She was a Yorkshire shopkeeper’s daughter whose father had lost his military contracts when peace had been declared on the Continent. As far as her parents knew, she was toiling away for a tea-and-tobacconist in a decent London neighborhood, and happy to send most of her pay home.
“You have no business knowing anything about riding crops,” Stephen said, assessing his appearance in the cheval mirror. “And I outgrew my curiosity about the English vice before I gained my majority.” A person in constant pain wasn’t distracted, much less aroused, by applications of a birch rod to his backside, but Stephen had experimented with erotic pain for a time nonetheless.
One wanted to be thorough in one’s investigations.
“You look splendid,” Babette said. “I’m not just saying that.”
“I look splendid, until I’m required to saunter along, all lordly nonchalance. The second cane rather destroys the fiction.” On good days, he could make do with one cane. Good days were rare when he bided in London.
“You look splendid to me when you’re not wearing anything at all,” Babette said. “Shall I wait for you after Friday’s performance?”
Now came the hard part, the part Stephen hated and was so adept at, but had already put off for too long. “Did I mention I’ll be leaving Town shortly? Hand me my hat, would you?”
Babette passed over a high-crowned beaver. “Leaving when?”
“Possibly by the end of the week. You can catch up on your rest.” He tapped the hat onto his head, then gave it a tilt. Not quite rakish, but a nod toward style.
“How long will you be gone?”
Stephen started for the door, his progress slow. Upon rising, he often overestimated his mobility because his knee hurt less. Pain, by contrast, kept him careful.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. I’m heading north to avoid the Little Season, and the ordeal of making my way to my country dwelling is sufficiently taxing that I dread the return journey. I might not come back to London until next spring.”
That had been his plan before Miss Abbott had arrived, looking haunted and weary.
He made it to the door, then paused, waiting for Babette’s response to his announcement. He preferred a rousing farewell argument, complete with recriminations and curses, and maybe even a stout blow to his cheek. The lady was entitled to make such a display, and the verbal beating assuaged his conscience.
“This is good-bye, then,” Babette said. “I will miss you.”
She was so young and so dignified, Stephen nearly did bolt out the door.
“You will not miss me,” he said. “You will consider yourself well rid of me, but I did buy you a small token of my esteem in the hope that you will recall me fondly.”
He withdrew a folded paper from the pocket of his coat. He’d been carrying this particular paper for several weeks. Preparation was critical to victory in any battle, especially the battle to maintain his reputation for savoir faire.
“What’s this?” Babette said, eyeing the paper.
“It’s not a bank draft,” Stephen said. “If you need blunt, I am happy to pass some along, and if you should find yourself in an interesting condition, you will most assuredly apply to me before you pursue any rash measures, Babette. Promise me that.”
She smoothed a crease on his sleeve. “I’m not in an interesting condition. I take precautions, because the sheaths aren’t reliable.”
“I meant if you ever found yourself in an interesting condition. My solicitors know how to reach me, and you know how to reach them. Your word on this, please.”
She nodded. “Did I do something wrong? Is that why you’re tossing me over?” Such vulnerability lay behind the ire in her gaze.
“Yes,” Stephen said, leaning against the door and mustering a scowl. “Yes, you have done something I cannot countenance. If you must know, I am growing too attached to you, and that will not serve. I have no time for maudlin sentiment or fawning displays, but you threaten my resolve in this regard. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, because German princesses and the most celebrated of the grand horizontales in Paris haven’t accomplished the mischief you’ve caused.”
Babette looked a bit less crestfallen. “You’re becoming too attached to me?”
“A man needs his dignity, Babette.” That qualified as an eternal verity. “With your sheer friendliness, your affection, your laughter…you put me at risk for foolishness. Better to leave before you set your hook and while we are still friends, wouldn’t you say?”
She finally took the paper. “What is this?”
Stephen put a gloved hand on the door latch. “You can read it for yourself.”
