How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,10
daunts a man’s faith. Do you prefer to acquaint me with the facts of your situation in here, or shall you take your cup of chocolate with you to my study?”
Abigail wanted to see his study. From the outside, Lord Stephen’s home was just another staid Mayfair façade, but inside, no expense had been spared to create a sense of order, beauty, and repose. The art on the walls—northern landscapes full of billowing clouds and brilliant blue skies—was first rate. The spotless carpets were decorated with fleur-de-lis and crown motifs that suggested an antique French provenance.
And yet, the house was also stamped with his lordship’s personality. A mobile of lifelike finches and wrens hung over the main entrance, and the slightest breeze made the birds flit about. The transom window was a stained-glass rendering of roses and butterflies that left dots of ruby, emerald, and blue on the white marble floor.
Stylized gilt gryphons had been wrought into candelabra, and a carved owl—the symbol of Athena’s wisdom—served as the newel post at the foot of the main staircase.
Lord Stephen led the way down the carpeted corridor, his progress brisk for all he relied on two canes. Abigail trailed after him, sipping chocolate and frankly gawking.
So many winged creatures for a man who had trouble with earthbound locomotion.
“You pretend to admire my landscapes while you concoct a taradiddle,” Lord Stephen said when Abigail had closed the door to his study. “Your tale will include enough elements of truth to be convincing and enough fabrication to obscure your secrets. It won’t wash, Miss Abbott. I can hardly help you defeat Lord Stapleton if you keep me in the dark.”
The study had a vaulted ceiling across which a fantastic winged dragon trailed smoke and fire. The image was startling for its novelty and also for the peacock brilliance of the dragon. How many solicitors and business associates had sat all unsuspecting beneath the dragon’s fire and fangs?
“A beautiful rendering, isn’t it?” Lord Stephen said, gesturing Abigail to a wing chair. “At night, when firelight illuminates the ceiling in dancing shadows, that dragon seems more real than my hand in front of my face.”
“What’s his name?” Abigail asked, taking the indicated seat.
“Why do you assume the dragon is male?” Lord Stephen remained standing as he posed the question, the picture of tall, muscular English virility and a testament to Bond Street’s highest art.
An illusion, or the real man? And that smile…his smile was sweet, playful, and warmhearted, the opposite of how his mind worked.
The conundrum of his mental processes, charm juxtaposed with calculation, fascinated Abigail. She was counting on his calculating mind to keep her physically safe, while the charm imperiled her heart.
“I assume the dragon is male,” she said, “because most violent destruction is rendered by male hands, is it not?”
His lordship sat and propped his canes against the arm of the chair. He carried a matched set, softly gleaming mahogany, elegantly carved with leaves and blossoms. Either cane could knock a man dead with a single blow if wielded with sufficient force.
“Violent destruction or effective protection?” his lordship mused. “You have come to me for the latter, apparently, while I’d prefer to indulge in the former. Out with it, Miss Abbott, and not the embroidered version that flatters your dignity. How do you know Stapleton is after you, and what motivates him?”
Abigail finished her cup of chocolate—she would not be hurried even by Lord Stephen Wentworth and his pet dragon.
“The first incident escaped my notice until the second occurred. My companion keeps a dog. A smallish terrier sort of fellow with a mighty bark. She says we are safer thanks to Malcolm’s vigilance, while I maintain we simply get less sleep. In any case, Cook was preparing a roast for our Sunday dinner and because cheaper meat tends to be tough, she typically marinates any large cuts for some time before they go into the oven.”
That much was truth and Lord Stephen looked as if he accepted it as such.
“I received a fancy bottle of burgundy as a gift,” Abigail went on. “The note accompanying the bottle suggested a former client was making a gesture of appreciation, but the signature was a single letter—R. I have several clients from whom the bottle could have come, so I thought nothing of it.”
Lord Stephen propped his chin on his fist. “One of those would be my brother-in-law, His Grace of Rothhaven?”
“Precisely, and His Grace is a generous and thoughtful man. A fine bottle of wine