Without being spotted, much less caught.
“You are wondering,” Ned said, “what my agenda in all this is. I have several—a habit I picked up from his lordship. First, I am loyal to my family, because the Wentworths are my family. I was a boy bound for New South Wales when His Grace decided I’d make a passable tiger. I don’t care how lowly the task, I was and am entirely his man.
“Her Grace put the manners on me,” Ned went on. “And that was no mean feat. Duncan gave me an education, not so much by confining me to a schoolroom or deluging me with books, but by showing me how capable and articulate a well-educated man can be. Walden has wealth and influence, but Duncan will pin His Grace’s ears back with a single quiet word, and devil take the hindmost.”
Abigail ought to silence Ned with a single quiet word, but she was too eager to hear more Wentworth family history. Over the years she’d been employed by Lady Constance, she’d gleaned an occasional detail, and those had been filed away for recall if they proved relevant to the case.
Lady Constance’s case had been solved, while Abigail’s curiosity about Stephen’s family had become voracious.
“And what of his lordship?” Abigail asked. “How did he earn your esteem?” For he clearly had.
“Do you know why he turned to designing firearms, Miss Abbott?”
“Because his mind works like that. He just as easily designs music boxes, stained-glass windows, lifts, puzzle tables. I’ve seen evidence of his cleverness all over this house.”
Ned took two steps closer. “Lord Stephen cannot march.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He cannot march. He cannot slog along like the average infantryman, and even his ability on horseback can’t hide the fact that he’s unfit for military duty. He was denied the honorable course open to every other titled younger son when Boney was grinning at us from the coast of Normandy, so Stephen found a way to contribute without marching.”
“That’s why he makes guns?”
“He doesn’t merely make guns, Miss Abbott. He looked at the whole process, from the gun-making to the shot and powder, to the rammers, and the way the men were deployed on battlefields. Britain has produced more high-quality arms, more efficiently, than at any other time in her history, and Lord Stephen Wentworth is a significant part of that achievement.
“He did the same with the heavy artillery,” Ned went on, “the quartermasters’ wagons, the cavalry sabers and scabbards, the navy’s cranes and saws, the powder magazines.…They would canonize him at Horse Guards if they could, but here in Mayfair, our neighbors snicker at his limp.”
Abigail sank back onto the bench. “War is wrong. I will never be convinced otherwise.”
“And when war is brought to your doorstep,” Ned said, “do you calmly hand over your women and children? Line up your menfolk to be conscripted into the enemy’s army or shot? Pass along your corn and livestock to feed the enemy’s populace while your own starves? Your theology is laudable, Miss Abbott—nobody approves of war—but you’re a bit short on practical solutions.”
“And Napoleon was never at our doorstep.”
Ned passed her the parasol. “He was a mere fourteen miles away, across the Channel, but because Nelson sank the French fleet that’s as close as he came. One sea battle away. Would you like to see more of Hyde Park?”
“You are changing the subject, Mr. Wentworth.”
“That seems a prudent strategy while I am winning the argument.” He cocked his head in a mannerism Abigail associated with Stephen. “As it happens, I agree with you. A hundred years of war hasn’t solved a blessed thing, and it has made Britain all manner of deadly enemies. Thanks to the likes of Lord Stephen, the weapons grow more sophisticated, the slaughter worsens, and all the while, the Lords debate how long the surviving populace will be starved by the Corn Laws. We ought to be taking care of our own instead of plundering the four corners of the earth so a few nabobs can become still wealthier.”
A boy who’d killed his own father to keep his sisters safe would understand war as a defensive necessity. Abigail would never change Stephen’s mind on that score.
And what did it matter? Stephen needed a prospective duchess, and a lapsed Quaker inquiry agent was not that woman.
“A walk in the park sounds lovely,” Abigail said, “but you aren’t to bring a brace of pistols, Mr. Wentworth.”
“Guns are too noisy. A well-aimed knife is just as effective, quieter, and can be thrown a thousand times. Stephen taught me that, and you do not want to stand between that man and a target when he’s wielding a blade or a firearm. I’ll meet you by the front door in ten minutes.”