She opened the paper before he could make his escape. “This is the deed to a tea shop, my lord. You bought me a tea shop?”
The shop, the inventory, and the articles of the clerk who’d been working there for the past two years. The enterprise was operating at a healthy profit too, and Stephen had topped up its cash reserves and inventory as well.
“Bracelets as parting gifts show an execrable lack of imagination, and the pawnbrokers take ruthless advantage of anybody trying to hock such baubles. A tea shop will generate income and give you an option if you’re ever injured in the course of your profession. There’s a price, though, Babette.”
She tucked the deed out of sight. “What price?”
“You keep the terms of our parting to yourself. Say you inherited a competence from an auntie or that a friend of the family willed you the means to buy the shop. Keep my name out of it. Put it about that I’m off to the grouse moors when I quit Town. Grumble at my pinchpenny ways and tell everybody I’m a bad kisser.”
She peered around at her rooms, which were far more comfortably appointed than they had been several months ago. The carpet was Savonnerie, the drapes Italian brocade. The tea service was Spode—not antique, but certainly pretty.
“You are a splendid kisser, my lord.”
“If you insist on lavishing such compliments on me, I really must be going.”
Babette put her hand over his on the door latch. “You will drop in to buy tea from me from time to time?”
He’d more likely send a spy, at least until she was walking out with some worthy fellow. “You intend to keep the shop yourself?”
“I’ll give notice at rehearsal tomorrow and speak to Clare about coming to work for me. She can dance for only a few more weeks.”
An inordinate sense of relief followed that announcement. “Perhaps I’ll look you up when I return to Town, but don’t think we can resume where we left off, Babette.”
“My name’s Betty. Betty Smithers, purveyor of fine teas and sundries.”
“Betty,” he said, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Be well and say grumpy things about me.”
She grinned. “You’re an awful man who has no sense of humor and no eye for jewelry.”
“Just so,” he said, lifting the latch. “And I make you late for rehearsal with my endless selfish demands on your person. You are well rid of me.”
Stephen left her smiling by the door. By the time he’d retrieved his horse from a sleepy groom in the mews, his relief at a friendly parting was fading. He liked Babette, of course, and was fond of her, but then, he liked most women, and was fond of all of his lovers.
Years ago, he might have been capable of risking his heart for the right woman, but life had taken him in other directions, and romantic entanglements didn’t number among his aggravations, thank the heavenly powers.
Miss Abigail Abbott didn’t number among his aggravations either. She was more in the nature of a challenge, and Stephen prided himself on never backing down from challenge.
Chapter Three
“You did ask us to wake you at seven, miss,” the maid said. “Shall I come again in an hour?” She was clean, tidy, and cheerful, like every female domestic Abigail had met in Lord Stephen’s abode. The men were also clean, tidy, and cheerful, and the lot of them moved about with more energy than was decent.<
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Morning sun slanted through Abigail’s window, and elsewhere in the house what sounded like three different clocks were all chiming the seventh hour—in unison. The result was a major triad—do-mi-sol—and the effect unusual, to say the least.
“I’m awake,” Abigail said, sitting up and flipping back the softest quilts ever to grace the bed of mortal woman. “Barely. Oh, you’ve brought tea. Bless you.” No toast, no croissants, though. No hope of escaping breakfast with his lordship. But then, Abigail had come here precisely to secure his lordship’s assistance, hadn’t she?
“Shall I help you dress, miss?”
“I can manage, thank you.”
“I’ll come back to make up the bed and see to the hearth. Your frock is hanging in the wardrobe, and Lord Stephen awaits you in the breakfast parlor.”
Well, drat the luck. Abigail had been hoping to enjoy at least a plate of eggs before she negotiated with his lordship. She ought to have known he’d not simply accede to her plan.
“I’ll be down directly.” Good food and rest had fortified her, and finding that the hem of her dress had been sponged clean and the skirts ironed added to her sense of well-being. She downed two cups of tea as she dressed and tended to her hair.
