How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,87
the happy day. Her ladyship is in the family parlor.”
“And where is Stapleton?” Stephen asked, examining his appearance in the mirror hanging on the door of the porter’s nook.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord. If you’ll follow me this way.”
A carriage rolled up to the front door, the Fleming town coach, though the crests were turned and the coachy and groom were not in livery. The chestnuts in the traces were distinctive, though, in that their white stockings did not quite match.
Fleming emerged and politely offered Abigail a hand down, which she ignored. She was in magnificent good looks, her parasol and walking stick at the ready. Hercules, regal and dangerous, panted at her side. Stephen had figured out on the ride over that her objective was reconnaissance of enemy territory. If she spotted one of Champlain’s journals, she’d doubtless discreetly borrow it.
And thus commit a crime. Stapleton might not see her tried and convicted, but he’d destroy her reputation as a lady and as an inquiry agent. That he himself had sought to commit the same crime where the letters were concerned would be utterly irrelevant from Stapleton’s perspective.
Stephen made a show of organizing his cane and following in the butler’s wake, until they arrived at Harmonia’s private sitting room.
“No need to knock,” Stephen said, slipping past the butler and lifting the door latch. “We’re old friends, and I hope to surprise her ladyship.” He opened the door just wide enough to gain admittance to the room and closed and locked it behind him.
“Harmonia”— Stephen bowed —“and de Beauharnais. Have you graduated to doing nude portraits now, or is her ladyship posing for a few random sketches?”
De Beauharnais had the savoir faire to smile, while Harmonia blushed and yanked up her bodice. Her figure was a trifle fuller than when Stephen had kept her company, and the added flesh looked lovely on her.
“Wentworth.” De Beauharnais rose, set aside his sketch pad, and bowed. “Your timing is execrable. Her ladyship was graciously indulging my artistic inclinations.”
“If you didn’t want to be interrupted at your diversions,” Stephen said, “then you should have locked the damned door. Harmonia, you appear to be thriving, and I mean that with all gentlemanly sincerity. A fellow could do with a spot of tea, now that you’re back in your clothes. Autumn air can be so dry. Is the comely Mr. de Beauharnais the reason you all but gave me the cut direct at the Portmans’ ball?”
Though that couldn’t be quite right, because she’d been more than friendly with Fleming and happy to dance with a few other gentlemen as well.
“You are quite rude to interrupt us,” Harmonia said, getting to her feet. “Quite rude. I did not cut you at Lady Portman’s ball, though if this is how you behave in polite company, then cut you, I shall. I avoided your company because you seemed devoted to the woman you were escorting, and introductions between her and me might have been awkward. Besides, I do entirely prefer Mr. de Beauharnais’s company to yours or that of any other gentleman, and you will please accommodate my preferences by taking yourself off. Give my love to Their Graces.”
The impact of this grand dismissal was undermined by de Beauharnais staring hard at a spot on the carpet while his lips twitched. The fabric of his breeches covering his manly apparatus betrayed either a misjudgment on the tailor’s part or an enthusiasm on de Beauharnais’s.
“You know Miss Abbott at sight?” Stephen inquired, making no move to exit the room. “Did you know Stapleton had her accosted in the park, and not two minutes ago Lord Fleming marched her right in through your front door?”
Harmonia put a hand to her throat. “Fleming pointed her out to me at the ball. She should not be here.”
De Beauharnais retrieved a shawl from the chair behind the escritoire and draped it solicitously around Harmonia’s shoulders.
“Perhaps we might continue this discussion elsewhere,” he said, giving Harmonia’s arm a pat. “Her ladyship’s private parlor should be reserved for the guests whom she chooses to receive.”
Oh, nicely done, and Stephen was happy to quit the fancy little parlor anyway. Champlain’s journals weren’t on the shelves behind the escritoire, nor did they grace the mantel or the bookshelves across from the fireplace.
“Let’s retire to Stapleton’s study, shall we?” Stephen said. “That is doubtless where Miss Abbott has been taken, and she needs to know that I am on hand to escort her from the premises.”