He bowed and strode into the house, leaving Abigail in Hercules’s company on the terrace.
“I meant that comment about the brace of pistols as a jest,” she said, stroking the dog’s ears. “Ned took it seriously.”
Which suggested Stapleton still posed a danger to her, and that Stephen had made no progress uncovering any clues hidden in the letters.
“Why, Miss Smithers,” Stephen said, “what a fine establishment you have here.”
Betty climbed down from the ladder that slid along the shelves of tea. “Tom, take yourself off for a pint, there’s a lad.”
The clerk had been holding the ladder and gazing adoringly at Betty’s ankles. He bobbed his head at Stephen, grabbed a cap, and bolted out the door.
“You’ve made another conquest,” Stephen said, leaning on the glass-topped counter. “I own I am jealous.”
Betty dusted her hands and looked him up and down. “I thought you were leaving for the grouse moors. You haven’t been sleeping, your lordship.”
Stephen had slept little and badly since the Portmans’ ball. “No hug for an old friend, Betty? No gesture of affection?” She looked happy, rosy, and quite at home in her shop. Stephen would not have allowed her business to fail, but neither could he have made the place a success if she wagered away all the profits.
Betty patted his lapel. “Here’s my gesture of affection, old friend: I’ll give you a ten percent discount on my best gunpowder, how’s that?”
A few weeks ago, Stephen might have patted her bottom in return and bantered about giving her something for free. She was a respectable shop owner now, and thank heavens for that.
“Have you any gunpowder flavored with jasmine flowers?”
Betty glanced around the shop. “If you were tossing me over for another lady, you might have just said. You’ll be taking a wife now, or you should be. Jasmine green tea is a woman’s choice.”
“Might we sit?” Stephen asked, because fatigue—and missing Abigail—made his knee hurt worse.
“Come into the back with me,” Betty said. “Frisky Framley told Marie you were at the Portman ball, and you escorted a lady. An Amazon, but nobody knows much about her. Miss Abbott from Yorkshire. Marie heard a rumor that she’s a professional snoop.”
The back room was a combined office and parlor. The fragrance of tea was punctuated here with the scent of a bouquet of roses sitting on the battered desk. The blooms were fresh and the thorns had been clipped from the stems.
“Miss Abbott is an inquiry agent,” Stephen said, sinking into a venerable armchair. “She has provided my family loyal service, and I have reason to believe her welfare is in jeopardy.”
The kneehole desk faced the wall, papers stacked over most of its surface. Betty turned the chair to face the room and took a seat.
“You’re sweet on her,” she said, without rancor. “You would not escort her to a society ball unless the lady mattered to you. Who’s after her?”
Abigail and Betty would get along famously. “The Marquess of Stapleton, a nasty, aging arachnid of a peer, who—”
Betty waved a hand, displaying ink-stained fingers. “Ophelia Marchant has other names for him, none of them complimentary. She’s been his fancy piece for ages, but he never takes her to the theater, and hardly ever buys her a trinket. But then, she’s not really ear
ning his coin, is she?”
“Anything you know about Stapleton could be useful, Betty. Miss Abbott had a brief affair with Stapleton’s son years ago and can think of no reason why the marquess should take up against her now.”
Betty worried a nail. “Did Stapleton’s son marry her? Some of these dashing blades think sham weddings are quite entertaining. A sham wedding that wasn’t a sham might be a lark for such as them.”
“Stapleton’s heir was properly married at the time.” Or improperly, given the lack of fidelity on both sides of the union.
Betty wrinkled her nose. “And this lordling either lied about being married or he promised Miss Abbott his harridan of a wife was expiring of consumption. Men have no imagination.” Another inspection of Stephen’s person followed. “Some men. Lord Dunderhead sent Clare a very nice sum. She bought a one-third interest in this shop, though this is her day off.”
“Did you invest the money?”