By the time she joined Lord Stephen in the breakfast parlor, she had resolved to tell him the version of the truth she’d concocted during her journey south.
“Miss Abbott.” He rose. “The sun rises to illuminate your beauty. I trust you slept well.”
He could not know how his levity wounded. “I slept soundly, my lord. And you?”
“I am rested. Help yourself to the offerings on the sideboard. I’d serve you, except handling two canes and a plate is beyond me.”
Walking into the breakfast parlor was like walking into heaven’s antechamber. The windows admitted bright morning light, the scents of toast and butter graced the air, and the room was warm at a time of year when most households were parsimonious with coal. His lordship sat not at the head of the table, but along the side closer to the hearth. Though the day was sunny, autumn had arrived, and a fire crackled on the andirons.
“I am entirely capable of serving myself,” Abigail said. “Have you been out riding already?” Lord Stephen wore riding attire, and he wore it well.
“I enjoy a hack on dry mornings. You are welcome to join me tomorrow if you like to ride.”
Time on horseback was a rare pleasure. Abigail’s cart horse was biddable enough under saddle, but his gaits were miserable, and his sidesaddle manners nonexistent.
“I haven’t a habit with me.” And I won’t be here this time tomorrow.
“A pity. Would you care for tea or chocolate?”
His lordship was a gracious host. Abigail took the place to his left—sitting herself at the head of the table—and settled in to enjoy a fluffy omelet, crisp bacon, buttered toast, stewed apples, and her very own pot of chocolate.
“Your breakfast buffet is impressive,” she said when her plate was empty but for one triangle of toast. “Is this the prisoner’s last meal before you put her on the rack?”
“I am profoundly relieved to know you are feeling more the thing. To see you in less than fighting form daunts a man’s faith. Do you prefer to acquaint me with the facts of your situation in here, or shall you take your cup of chocolate with you to my study?”
Abigail wanted to see his study. From the outside, Lord Stephen’s home was just another staid Mayfair façade, but inside, no expense had been spared to create a sense of order, beauty, and repose. The art on the walls—northern landscapes full of billowing clouds and brilliant blue skies—was first rate. The spotless carpets were decorated with fleur-de-lis and crown motifs that suggested an antique French provenance.
And yet, the house was also stamped with his lordship’s personality. A mobile of lifelike finches and wrens hung over the main entrance, and the slightest breeze made the birds flit about. The transom window was a stained-glass rendering of roses and butterflies that left dots of ruby, emerald, and blue on the white marble floor.
Stylized gilt gryphons had been wrought into candelabra, and a carved owl—the symbol of Athena’s wisdom—served as the newel post at the foot of the main staircase.
Lord Stephen led the way down the carpeted corridor, his progress brisk for all he relied on two canes. Abigail trailed after him, sipping chocolate and frankly gawking.
So many winged creatures for a man who had trouble with earthbound locomotion.
“You pretend to admire my landscapes while you concoct a taradiddle,” Lord Stephen said when Abigail had closed the door to his study. “Your tale will include enough elements of truth to be convincing and enough fabrication to obscure your secrets. It won’t wash, Miss Abbott. I can hardly help you defeat Lord Stapleton if you keep me in the dark.”
The study had a vaulted ceiling across which a fantastic winged dragon trailed smoke and fire. The image was startling for its novelty and also for the peacock brilliance of the dragon. How many solicitors and business associates had sat all unsuspecting beneath the dragon’s fire and fangs?
“A beautiful rendering, isn’t it?” Lord Stephen said, gesturing Abigail to a wing chair. “At night, when firelight illuminates the ceiling in dancing shadows, that dragon seems more real than my hand in front of my face.”
“What’s his name?” Abigail asked, taking the indicated seat.
“Why do you assume the dragon is male?” Lord Stephen remained standing as he posed the question, the picture of tall, muscular English virility and a testament to Bond Street’s highest art.
An illusion, or the real man? And that smile…his smile was sweet, playful, and warmhearted, the opposite of how his mind worked.
