The truth was, Abigail could not bide with Lord Stephen for any length of time and still be accepted by decent society. Lord Stephen might produce a fictitious maiden auntie to serve as a nominal chaperone for a sum certain, or he might allude to an equally fictitious distant family connection between him and Abigail, but tongues would inevitably wag.
The Quality were nothing if not hypocritical.
“If you can assure me that your family will be in no danger, I will stay with them.”
Lord Stephen opened his eyes. “Quinn is filthy, reeking rich, and as suspicious of his fellow man as only a gutter whelp who has come up in the world can be. He’s seen Newgate from the top of the scaffold, and been betrayed by fancy employers since his earliest youth. If you come across a titled family in financial distress, they probably hate Quinn Wentworth, because he either cut off their credit or refused to lend to them altogether.”
And this was the dukedom Stephen would inherit? “Walden is conscientious about his family’s security?”
“He’s fanatical about it and has tasked me with measures to safeguard the ladies in particular. Every Wentworth conveyance is a rolling fortress of my design, the footmen are all skilled with firearms and knives, which I’ve fashioned for ease of concealment. We employ a lowlier variety of domestic than most households, because we want the sharpest possible eyes looking out for us. My sisters typically carry weapons, as do I, and the children never go abroad without a platoon of guards.”
Abigail’s Quaker relatives would shudder with horror at lives lived in anticipation of violence. “My uncles would say the price of endless wealth is endless fear.”
“So they’ve sold all their worldly goods, given away the proceeds, and taken up a life of carefree penury? I can assure you, Abigail, the price of poverty is also fear, along with disease, misery, despair, starvation, and death.”
Would Stapleton kill her for the letters? Abigail did not know and would prefer not to find out.
“I will stay with your family. If I’m to be credibly passed off as your intended, that only makes sense.”
Lord Stephen caught her hand in his. “But you had to put me through my paces, lest I begin to think you anything less than deucedly independent. It’s better now.”
His grip was warm and firm, reminding Abigail of another firmness. “I beg your pardon?”
“My knee. It’s better. Thank you.”
Something about his smile was a little too cheerful. “No, it isn’t. You are dissembling. I have no patience with liars, my lord, and if I’m to impose on your family, please assure me that we will be honest with them about the nature of our dealings.”
His kissed her fingers. “They will know what’s afoot, the better to keep you safe.”
More glib assurances that Abigail did not entirely believe. “What’s the real reason you are sending me away?” The part about turning to his family for aid was true, as was the bit about safeguarding Abigail’s person and her reputation.
And yet, she’d bet her favorite sword cane Lord Stephen was prevaricating about something.
“I know why you are so fond of that terrier, Malcolm,” his lordship said. “You are both persistent to the point of foolishness.”
“Persistence gets results.”
His lordship winced as he lowered his foot from the hassock. “Truer words…How soon can you be ready to accompany me to the ducal residence?”
He was in a hurry to get rid of her, probably having second thoughts about the whole scheme. “I am nearly ready now. I have but the one satchel, and packing that will take me five minutes.” She rose, wanting to be away from the man who apparently wanted to be away from her.
Lord Stephen extended a hand to her, and Abigail realized that she was to help a gentleman to stand, a reversal of the usual social convention.
“Don’t get all hedgehoggy on me,” he said, pulling himself to his feet. “You turn up prickly at the least provocation. I am trying to keep you safe, outflank Stapleton, and preserve decorum.”
Never in the history of masculinity had a man’s scent been so delectable. Abigail batted aside that awareness and studied her reluctant host.
“Preserve my reputation? I’m an inquiry agent. I haven’t all that much reputation to safeguard. And if you must know, my virtue in the technical sense was jettisoned as useless baggage years ago.”
Lord Stephen’s gaze went to the dragon frolicking across the ceiling. “The precious resource I seek to preserve by putting your person at a slight distance from my own is my sanity, you daft female. I slept exactly not at all last night, and I haven’t had such a close acquaintance with my own right hand since I was sixteen years old.”
He stood near enough that Abigail could see the flecks of gold in his blue irises. Some rare breeds of cat had eyes like that, azure intensity gilded with promises of lethal force.
“What has your right hand to do with—?”
“I give up.” He appeared to address his surrender to the dragon, and then he wrapped an arm around Abigail’s waist and kissed her.
Stephen had tried the opera, and he’d tried locking himself in his idea room. He’d had a few tots of brandy, though inebriation and unsteady pins were a foolish combination, so the brandy had been of limited use.
He’d finally repaired to his study to partake of the strongest soporific he possessed, the steward’s monthly reports from the Yorkshire estate. Even that drastic measure hadn’t chased away memories of kissing Abigail Abbott.
She took hold of a fellow and
