Abigail stalked up to him, and to his credit he did not flinch or step back. “Where was your concern for my reputation when you consigned me to the blue suite two nights ago, my lord?”
The last she’d seen of him, he’d been off to pay a call on his family yesterday afternoon. He had not come home for dinner, and he’d avoided her at breakfast that morning. She’d barged into his study in search of something to read—something besides lurid novels—and found his lordship peering at the plans spread out on his worktable.
He patted her arm. “Inactivity makes you cross, or perhaps your female humors are troubling you. I don’t care that”—he snapped his fingers before Abigail’s nose—“for polite society. They would have cheerfully hanged my brother and let a titled potwalloper go free. My concern is for your safety.”
Abigail was cross, and inactivity did not sit well with her. That Lord Stephen would make a decision without consulting her rendered her positively furious.
“According to you, I am safe here. I do not want your family burdened with my problems.”
He peered down his nose at her. “Have trouble asking for help, do you? That shows a serious want of humility. What would your Quaker relations say to this display of hubris, Miss Abbott?”
In their last conversation, she’d been Abigail, my dear, and dearest to him. “My Quaker relations would say I come by my self-sufficiency honestly. They disowned my father, read him out of meeting. He was a master gunsmith, raised to excel at his trade before the Friends took such a dim view of it. Papa had no other skills with which to make a decent living, so he turned his back on his faith community.”
“As you turn your back on both guns and your father’s religious affiliations. Might we sit? I’ve been out and about already today, and a respite would be appreciated.”
Abigail caught a whiff of his lordship’s luscious fragrance and moved away. “You need not ask my permission to sit, my lord. Sit whenever you please.”
He remained standing, regarding her, both of his hands resting on the head of his cane. This one looked to be of oak—more easily worked than mahogany and still quite heavy.
“You value self-sufficiency, Miss Abbott. I value every semblance of normal, able-bodied gentlemanly behavior I can manage.”
Abigail sat on the sofa, a poor choice given the memories she had of it.
His lordship came down beside her. “What is the real reason you are reluctant to dwell with Their Graces?” He rested his foot on the hassock, which Abigail took to be a concession to his limitations.
“If Stapleton was willing to poison me once, he might try poison again. If he set brigands looking for me once, he might do that again too. Their Graces have children in the nursery—a newborn, for God’s sake—and you expect the duke and duchess to take on the burden of me and my troubles.”
His lordship propped his cane between them and began rubbing his knee. “Have you any siblings?”
“My father never remarried. My mother was the love of his life.”
“Whom you killed, with malice aforethought, being an entire eight pounds or so of villainy at the time of the crime, and so on and so forth. I recall the particulars. Allow me to enlighten you regarding that blessing known as the sibling bond, at least among Jack Wentworth’s offspring, though for all we know, Quinn isn’t related to the rest of us.”
“His Grace of Walden is a legitimate bastard?”
“We can’t be sure. His poor mama was already carrying when she married Jack, and she married somewhat down, suggesting Jack was a husband of convenience. He also treated her miserably, sending her into an early grave and reviling her ever after for her faithlessness.”
His lordship shared this extraordinary confidence casually, and yet, Abigail knew why he did it. He was informing her, in a roundabout way, that she wasn’t the only one with family secrets and sorrows. As if an inquiry agent needed reminding of that.
“His Grace of Walden might not even be your brother?”
“The College of Arms doesn’t care. Quinn is the legal and legitimate offspring of Jack Wentworth, and more to the point, a brother is as a brother does. Quinn saved our lives, over and over. We would have starved without the wages he earned, or worse, we would have succumbed to Jack’s meanness without Quinn to show us how to manage. Althea took much of the brunt of Jack’s temper, but we all came in for our share.”
“Let me see to your knee,” Abigail said, setting his cane aside and moving closer.
“My cane, please.”
“Your leg hurts. You should rest it.”
“Abigail, please put my cane where I can reach it.” His tone was civil—barely.
She passed him his cane. “Only the one today?”
“When I go out, I try to manage with one.”
“And then you pay for your pride.” She began the slow, smooth massage he seemed to favor.
“Harder,” he said, leaning his head back against the cushions. “That knee only understands a firm touch.”
She dug in with her fingers, which earned her a sigh.
“Exactly like that. Ye gods, I might not let you stay with Quinn and Jane after all.”
“You are not letting me do anything, my lord. I’ve asked for your help. That does not put you in control of me. Finish your explanation regarding your siblings.”
“If my family learned that I was in difficulties, and I did not turn to them for aid, they would be hurt. I have hurt them enough. In my youth, when I could not lash out with my fists, I lashed out with words. I broke antique vases. I threw food I would have sold myself for a few years earlier. I was impossible, and only Duncan’s monumental patience and even greater stores of academic guile stopped me from the worst of my foolishness.”
“What is academic guile?”
Lord Stephen closed his
