How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,97

I wanted to hate you.”

“You should not hate anybody, Mama. It’s un-Christian.” This homily was delivered from the carpet, in such bland tones as to be a mere recitation.

“Quite right,” her ladyship said. “And I was not successful, in any case. The letters are nearly identical to ones I received from the same source. When I came into possession of these, you were off on some case, your companion went to visit family, and your staff took their half-day. Somebody left a kitchen window open to let in the fresh air, and your basic sense of orderliness apparently made the rest of the job easy. I did not keep my letters. I burned them in a fit of rage at some slight or other.”

“There were many slights,” Abigail observed, chagrined at how easily her home had been tossed. “I’m sorry for that.”

“The apology is not yours to make, Miss Abbott. My mother tried to warn me, but Papa wanted the match. It wasn’t all bad.”

De Beauharnais watched this exchange with an expression more of concern than curiosity. “Shall I take his lordship down to the garden?” he asked, though that was hardly a portraitist’s responsibility.

“I’ll just be leaving,” Abigail said, stealing another look at the boy. He was absorbed with his painting, his handling of the brush surprisingly deft for such a small child. He wasn’t that much younger than Winslow would have been.

The empty place in Abigail’s heart threatened to choke the breath from her body.

“I’ll show you to the door,” Lady Champlain replied, “and then I will return here, to see what masterpieces have been wrought in my nursery.”

Abigail required the entire trip to the front door before she found the words she needed.

“Shall I fetch Lord Stephen to see you home?” Lady Champlain asked, a little too cheerfully.

“His lordship is doubtless occupied acquainting your father-in-law with the rudiments of the conduct expected of a peer. You may ask Mr. Duncan Wentworth to join me here.”

Lady Champlain set off at a brisk walk, doubtless thinking she’d had a very near miss indeed. Abigail let her get a half dozen paces off—out of reticule range—before she brought her ladyship to an abrupt halt.

“I will give these letters to Lord Stephen,” Abigail said, “because he of all people has a right to hold over this household any and all evidence relating to your son’s conception. When did you plan on telling Stephen you bore him a child?”

Chapter Fifteen

Stephen gave orders to send his horse home with a groom. He wanted to be away from Stapleton’s house, but more than that, he needed to be with Abigail, and to think.

“There you are,” he said, as he gained the soaring foyer. Harmonia, her expression guarded, stood two yards away from Abigail.

Abigail, by contrast, had her cloak over her arm and her bonnet in her hand. Her bearing was militant, which made little sense when the battle was over and victory secured.

“My lady,” Abigail said, plunking her bonnet on her head, “Lord Stephen will call on you one week from today, and you will receive him.”

Why would I call on a woman who never wants to see me again? Stephen decided to ask the question later, after he and Abigail had enjoyed a private, celebratory hour or six.

Harmonia nodded minutely. “If his lordship calls, I will receive him. You have my word on that.”

Stephen set his cane in the umbrella stand, took Abigail’s cloak from her, and got the cloak situated over her shoulders. She submitted to this courtesy so passively that he was doing up her frogs before he realized Harmonia was watching them with more than a little curiosity.

“My lady,” he said, retrieving his cane, “we wish you good day. His Grace of Walden is delivering a long overdue birching to Stapleton’s conscience and to his exchequer. Duncan Wentworth will document the agreement reached, and I’d advise against disturbing them. You will have complete control of your son’s upbringing by the time they are through.” He offered a bow, though Harmonia wasn’t looking at him.

Abigail did not curtsy, and neither did Harmonia. Something female and complicated was afoot between them, which was to be expected. Stephen opened the door and escorted Abigail to the waiting coach.

“That went rather well,” he said, handing her in. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I have the letters,” Abigail replied, taking her place on the forward-facing seat. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought.”

Stephen took the place beside her, when he wanted to ruck up her skirts and share