How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,93
the business she relies on to provide necessities. Worse yet, you imperiled her reputation. You sent her fleeing to virtual strangers for aid, and for that, she will require recompense. Give her back the letters. Now.”
Abigail straightened and Stephen let her go. “I would like them back. They are my property, not yours.”
A quiet knock sounded on the door.
“Enter,” Stephen called.
The butler took one step into the room. “His Grace of Walden and Mr. Duncan Wentworth, to call upon the marquess.” The man’s voice had quavered a bit, which Abigail understood only too well.
Duncan and Quinn strode into the room, resplendent in morning attire, gold winking at their cuffs and from the abundant lace of their cravats. Both men wore boots polished to a mirror shine, and, by contrast, Lord Fleming looked frumpy and Stapleton positively mildewed.
Hercules greeted them with a few thumps of his tail, but remained at Abigail’s side.
Abigail was enormously glad to see both Wentworths, not that she should have ever, ever doubted that Stephen had the situation in hand. He looked of a piece with his kinsmen, and in his casual posture, perhaps even a bit more elegant.
“Walden, Cousin.” He nodded graciously. “Greetings. Miss Abbott, it appears your artillery has arrived. Perhaps somebody should ring for tea, or—given the occasion—break out the brandy. I might instruct the butler accordingly, but it is hardly my place to do so.”
Stapleton glowered at his butler. “Stop eavesdropping and get thee to the kitchen.”
“My letters?” Abigail said. “I will have them back now.”
Lady Champlain got to her feet. “I keep them in the nursery. You may have the lot of them.”
“I’ll come with you,” Abigail said, unwilling to let her ladyship roam free without supervision.
“That will not be necessary.” Lady Champlain made a good try at looking down her nose, but for once, Abigail was delighted to be nearly six feet tall.
“Yes,” Abigail said, passing Stephen the dog’s leash, “it will. After you, my lady.”
“I assure you,” Lady Champlain said, casting a pleading look in Stapleton’s direction, “you need not treat me like a common criminal. I was only trying to protect my son.”
“Then you might have approached me directly and discussed the situation with me like an adult. The earl has long since gone to his reward, and I have no interest in ruining you or your son.”
“Harmonia,” Stapleton said patiently, “please fetch the rubbishing letters and let us be done with this.”
Quinn and Duncan bowed as Abigail followed Lady Champlain to the door. Fleming rose awkwardly, standing with one knee cocked.
“Abigail.” Stephen remained perched against the desk.
“My lord?”
“I named my dragon well.”
His words fortified her, and she very much needed fortifying. Abigail offered him and him alone a curtsy, and followed Lady Champlain from the room.
“Stapleton, attend me. That fellow,” Stephen said, pointing with his cane at Lord Fleming, “will sell you out before you can say God bless Mad King George. He knows your family secrets, and if you try to have him arrested for his housebreaking and coach robbing, he will implicate you thoroughly.”
Hercules settled onto his haunches as if well aware that the most exciting bits were over. He insinuated his head under Stephen’s hand, and damned if petting the dog didn’t help Stephen restrain his temper.
Stapleton sat up straighter at his desk. “Fleming would not dare betray me. I’d call in his sister’s debts, and let all of society know what a fickle and unreliable creature he is.”
“Fickle and unreliable,” Quinn said, studying the volumes lining the shelves of Stapleton’s bookcase, “but honest in his assertions regarding your grandson’s patrimony, and if I understand aright, you no longer hold the lady’s vowels.”
Fleming had resumed his place on the sofa, suggesting Abigail had dealt him a solid blow. “I didn’t rob any coaches, and I won’t say anything about the boy.”
Duncan flipped out his coattails and assumed the reading chair. “You interfered with the lawful progress of a public stagecoach, which is in itself a hanging offense, no robbery required. Miss Abbott, who has a very keen eye for details, noticed your horse, your voice, and your manner of moving.”
“She wasn’t on the coach,” Fleming retorted.
“She was dressed as a man,” Stephen said, gently, for Fleming was having a trying day. His day was in fact about to get worse. “And she knows you effected at least one occasion of housebreaking, so hush while we decide what your punishment is to be. Be glad that Miss Abbott frowns on violence.”