How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,69
ensemble.” Nor had she ever felt so pretty. The Wentworths were tall, and their domiciles were built on a grand design. Somewhere in the past few days, Abigail had lost the sense of being out of scale with her species, if not her gender.
“I insisted Jane equip you with a silk shawl,” Stephen said, “because I am acquainted with your modesty. Please recall that these people are terrified of you, Abigail. You might not know their secrets, but you know how to unearth secrets.”
“I would never divulge—”
He held up a hand. “They don’t know that. They divulge one another’s closest confidences at the drop of a glove. The lowliest crossing sweeper has a greater sense of responsibility than do many of the people you’ll meet tonight. They are afraid of you, and that’s exactly how you want it.”
Stephen had the mental agility to think in such terms. Abigail could not be quite so detached. “Will Stapleton attend?”
“I doubt it. He and Portman are usually on the opposite sides of political issues. The marquess would have been invited, of course—anybody with a title receives an invitation from anybody with a title—but I’m more concerned that Fleming will be on hand.”
Stephen had a remoteness to his bearing, for all that he held Abigail’s hand. Mentally, he was someplace other than the coach.
“Are you having Fleming’s quarters searched, my lord?”
“Thoroughly, and Stapleton’s office as well. I’ve already had his mistress’s quarters searched, and do you know, the poor woman hasn’t a genuine gemstone in her entire jewelry box?”
Abigail would never have thought to investigate the mistress’s quarters. “Does she know that?” Like father, like son.
“I will make certain she does. If she’s putting up with old Stapleton’s strumming, she should be handsomely compensated. A hint or two that she’s considering writing her memoirs ought to get Stapleton’s attention.”
“What an inspired threat. You have a gift for seeing justice done.” Not skulking around on client business, but upending injustice in plain view. Abigail had never found her profession anything but interesting before, though lately…
The coach came to a halt. “I have a gift for justice rather than revenge?” Stephen asked. “Revenge is a bit more dashing than justice, don’t you think?”
She kissed him before the footman opened the door. “No, I do not think. If more men of your station were concerned with justice, the Stapletons and Champlains would be much less of a problem. How do I look?”
In the light of the coach lamps, Stephen’s smile was piratical. “I asked Jane to dress you in raspberry velvet. The memory of you licking raspberry ice from my spoon has resulted in more fevered dreams than you can possibly imagine. You look gorgeous.”
He kissed her, the sort of friendly kiss spouses might bestow on each other: Best of luck, chin up, onward to victory! But what did victory look like, when the battlefield was a chalked parquet dance floor and the combat uniform was formal evening dress?
Abigail waited in the receiving line with Stephen, her arm twined through his so that she might surreptitiously offer him support. As the ordeal dragged on, he leaned on her more heavily. All the while, he chatted with this viscountess or that half-deaf baron, introducing Abigail with a fond smile and a pat to her hand.
He was good at ignoring his own pain, good at impersonating the shallow younger son. By the time the herald announced them, Abigail was ready to shout at the nearest footman to bring his lordship a damned chair.
“I hate this part,” Stephen muttered, smiling genially down at the chattering, glittering mass of humanity in the ballroom. “Blasted steps go on forever.”
“We’ll take it slowly, so they can all get in a good gawk,” Abigail said, gathering her skirts in one hand and wrapping her other around Stephen’s arm. “I have you, and I will not let you fall.”
The descent was stately, to say the least. Abigail realized halfway down that the crowd was not only inspecting her, they were also staring at Stephen. He’d stopped attending any gathering that involved dancing years ago, and by Her Grace’s own report, even the duchess hadn’t protested his decision.
Some expressions were merely curious, some were faintly dismissive, a few were maliciously amused. If they were laughing at Abigail, well, no matter. She’d been ridiculed since the age of eight.
If they were laughing at Stephen, she would…
They reached the bottom of the steps. “I am having a violent impulse,” she said. “My family would be horrified.”