“Half in the cent-per-cents, like you told me. Half in a little business that employs fallen women to make parasols.”
Betty was engaging in charity, in other words. “Give me the name of the parasol shop and I will offer it my custom.”
“You’re buying parasols now, my lord?”
“As it happens, I am, as are the womenfolk in my family. I also have a few designs involving parasols that might sell quite nicely. I am not, however, here to discuss investment opportunities with you.”
“And you aren’t looking to get under my skirts,” Betty said, gaze speculative. “So what are you doing here?”
Guarding my dragon. “Stapleton must think that Miss Abbott knows some nasty family secret,” he said. “That she’s come across documents or facts that reflect badly on Stapleton. Would your friend Ophelia be willing to talk to me about Stapleton?”
Betty pushed a stool over toward Stephen’s chair. “She shouldn’t talk to anybody about the man who’s putting a roof over her head. Rest your foot.”
Stephen did, because it seemed the polite thing to do and because his knee was throbbing.
“The jewels Stapleton has given Ophelia are paste, Betty. He set ruffians on Miss Abbott in an attempt to drag her off a stagecoach, and he’s searched her house at least once. Stapleton buys up vowels to extort compliance from MPs and younger sons, and now he’s made Miss Abbott’s life difficult.”
Betty passed him a square pink pillow to place under his calf. “A mistress who gossips is soon no longer a mistress. To you it’s a matter of curiosity to talk to her, but for her it’s life and death to keep her mouth shut. She already sees other men on the side just to make ends meet. Stapleton cut back her allowance because he can’t…he doesn’t…”
Betty Smithers was blushing.
“His lordship can’t perform?” Stephen suggested.
“You are awful,” Betty muttered, but she was smiling. “He’s useless, according to Ophelia. She’s tried everything, and I do mean everything. The bindings, the whips, the elixirs, the toys…His lordship stops by for a late lunch, has a nice lie-down, sometimes fondles her bubbies a bit, then goes on his way.”
Ironic. The son had been a rutting hound, the father was impotent—now. No wonder Stapleton hadn’t remarried a woman of childbearing age.
“I’ve heard of keeping up appearances,” Stephen said, “but to maintain a mistress merely for show…” No wonder Ophelia had other customers. “Does she frolic with Lord Fleming?”
“She cares for him, the fool. He’ll never marry her, and he started calling on her just to keep an eye on Stapleton. Fleming is decent to her, but the men are all gents at first, aren’t they? Fleming has to marry—he’s an only son—and Ophelia will never be wife to a lord. Ophelia thinks Fleming will marry Stapleton’s daughter-in-law, the better to manage Stapleton.”
A memory intruded, of Lord Fleming leading Lady Champlain out for the quadrille at the Portmans’ ball. They had made a handsome couple, with her ladyship’s customary friendly smile on display throughout most of the dance.
Fleming’s smile had been…possessive? Appreciative? Abigail would have the word for it, if she’d seen the couple dancing. That smile gave Stephen a glimmer of a theory regarding why Abigail’s life had been turned upside down, and who was manipulating whom in the Stapleton household.
“You have been most helpful,” Stephen said, lowering his foot from the stool. “How is the shop doing?”
Betty’s gaze went to the roses. “I might sell it to Clare. Would you be angry with me if I did?”
Stephen pushed to his feet, though his knee offered him profanity for making the effort. “You have caught the eye of a military man, and not a half-pay officer. He has room to keep a thriving rose garden and a glass house. He’s probably widowed. Witness, he knows enough to trim the thorns from his bouquet. You like him, and that unnerves you.”
“You unnerve me. How did you know he’s former military?”
“The precision in the arrangement, the stems all cut at exactly the same angle, the colors chosen to match. He’ll be loyal to you, Betty, and he’s seen enough of life that he won’t judge you for making your way as best you could here in London. Soldiers tend to be kind people, when they aren’t on the battlefield.” And often even when they were.
She touched a delicate pink rose petal. “He has a son, a darling little fellow. The captain adores that child. The lad’s mother did not survive long after the birthing. The captain brings Tommy with him into the shop and is so patient with the boy.”
