He fitted the key to the lock, and Matilda accompanied him into the chilly, shadowed confines of a dwelling that, despite the absence of tallow candles or coal fires, still managed to stink of both. The unease Matilda had felt outside followed her into the house, and she was abruptly sorry she’d come.

“Matilda, is something amiss?”

“Bad memories,” she said. “Hard memories.” Sad, frightened, exhausted, hungry memories. “Harry would put the key over the lintel when he wanted to lock me out.”

“Lock you out? Why would he do such a thing?”

“As a warning. If the key was above the door, I was not to come inside. I was to wait until Harry passed a light before a first-floor window, like a smuggler signaling a ship at sea.”

Marcus, thankfully, did not press her for details. They made a swift inspection of the premises, which struck Matilda as neglected rather than humble, and were soon back out in the frigid air.

“You are quiet,” Marcus said as they walked along arm in arm. “Do you fear the men are using your home as a gambling den?”

“No. The place was appropriately dusty, and I saw no signs of recent habitation. The hearths are clean, the andirons as polished as I left them. The dustbin empty.”

“You did say the men are keeping secrets of some sort.” Marcus drew her back from the street when a passing coach would have splashed her skirts. “You are upset. That business with the key upset you.”

“Frightened me,” Matilda said. “You see before you a woman who wants desperately to believe in a happy future with a wonderful man, but who lacks confidence in her dreams. I did not move that key, you did not move that key, and Tommie did not. The only other person who’d know where to find it was buried years ago, but what if Harry passed the secret on to some criminal friend? He had plenty of those.”

The rest of that speculation was too fanciful—and dreadful—to be voiced aloud. What if Harry Merridew isn’t dead?

“I’m being ridiculous,” Matilda said, glad to see the porchlight of her new home come into view. “There is doubtless a logical explanation for the key being moved. Will you stay for dinner?”

Marcus held the door for her, then accompanied her into the foyer. “I will stay for supper, though I realize we forgot the blasted account book. I don’t suppose you’d like to retrieve the ledger in person the day after tomorrow? I must meet with the solicitors in the morning, else I’d extend the invitation to call for the crack of dawn.”

He peeled her cloak from her shoulders as impersonally as if they had, indeed, spent the afternoon poring over figures and tallies.

Matilda passed him bonnet and gloves, and his fingers stroked over her knuckles.