The conundrum of his mental processes, charm juxtaposed with calculation, fascinated Abigail. She was counting on his calculating mind to keep her physically safe, while the charm imperiled her heart.
“I assume the dragon is male,” she said, “because most violent destruction is rendered by male hands, is it not?”
His lordship sat and propped his canes against the arm of the chair. He carried a matched set, softly gleaming mahogany, elegantly carved with leaves and blossoms. Either cane could knock a man dead with a single blow if wielded with sufficient force.
“Violent destruction or effective protection?” his lordship mused. “You have come to me for the latter, apparently, while I’d prefer to indulge in the former. Out with it, Miss Abbott, and not the embroidered version that flatters your dignity. How do you know Stapleton is after you, and what motivates him?”
Abigail finished her cup of chocolate—she would not be hurried even by Lord Stephen Wentworth and his pet dragon.
“The first incident escaped my notice until the second occurred. My companion keeps a dog. A smallish terrier sort of fellow with a mighty bark. She says we are safer thanks to Malcolm’s vigilance, while I maintain we simply get less sleep. In any case, Cook was preparing a roast for our Sunday dinner and because cheaper meat tends to be tough, she typically marinates any large cuts for some time before they go into the oven.”
That much was truth and Lord Stephen looked as if he accepted it as such.
“I received a fancy bottle of burgundy as a gift,” Abigail went on. “The note accompanying the bottle suggested a former client was making a gesture of appreciation, but the signature was a single letter—R. I have several clients from whom the bottle could have come, so I thought nothing of it.”
Lord Stephen propped his chin on his fist. “One of those would be my brother-in-law, His Grace of Rothhaven?”
“Precisely, and His Grace is a generous and thoughtful man. A fine bottle of wine sent on the spur of the moment would be like him or like your sister.”
“Do go on.”
“After the prescribed time, the roast went onto the turnspit, and Cook set aside a bowl of burgundy marinade thinking to use it to baste the meat. When her back was turned, Malcolm got to the bowl and began to slurp u
p the contents. The dog regularly consumes ale. A few swallows of wine ought not to have laid him low, but he was asleep within minutes.”
“Asleep?”
“Cook used a feather to bring up the contents of his stomach. He survived.”
Lord Stephen traced the claw-foot carved into the head of one of his canes. “Are you fond of dogs?”
“What has that to do with anything?” Abigail was very fond of dogs and cats and of her stalwart cart horse, Hector. Had Malcolm suffered permanent harm…“Malcolm is a dear little fellow, for all he’s terribly spoiled.”
“We dear fellows enjoy being spoiled, Miss Abbott.”
“Malcolm nearly died because his bad manners go unchecked.”
“Did he? I ask if you care for the dog because I’m trying to discern motive. Was somebody trying to poison you, your companion, and your staff—because a roast would feed the whole household—or merely trying to frighten you? Did the perpetrator know you allow your dog kitchen privileges, and was poison involved, or had the burgundy gone off somehow and the whole business is merely an unfortunate culinary accident?”
“I dismissed it as such. My dimensions are much greater than a terrier’s, and poisoning a marinade is an unreliable way to administer an effective dose of many drugs. My companion, however, is a more diminutive specimen, though how could anybody know we’d use the burgundy for a marinade? If we’d consumed the wine directly, as a good burgundy deserves, the results might have been different.”
“Does your companion have enemies?”
“Not that I know of, but allow me to continue.” This part of the tale, the attempted harm, was more of the simple, truthful part, and the part Lord Stephen must be made to focus on. “I did not connect the poison and Lord Stapleton until his second call upon me. He believes I am in possession of some letters and asked me for the return of them. I declined to accommodate him for reasons having to do with client privacy.”
“Commendable,” Lord Stephen murmured, though Abigail had the sense he was mocking her. The letters terribly compromised the privacy of two parties, so her description was somewhat true.
How to Catch a Duke Page 3