Stephen had the odd sense of having been gently pushed off the stage of Betty’s life. He’d thought to make a dignified exit, assuming he’d always be welcome to return for a cameo appearance, and that had been arrogant of him.
“If Clare needs a silent partner,” he said, “I am happy to oblige. I’ll want the name of your parasol shop too.”
Betty followed his slow progress to the front of the shop. “Does your Miss Abbott appreciate you?”
“She argues with me, about guns, society entertainments, and anything else that strikes her fancy.”
Betty measured out a scoop of gunpowder fragrant with the scent of jasmine flowers. “But when she touches you, is it…real?”
“Her affection is genuine.” And far too fierce for the tame label of affection.
Betty put the tea in a white muslin sack, tied a pretty pink ribbon around it, and passed it to him. “Then you should marry her.”
“I want to, but I’m not sure she’ll have me.” Stephen put the tea in his pocket rather than hold it in his free hand.
Betty went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Good. If she puts you off balance, then she’s exactly the lady you ought to wed. You are not to tell Ophelia you stopped by here.”
“Of course not.” Stephen bowed over Betty’s hand, happy for her and her officer, and eager to discuss the conversation with Abigail.
But he was also—just a bit—daunted by the notion that Betty had so easily put him into her past. What could he offer Abigail that would prevent her from doing likewise?
Hyde Park, situated on the western end of London and thus close to the best neighborhoods, was lovely. The very air was cleaner, less tainted with coal smoke, horse droppings, and the evidence of passing fish wagons. To a lady raised in Yorkshire, the towering maples in their autumn finery were a relief, and the placid surface of the Serpentine balm to the soul.
“I’m glad we brought Hercules,” Abigail said. “This is beautiful.”
The park was situated next to the wealthiest neighborhoods, but open to all. Nannies with small charges toddled along the walkways, clerks and shopgirls shyly shared benches, and fine ladies walked out with their companions.
More than a few children pointed to Hercules, who trotted along at Abigail’s side with majestic dignity.
“When Good King Hal stole the monasteries from the church,” Ned said, tipping his hat to a passing trio of equestriennes, “he turned one of Westminster Abbey’s forests into a hunting groun
d. In the reign of Charles I, the place was opened to the public. Ungrateful lot that we are, we chopped off his head anyway. I’d hate to think of London without its royal parks.”
“I can breathe here,” Abigail said. “Might we sit for a moment?” Ned was a fine escort. He walked neither too quickly nor too slowly, he didn’t chatter, and he didn’t make a cake of himself to the ladies he encountered along the way.
But he wasn’t Stephen, and Abigail desperately wished she could be sharing this outing with Stephen, though strolling in the park with a leashed mastiff would hardly be his lordship’s idea of an enjoyable errand.
“You are sad,” Ned said, guiding Abigail to a bench near the water and taking the place beside her. “Or homesick?”
Heartsick? “Stephen will see a pattern in my letters that I could not see myself, and he will deduce the significance of it. He will confront Stapleton, sort him out, and I will return to Yorkshire. I am simply impatient to be home. I am also unused to relying on others to fight my battles for me.”
Hercules planted himself at her feet, his chin on his paws as he watched a swan glide by.
“Trust is hard,” Ned said. “For some of us, it’s impossible.”
Was he referring to Stephen, to Abigail, or to himself? She wasn’t incapable of trust—far from it. She trusted her clients to be wary of telling her the truth, she trusted Malcolm to shed on the carpets, she trusted neighbors to be nosy, and human nature to be contrary.
Hercules rose to sitting, his gaze on the path Abigail and Ned had just traversed. A well-dressed man came up the walkway from the direction of Hyde Park Corner. He moved briskly, something about his bearing familiar.
“Do London swells typically take the air with three bully boys?” Abigail asked.
Ned casually turned his head, as if watching the progress of a nanny and her charge farther down the bank. “Bloody hell.”
How to Catch a Duke Page 21
