Women had the ability to make two words—my lord—convey a wealth of meaning. Those two words could communicate a willingness to become Tremont’s countess, his mistress, or his intended. They could also convey caution, though they never had before.

“We’re losing the light,” he said, “you have a small child to keep track of, and I don’t see anybody else on hand to provide you an escort. I’m offering my services, as any gentleman ought to. The linkboys won’t be at their posts yet, and you likely wouldn’t bother with them when traversing familiar ground in a decent neighborhood anyway.”

Major MacKay chose then to intrude on the discussion. “You’re seeing Mrs. Merridew home? Then I will be on my way. Dorcas will want a full accounting of the meeting, and she will be most pleased to know the committee acquired a vice chair.” He squeezed Tommie’s shoulder, bowed to Mrs. Merridew, and bustled off, humming Burns’s ditty about men being the practice version of the species and ladies being nature’s finer article.

Mrs. Merridew watched MacKay go, her expression caught between bemusement and vexation. “I must yield to your good manners,” she said, settling a plain straw bonnet on her head. “Tommie, you will mind the earl’s example. He will walk us home and provide you with a demonstration of how a gentleman escorts a lady.”

True to her word, Mrs. Merridew delivered the boy a homily about an escort’s duty. Tremont matched his steps to the lady’s, lest he jostle her arm or hurry her. He walked on the outside, the better to shield the lady from splashing or mud from passing vehicles.

She forgot the part about the gentleman offering his left arm indoors, the better to keep his sword hand free, or perhaps she did not want to bring up swords around the boy.

Tommie, capering about on the walkway, had a thousand questions. Why not hold hands, which would make it easier to prevent a lady from falling on her face if she stumbled? Why was getting mud on a lady’s skirts worse than getting mud on a gent’s trousers? The laundress had to deal with either mess. Why didn’t the lady just tell the gent not to walk so quickly if his legs were longer, or why didn’t the person with shorter legs set the pace because Mama was much taller than Tommie, and she always waited for him even though she was a lady?

Tommie chattered all the way to the steps before a modest town house. No light shone through the foyer windows, and nobody had yet lit the mandatory streetlamp either. When Tremont expected Tommie to charge up the stairs, the boy instead disappeared into the gloom leading down to the half basement.