issuing the occasional growl. Truth be told, the dog’s company did make Abigail feel ever so much safer.
Chapter Thirteen
“She was enjoying herself,” Ned said, pacing the length of Stephen’s office. “The damned female was meant to rule Britain, and she knows it.”
“She doesn’t,” Stephen said, shrugging into his morning coat before getting to his feet. “Miss Abbott cannot be talked into considering the management of even a duchy. I must be off. Send a badger to tell Quinn and Duncan what you saw, and that I’ve gone to aid…I’ve gone to see if I can render any service to Miss Abbott.”
And to kill Stapleton, if need be.
Badgers were the Wentworth family’s network of street urchins, beggars, flower girls, and crossing sweepers. Some of them took work as bank messengers, and all of them answered to Ned. They were sharper than Wellington’s scouts and expected a good deal less in terms of wages.
“A badger has already been dispatched, and I will follow as soon as I talk sense to you. You can’t just barge in on a marquess’s household, Stephen. Not even you would be that bold.”
“Yes, I would”—he slipped a knife into his boot and tucked another into a coat pocket—“if I thought Abigail was in immediate danger. Stapleton tried to make off with her in York, but she belongs to the Wentworths now, and the marquess will tread carefully, at least for a time. Abigail knew that, or she would not have gone with Fleming. Once Stapleton realizes she doesn’t have the letters, he might not be so polite.”
“These are the copies?” Ned asked, gesturing to the papers spread over Stephen’s desk.
“Reconstructions, such as they are. Champlain was a nearly slavish correspondent, as if he thought his letters might be published someday to vast acclaim. He wrote to Abigail every Monday and Thursday without fail, for better than five months. Ninety percent of it is drivel.”
“And the other ten percent?”
“Worse than drivel. You may read them as examples of what not to write to your lady love. If you see anything approaching a pattern, you will tell me. I am at my wit’s end with the damned things.”
The object of the exercise was to give Ned something interesting to do, lest dear Neddy take it upon himself to break a few heads that were by rights Stephen’s heads to break.
“You think a code of some sort might be embedded here?” Ned asked, gathering the letters into a stack.
“A cypher, a signal, something.” Except that only Abigail had ever read the dratted letters, so what was the point of a hidden message?
“And you’re off to challenge Stapleton to a duel?” Ned said, shuffling the letters into some sort of order.
“Abigail frowns on violence, so no. I am off to call on Lady Champlain,” Stephen said. “When I showed up in Portman’s ballroom, I was swarmed by matchmakers, hostesses, dowagers, and the usual straying wives and merry widows. Lady Champlain did not offer me so much as a smile during the eternity that was the ball.”
“She’s one of your…”
“Dear former acquaintances. I met Harmonia when she was in the mood to make Champlain jealous, and I—being an agreeable sort of fellow—obliged her.”
“You are a disgrace.”
“I am a charming man who enjoys the occasional interlude with a willing woman, and Champlain all but threw her at me. Said my consequence exceeded his, and she ought to like that. I am not proud of my behavior, but everybody involved was willing.”
Ned folded the letters into a pocket of his tailcoat. “I do not now, nor will I ever, understand the Quality. Miss Abbott and I are agreed on that.”
“Read the letters,” Stephen said. “I will find out why Harmonia ignored me and see what Abigail’s about with Stapleton.”
Stephen knew better than to hurry—hurry resulted in falls, and falls could result in complete bed rest, not to mention days of pain and self-recrimination—but he made an efficient trip to the stables and a very quick jaunt on horseback to Stapleton’s front door.
The marquess’s butler was too well trained to overtly convey surprise, but he did try to take Stephen’s cane from him.
“I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind,” Stephen said. “I can see myself to the formal parlor.”
“My lord, I must announce you.”
“No, you must not. Her ladyship and I are old friends, and I’m surprising her.”
“But, my lord, she’s not in the formal parlor. His little lordship’s sixth birthday is next week, and the formal parlor is being thoroughly cleaned in anticipation of