How to Catch a Duke, Grace Burrowes [short books to read .txt] 📗

are doubtless desolated eleven times a day.” She gave the bell pull a double yank and sat back down. “I am not asking you to rid the world of my presence in truth, though I must convincingly appear to die. I have some means, and I can make my way from England easily enough once I’ve been officially expunged from the race.”

“My dear Miss Abbott, had you wished to terminate your existence in truth, you would have done so by now. Never for a moment did I think you expected me to actually take your life.”

A scintilla of the starch suffusing her spine eased. “I should have been more clear. I know you are not a killer.”

“I am, as it happens, though that’s old business.” Old business she should at least be warned about before she awarded Stephen any points for gentlemanly conduct. “I generally avoid violence if I can do so without compromising my honor.”

“And when you cannot?”

What an odd question, and an excellent example of why Stephen delighted in this woman’s company.

“I keep my affairs in order and make sure my family remains untroubled by my actions. If your work has not forced you to flee for your life, then who has inspired you to take the grave step of asking for my help?”

Miss Abbott stared at her gloved hands, then consulted her pocket watch, which looked to be a man’s article, heavy and old-fashioned. As stage business went, the watch was badly done, because the ormolu clock on the mantel was in plain sight and kept perfect time.

Stephen let the silence stretch, unwilling to trick Miss Abbott into any admissions. She’d resent the manipulation, and besides, she was tired, hungry, and unnerved. To take advantage of her in a low moment would be unsporting. Far more interesting to put her back on her mettle, and engage her when she could bring her usual trebuchet of logic and the boiling oil of her asperity to the battle of wits.

The tray arrived, and without Stephen having to ask, Miss Abbott poured out. She apparently recalled that he liked his tea with a mere drop of honey. She used far more than a drop in her own cup, and made short work of two toasted cheese sandwiches and an entire sliced apple.

“Don’t neglect the shortbread,” Stephen said, sipping his tea.

“You’re not eating, and the food is delicious.”

“Not much appetite.” Stephen had an enormous appetite, but a man with an unreliable leg ought not to push his luck by carrying unneeded weight. He was nowhere near as well disciplined when it came to his mental appetite for solving puzzles.

Still, he had learned some manners, thanks to the ceaseless efforts of his family. He waited until a mere half sandwich remained on the tray before he resumed his interrogation.

“Have you committed a crime?” he asked, starting with the usual reason people shed an identity.

“I have committed several crimes, as do most people in the course of a week. You, for example, are likely behind on the longbow practice required by the Unlawful Games Act of 1541. Very bad of you, my lord, considering how much interest you take in weaponry.”

A footman came for the tray, and Miss Abbott’s look of longing as he departed made Stephen jealous of an uneaten half sandwich.

“We will not be disturbed again,” Stephen said. “For you to resort to sixteenth-century legislation for your obfuscations means, my dear, that you are very rattled indeed. Miss Abbott—Abigail—you are safe with me, as you knew you would be. I cannot help you if you refuse to apprise me of the nature of the challenge before you. Who has presumed to menace you?”

She had taken off her gloves to eat. She smoothed them against her skirts now, one glove atop the other, matching the right and left, finger to finger.

Why was the one glove resting atop the other vaguely erotic?

“I have apparently angered a peer,” she said. “Infuriated him, though I haven’t wronged him that I know of.”

Why come to the brother of a duke for aid unless…? “A marquess is after you?” They were few in number, particularly if the Irish and Scottish titles were eliminated from consideration. “An English marquess?”

“I think so.”

“You know so, but how do you know?”

She tucked the gloves away into one of those invisible, capacious pockets sewn into women’s skirts.

“Do you promise not to repeat what I tell you, my lord?”

“You are exhausted and afraid, so I will overlook the insult you imply.”

Her head came up, like a dominant mare sensing an intruder in her paddock. “I am not afraid. I am vexed past all bearing.”

She was terrified, and that was such a rare prospect that Stephen himself became uneasy. “Give me a name, Miss Abbott. I cannot scheme effectively on your behalf unless you give me a name.”

She had the prettiest gray eyes. All serious and searching, and those eyes were worried. That some fool had given her cause to fret vexed Stephen past all bearing. He’d not enjoyed a rousing fit of temper for ages, and the pleasure of putting a marquess in his place appealed strongly.

“You won’t believe me, my lord.”

“If somebody told me a mere marquess had blighted the confidence of Miss Abigail Abbott, that I would find hard to credit. The ranking imps of hell could provoke you to brandishing your sword cane, and for the massed armies of Britain you might slow your stride a bit. St. Michael the Archangel flanked by the seraphic host could inspire you to a respectful pause. But a marquess? A lowly, human marquess?”

Her hands bunched into fists. “He has tried to harm me, twice. Before he tries again, I will simplify matters by having you commit an arranged murder.”

Like an arranged marriage? “Who is this pestilence of a marquess?” Stephen mentally began sorting through Debrett’s. This one was too old, that one too young. Several were on the Continent, a few were simply too decent or too arrogant to resort to intriguing against