ’er, and ye ought not to steal from ’er and the boy now. That crosses a line, my friend, even for the likes o’ ye.”

Harry rose, abruptly out of patience. “She is my lawfully wedded spouse. I can black both her eyes, and Scripture will applaud my willingness to use husbandly discipline on a wayward wife.”

The look Sparky sent him was infuriating for its pity. “Ye could, and it would be the last stupid thing ye do, ’Arry Whoever the ’Ell You Are This Week. I won’t have to kill you. That lot of drunks out of uniform will see to the job for me, and nobody will have to give ’em the order. You been beggin’ for a bad end since we left Bristol the first time. Watch your step is all I’m sayin’.”

He gave a mocking salute and limped out the door.

Harry produced his current deck of cards—marked, of course—and began beating himself at solitaire just for practice. The hardest part of any rig was patience, and thanks to Matilda, Harry had oceans of it. She would have left him if he’d treated her roughly, and the shame of her potential abandonment—no matter that the law would have marched her straight home—had stayed Harry’s hand many a time.

Matilda had taught him that he had more patience than he’d known, and more cunning. The way to get to Matilda was through the boy, and that had not changed.

Fortunately for Harry Merriman.