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

Harmonia put the second cup of tea—strong enough to scald the rust off a rapier—on the blotter before Stapleton.

Miss Abbott was biding with the Wentworth family and accompanying Lord Stephen to his first fancy dress ball in ages. Perhaps this was, in fact, a good thing. Perhaps it was cause for rejoicing. Though probably not. Papa-in-Law was wroth, and that was always a very bad thing.

“Fleming,” Stapleton began, “you have airs above your station if you think yourself capable of deciding which among endless pressing obligations I should concern myself with. A marquess, a peer of the realm whose title dates back to—”

“My house was searched,” Fleming said. “I spotted Lord Stephen with Miss Abbott, and within days, my house was searched. Nothing was stolen, but I suggest you check the contents of your safe and the location of any sensitive papers.”

Harmonia pretended to sip her tea, though she could taste nothing. This whole business was growing too complicated. She could only guess what Stapleton was about, and she wanted no part of it.

Stapleton left the seat behind his desk, swung the marchioness’s portrait forward on its hinges, and opened the safe.

“The money’s all—blasted hell. Blasted, infernal…” Stapleton reached into the safe, though Harmonia could see plainly enough that it held only money and jewels.

No papers. Poor Papa-in-Law.

“You put him up to this,” Stapleton said, advancing on Fleming. “You put that Wentworth jackanapes up to stealing back your sister’s vowels and my entire store of leverage in the Commons.”

“I wish I had,” Fleming replied, pushing to his feet. “But the Wentworth jackanapes, as you refer to him, can barely negotiate a set of steps, and I have no means of making a ducal heir do anything. You have many, many enemies, Stapleton, no friends, and only a handful of paid-for allies. You had best be careful about whom you accuse of what.”

Oh, that was well done. Just a hint of boredom in Fleming’s tone, a hint of amusement—and a hint of threat.

And if Papa-in-Law no longer had Lady Roberta’s vowels…Harmonia rose and smoothed her skirts.

“You gentlemen will doubtless wish for privacy if you’re to discuss delicate matters. I’m expecting my portraitist for an afternoon sitting, so I will leave you to your plotting.”

Fleming bowed cordially, while Stapleton closed the safe and positioned the painting over it.

“I am not plotting, Harmonia,” Stapleton said. “The Abbott woman must be dealt with. I had thought to negotiate with her, but she’s clearly intent on getting above herself. Don’t be like her. Keep to your place, or I’ll give you cause to regret it.”

Harmonia merely stared at him. He’d apparently set Fleming to spying on Miss Abbott and Lord Stephen. He’d collected up the vowels of various MPs as a means of buying votes in the lower house of Parliament. He’d even ensnared Fleming in his intrigues by virtue of buying Lady Roberta’s gambling debts.

Now he was threatening Harmonia before a witness, and not with a long holiday in the north.

She tipped her chin up, rather than let Stapleton think her cowed. “I beg your pardon, Papa-in-Law.”

“What I do,” Stapleton said, “I do to safeguard the boy’s future. I owe him that future, and so do you.”

The marquess was much given to pomposity, but in that last pronouncement Harmonia heard only weary determination, and—was she imagining this?—a hint of worry.

“I’ll see you at supper,” Harmonia said, curtsying. She left the study at a decorous pace and closed the door quietly behind her. The walls were too thick to make eavesdropping in the corridor possible, and besides, she’d already heard more than she wished to.

She gathered her skirts and pelted up to her private sitting room, where she changed into the flattering ensemble she and de Beauharnais had chosen for her sitting.

Chapter Twelve

“He’s reading your letters,” Ned said, taking the place beside Abigail on the garden bench. “Also cursing a lot and staring off into space.”

Abigail moved her skirts aside to make room for Ned, though she’d rather be alone. “I assume you refer to Lord Stephen.”

“In my head, he’s Lord Pontifical, Lord Impossible, Lord Limping Lover…but yes, I refer to the gentleman who has stolen your heart and not set foot in the family home for the past three days.”

Hercules peered up at Abigail from the flagstones. His chin rested on his enormous paws, and his eyes held the reproach of a poor wretch for whom the ball had been tossed for a mere half hour.

“I have endless privacy among the Wentworths,” Abigail said, “but no secrets.”

“We all have secrets,” Ned replied. “I suspect his lordship has confided more than a few of his to you. Did you know he hadn’t been to a fancy dress ball for years before you showed up?”

“Whereas I had never been to a fancy dress ball.” Pacing would have been unladylike and rude, but the sheer, endless waiting was fraying Abigail’s nerves.

“That bothers you?” Ned asked, holding out a hand toward the dog. “That you’re new to the London social whirl?”

“Yes, it bothers me. I’ve attended a house party or two in pursuit of an inquiry, but this…this…extravagant idleness. I cannot fathom it, and I will never approve of it.”

Hercules rose on a sigh and ambled over to sniff Ned’s fingers.

“You think Stephen enjoys extravagant idleness?”

“He appeared to be enjoying himself at the Portmans’ ball.”

“And we know Stephen Wentworth is as transparent as Venetian glass, don’t we? He hated every minute of the whole excursion. He wished desperately that he could have come housebreaking with me, but he instead kept to your side like yonder hound, guarding you against all perils.”

Abigail did get to her feet and walked off a few paces. “I guard myself against all perils.”

Ned studied her while he petted the dog’s head. His expression put her in mind of the Duke of Walden, though Ned was no blood relation to His Grace.

“That’s the real problem, isn’t it?” Ned said. “You can’t respect the fancy wastrels who