How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,43

interest in your welfare?”

A logical question, but what did a lame boy know of logic? “He left us with Jack Wentworth, Abigail. Time after time, he’d scuttle away, back to his grave digging or his footman’s job, knowing that Jack was using his fists and worse on us. I begged Quinn to take me with him, but he said to stay where I had a roof over my head, to stay and look out for my sisters.”

Begging for food had never been half so corrosive to Stephen’s soul as begging Quinn not to go, begging him to take them with him.

“And you held up your side of the bargain,” Abigail said. “You plainly took your sisters’ welfare to heart in a way your brother could not. Quinn provided the coin, you provided the safety, though I shudder to think of the toll that arrangement took on such a young and defenseless boy.”

Abigail was so refreshingly practical, and her view of the matter—Stephen doing the part Quinn could not—hadn’t occurred to him previously. He’d reconciled himself to having committed murder, but in a situation where nobody dared interfere with a habitually violent father, perhaps that constituted a child’s form of self-defense?

A merciful God might see it thus. Perhaps. Maybe.

“I would do it again,” Stephen said, “if I heard Jack making the same plans for Althea and Constance, I’d do it again in a trice. Quinn was off somewhere on a job that was expected to last weeks. I planned to drink the poison myself at first. If Jack would sell my sisters to a brothel, what fate would he plan for me? Then it occurred to me that the poison might have another use.”

And what a wicked, hopeful thought that had been. “I recall gazing at the gin bottle in its place of honor on the windowsill, the light shining through the blue glass, obscuring the color of the contents. Jack was not a delicate drinker. He guzzled in quantity. Althea and Constance were out, unaware of the danger, and there I was, alone with my conscience and a quantity of rat poison.” Not a perfect solution, because rat poison did not take immediate effect.

But a solution nonetheless.

“How fortunate for your sisters that you did not go off into service with your brother.”

Fortunate for them. Althea had likely figured out the sequence of events, but she’d never mentioned it, and neither had Stephen.

He’d recounted the whole to Abigail, along with all the sordid details. What had got into him? “Suffice it to say that bank drafts do not impress me when paternal duty is at issue, and this digression is hardly relevant to the instant topic. When did you realize the letters were missing?”

And can we please forget I ever mentioned Jack Wentworth?

Abigail drew the shawl up around her shoulders, though the day was mild. “I first realized the letters were gone in June,” she replied, clearly willing to leave the topic of patricide behind. “Another anniversary—my father’s death—and at first I thought I’d misplaced them. I asked my companion about them. We searched the entire premises and found nothing. The staff professed ignorance, and they’ve been with me for years, so I believe them. Nothing else, not so much as a hairpin, has ever gone missing.”

Stephen patted the cushion beside him, wanting Abigail closer for reasons that didn’t bear examining. “We must think this through. How do you know Stapleton didn’t take them?”

“Because his attempts on me and my household were later in the summer. I have wondered if one of his subordinates didn’t steal the letters with intent to blackmail the marquess.” She settled beside Stephen, cozily close. “But why hold them this long? Stapleton is wealthy, and he could pay handsomely for a lot of old drivel.”

Stephen did take her hand and Wodin visually reproached him. “Are they drivel?”

“I have seen enough love letters to know Champlain was no Byron.”

“Nonetheless, Stapleton is apparently concerned they will fall into the wrong hands and reflect badly upon the late earl.” Though that explanation bore further thought, because Stapleton himself was no Puritan and never had been. Nobody expected strict fidelity of a wealthy, married peer or his charming son.

“I can pretty much reconstruct the letters,” Abigail said. “If I’ve seen something in handwriting, I can often recall it exactly. In my profession, such a skill comes in handy, and I read the letters many times.”

“Don’t admit that ability to anybody else. Quinn will hire you to spy on other banks