How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,14

that something so precious and intimate can be undertaken as casually as sharing a glass of punch.”

Beneath the predictable distaste of a gently reared lady lay a hint of true bewilderment at marital infidelity. Perhaps that was the Quaker upbringing peeking through the inquiry agent’s pragmatism?

“Miss Abbott, the earl and his lady were very likely betrothed while still in leading strings. Champlain was heir to an ancient title and a vast fortune. He was not in the habit of denying himself.”

“You knew him?”

Stephen set his cane aside, though still within reach. “We were acquainted. He was no worse than many of his ilk, and that he and the countess were not possessive of each other was hardly unusual among the peerage. Lord and Lady Champlain considered themselves forward-thinking.”

Miss Abbott rose and struck off across the carpet, and as much as Stephen liked watching her move, he wasn’t as comfortable with her poking about his private domain.

“This is not a variety of forward-thinking of which I can approve.” She leaned over his worktable. “What are these?”

“Plans for a firing mechanism that will be less susceptible to heat and humidity.”

She picked up a diagram and held it about a foot from her nose. “You design guns?”

Did she but know it, she’d brought up an abyss into which Stephen could fall for days on end. “I design them, manufacture them, distribute them, and sell them. Britain cannot seem to enlarge its empire without doing so at gunpoint.”

“Hence the impropriety of that enlargement.” She put down the schematic and stalked around the table, bootheels rapping even through the thickness of the carpet. “I disapprove of the munitions trade.”

Stephen pushed to his feet, though his knee screamed in protest. “I disapprove of people who raise perfectly healthy children and forbid them to dance. We can debate that topic later, when we’ve figured out why Stapleton would need those letters so desperately, though I’m fairly certain I know.”

Finely arched brows drew down. “You do?”

“One of Lady Champlain’s lovers was apparently of a literary bent. Some fool mentioned her ladyship’s indiscretion to Stapleton, and now, having no wife to talk sense to him, the marquess is darting about like a March hare. He is determined to retrieve the evidence of his daughter-in-law’s peccadillo, even to the point of kidnapping you. We will need a list of the gentlemen who have employed you since Lady Champlain spoke her vows.”

An hour of sleep at Babette’s, then another hour upon returning home was plenty enough to refresh Stephen’s mind, but he’d been going short of sleep too much lately. His knee protested loudly, and yet he stood, hands braced on a single cane, while Miss Abbott peered at the signature on the landscape behind his desk.

“Who is Endymion de Beauharnais? Is he related to the late empress?”

The change of subject was much too welcome. “He’s the same fellow who painted my dragon. Very English.” Also breathtakingly handsome and an absolute dunderhead in matters of the heart. “He’s quite talented, unlike you, who are sadly lacking in the thespian’s ability to dissemble. You know who wrote those letters. You know why Stapleton thinks you have them.”

Stephen made a careful circumnavigation of the wing chair, and collected his second cane. The rooms in this house were large, which made for safer perambulations when a cane had to be used even indoors. The furniture was bunched in well-spaced groups, and the carpets were tacked down along every edge.

“I might know,” Miss Abbott said. “I can certainly make the list you describe, but none of this is effecting my demise, which is the reason I sought you out, my lord. If Stapleton thinks I’m dead, he’ll stop trying to drug me and kidnap me.”

“I refuse to kill a woman who is being unfairly menaced,” Stephen said, “not because I am averse to violence—violence has many uses and justifications—but because a staged death will not solve your problem.”

Miss Abbott’s chin came up, and Stephen realized he’d blundered across her Quaker upbringing again. Quakers had no patience with violence generally, hence their distaste for the munitions industry. The lot of them hunted game, though, and many a Quaker fortune included arms money from generations past.

“Don’t give me that look,” Stephen said. “You carry a sword cane.” A man’s sword cane, which she could manage because of her height and the confidence with which she sailed through life.

“For defensive purposes only.”

“That cane will not defend you against Stapleton’s next attempt on your person.” Stephen was seized with