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

tucked another into a coat pocket—“if I thought Abigail was in immediate danger. Stapleton tried to make off with her in York, but she belongs to the Wentworths now, and the marquess will tread carefully, at least for a time. Abigail knew that, or she would not have gone with Fleming. Once Stapleton realizes she doesn’t have the letters, he might not be so polite.”

“These are the copies?” Ned asked, gesturing to the papers spread over Stephen’s desk.

“Reconstructions, such as they are. Champlain was a nearly slavish correspondent, as if he thought his letters might be published someday to vast acclaim. He wrote to Abigail every Monday and Thursday without fail, for better than five months. Ninety percent of it is drivel.”

“And the other ten percent?”

“Worse than drivel. You may read them as examples of what not to write to your lady love. If you see anything approaching a pattern, you will tell me. I am at my wit’s end with the damned things.”

The object of the exercise was to give Ned something interesting to do, lest dear Neddy take it upon himself to break a few heads that were by rights Stephen’s heads to break.

“You think a code of some sort might be embedded here?” Ned asked, gathering the letters into a stack.

“A cypher, a signal, something.” Except that only Abigail had ever read the dratted letters, so what was the point of a hidden message?

“And you’re off to challenge Stapleton to a duel?” Ned said, shuffling the letters into some sort of order.

“Abigail frowns on violence, so no. I am off to call on Lady Champlain,” Stephen said. “When I showed up in Portman’s ballroom, I was swarmed by matchmakers, hostesses, dowagers, and the usual straying wives and merry widows. Lady Champlain did not offer me so much as a smile during the eternity that was the ball.”

“She’s one of your…”

“Dear former acquaintances. I met Harmonia when she was in the mood to make Champlain jealous, and I—being an agreeable sort of fellow—obliged her.”

“You are a disgrace.”

“I am a charming man who enjoys the occasional interlude with a willing woman, and Champlain all but threw her at me. Said my consequence exceeded his, and she ought to like that. I am not proud of my behavior, but everybody involved was willing.”

Ned folded the letters into a pocket of his tailcoat. “I do not now, nor will I ever, understand the Quality. Miss Abbott and I are agreed on that.”

“Read the letters,” Stephen said. “I will find out why Harmonia ignored me and see what Abigail’s about with Stapleton.”

Stephen knew better than to hurry—hurry resulted in falls, and falls could result in complete bed rest, not to mention days of pain and self-recrimination—but he made an efficient trip to the stables and a very quick jaunt on horseback to Stapleton’s front door.

The marquess’s butler was too well trained to overtly convey surprise, but he did try to take Stephen’s cane from him.

“I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind,” Stephen said. “I can see myself to the formal parlor.”

“My lord, I must announce you.”

“No, you must not. Her ladyship and I are old friends, and I’m surprising her.”

“But, my lord, she’s not in the formal parlor. His little lordship’s sixth birthday is next week, and the formal parlor is being thoroughly cleaned in anticipation of the happy day. Her ladyship is in the family parlor.”

“And where is Stapleton?” Stephen asked, examining his appearance in the mirror hanging on the door of the porter’s nook.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord. If you’ll follow me this way.”

A carriage rolled up to the front door, the Fleming town coach, though the crests were turned and the coachy and groom were not in livery. The chestnuts in the traces were distinctive, though, in that their white stockings did not quite match.

Fleming emerged and politely offered Abigail a hand down, which she ignored. She was in magnificent good looks, her parasol and walking stick at the ready. Hercules, regal and dangerous, panted at her side. Stephen had figured out on the ride over that her objective was reconnaissance of enemy territory. If she spotted one of Champlain’s journals, she’d doubtless discreetly borrow it.

And thus commit a crime. Stapleton might not see her tried and convicted, but he’d destroy her reputation as a lady and as an inquiry agent. That he himself had sought to commit the same crime where the letters were concerned would be utterly irrelevant from Stapleton’s perspective.

Stephen made a show of organizing his cane and following in the butler’s wake, until they arrived at Harmonia’s private sitting room.

“No need to knock,” Stephen said, slipping past the butler and lifting the door latch. “We’re old friends, and I hope to surprise her ladyship.” He opened the door just wide enough to gain admittance to the room and closed and locked it behind him.

“Harmonia”— Stephen bowed —“and de Beauharnais. Have you graduated to doing nude portraits now, or is her ladyship posing for a few random sketches?”

De Beauharnais had the savoir faire to smile, while Harmonia blushed and yanked up her bodice. Her figure was a trifle fuller than when Stephen had kept her company, and the added flesh looked lovely on her.

“Wentworth.” De Beauharnais rose, set aside his sketch pad, and bowed. “Your timing is execrable. Her ladyship was graciously indulging my artistic inclinations.”

“If you didn’t want to be interrupted at your diversions,” Stephen said, “then you should have locked the damned door. Harmonia, you appear to be thriving, and I mean that with all gentlemanly sincerity. A fellow could do with a spot of tea, now that you’re back in your clothes. Autumn air can be so dry. Is the comely Mr. de Beauharnais the reason you all but gave me the cut direct at the Portmans’ ball?”

Though that couldn’t be quite right, because she’d been more than friendly with Fleming and happy to dance with a few other gentlemen as well.

“You are quite rude to interrupt us,” Harmonia said, getting