“How generous of you.”
Jane was by nature sensible and kind. She did not resort to sarcasm often, which suggested to Quinn that he was Missing The Point.
“Jane, have mercy. What subtlety am I not seeing where Stephen is concerned?”
“Spend a day in a Bath chair, Quinn. Force yourself to carry two canes at all times. Trip on the bank steps while half of London is passing on the walkway. Though you are smart enough to take firsts in every subject, pass up Eton and Oxford because you can’t manage the steps, can’t manage the schoolyard brutality. Can’t manage the mud. You think Stephen is so different from you, but he’s not.”
“He’s proud.” All the Wentworths were proud, and God be thanked for that, else London society would have eaten them alive.
“He’s proud, and he’s stubborn. His stubbornness makes your determination look like…What are those dogs doing?”
Wodin was trying to hump Hercules, who apparently wasn’t interested in playing that game. “They’re deciding who’s in charge. Finish your thought about Stephen.” Because whatever point Jane was making, Quinn had the sense that it could help him solve the puzzle that was his only brother.
“Stephen lives in constant pain. You do not. Stephen lives with constant humiliation. You do not. Stephen would die to protect you, while you want to put him in a Bath chair so he doesn’t suffer any more public falls. You tell Ned you’re proud of him every chance you get.”
“I am proud of Ned. The damned lad should have been transported by now, but he’s as upright as any Methodist.”
“And Stephen should be dead. He should have given up or consigned himself to the solution Jack Wentworth chose, blaming everybody and everything for his miseries when he was sober enough to make that effort.”
“Stephen is honorable.” Quinn made that admission slowly. Why was it an admission, and a reluctant one?
“How did Jack Wentworth die, Quinn?”
What an odd question. “Bad gin. It was bound to happen. I was working on a fishing boat that summer, gone for two weeks at a time, and Jack apparently went on one bender too many. Why do you ask?”
Jane watched the dogs, who were back to sniffing and frisking about. “You should ask Stephen about that time. Hercules seems like a very sweet dog.”
Some leap of female logic had occurred. Stephen, oddly enough, might have been able to follow it. Quinn could not.
“Stephen bought him from Willow Dorning, purveyor of fine canines. The beast is certainly well trained.”
“But the dog is huge,” Jane said. “Stephen would not have purchased such a pet for Miss Abbott if he intended to spend a significant amount of time with her.”
“He should have bought her the typically irksome lapdog, but Stephen must be original in all regards. Miss Abbott seemed pleased.”
Miss Abbott was another mystery. Quinn had never met a woman so self-possessed and mannish. And what exactly did an inquiry agent do, anyway?
“She was pleased, but she did not understand that Stephen gave her such a dog only because Stephen sees his path and hers diverging.”
Truly, the conversation had become confusing. “It’s a sham engagement, Jane. When Stapleton has been flushed from his covert and the business with the letters sorted out, Miss Abbott will go back to whatever she does, and Stephen will resume his patronage of opera dancers.”
Jane left off watching the dogs. “What do you think Stephen and Miss Abbott are doing right now, Quinn?”
He thought back over the breakfast conversation. “Shopping for gloves? Picking out fans?”
“She has no use for fashionable accessories. He hates crowded walkways and fawning clerks.”
Hence, the publicly besotted couple had…“That is damned fast work, even for Stephen. I might have to have a word with him, Jane. Miss Abbott is nominally under my protection, and Stephen is a strutting cocksman, canes or no canes.”
“When has Stephen ever asked us for anything, Quinn?”
“He doesn’t have to ask. We all hop to anticipate his needs.”
“Did he need to travel up to York this spring to keep an eye on Althea for us?”
“He was restless.”
Jane rose and leaned across the table. “Did he need to assist Rothhaven and Constance with their situation? Did he need to travel out to Berkshire in the winter mud and slush when Duncan and Matilda were in such difficulties? Did he need to come armed to the party when you and your old friend the viscountess were having a rather dangerous reunion?”
Jane never threw that situation at Quinn, and she wasn’t exactly throwing it at him now.
“I’ve conceded that Stephen is loyal.”
“He’s loyal, he’s brave, he’s fierce, and he’s in love with Abigail Abbott, but he won’t offer for her. If I had given birth to a boy, even one boy…”
She subsided into her chair, and Quinn reached for her hand. “Never say that. Never ever say that. You and the girls are my entire happiness, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Tell me what to do regarding Stephen and Miss Abbott, and I’ll do it, and the perishing title can go hang for all I care.”
She kissed his knuckles. “I do love you, Quinn, and if I knew what to do about Stephen and Miss Abbott, I’d be doing it.”
Quinn linked his fingers with Jane’s. “You let them scamper off on a shopping expedition and declined to send Matilda as their chaperone. I’d say you’re abetting the cause of true love rather vigorously.”
Jane brushed her thumb across his palm. “But will that be enough? Stephen might get up the courage to offer for Miss Abbott, but very few women of modest birth step into the role of future duchess if they have any sense.”
Quinn kissed her wrist. “Being my duchess has been hard, I know. I would not be a duke were you not my duchess, Jane. I’d be just another titled nincompoop with too much money. I showed Miss Abbott the room Stephen used to have.”
Jane came around the table and subsided into his lap. “Clever of you, Quinn. I accepted an invitation to the Portman ball on Stephen’s behalf.”
“He never attends social gatherings if the occasion requires dancing.”
“For Miss Abbott’s sake, I believe he will.”
Days of travel, worry, and upheaval caught up with Abigail, for she didn’t simply nap in Stephen’s arms, she slept deeply. When she awoke feeling warm, relaxed, and safe, Stephen was—true to his word—still ranged along her back, a cozy blanket of semi-aroused male.
“I did dream of you,” she said, returning his hand to the place over her breast. “You were playing fetch with Hercules.”
And Abigail had been there too, as had a small boy in short pants. The scene had been domestic and prosaic in her dreams, but its recollection was painful.
“Hercules knows a lot of tricks,” Stephen said, “and he’s young. He’ll keep you company for years to come.”
“Do I detect an offer from you to keep me company, my lord?” His arousal was becoming more apparent, and Abigail had no wish to rise, dress, and resume the pretenses her situation called for.
“One doesn’t like to impose,” Stephen said, kissing her nape. “But if offered a choice between lingering with you for another half hour or visiting a milliner, I must admit the bonnets come a distant second.”
Abigail rolled her hips back against him. “For me as well.”
Stephen took that for the invitation she’d intended and lazily toyed with her breasts, then explored yet more intimate flesh, all the while rocking gently against her. By the time he eased into her heat, Abigail was ready to pin him to the mattress and have her way with him once more.
“I want to be on top again,” she said, reaching behind her to draw Stephen’s hips close. “This is too cozy, too…” Too sweet and easy and relaxed.
“Hush,” Stephen said. “We can play St. George and the dragon again next time.”
That was the vulgar term for the position Abigail sought, the only one where she maintained the domin
ant posture.
“I considered waking you like this,” Stephen said, “but I didn’t want to cheat you of rest. I also considered bringing myself off, but—selfish brute that I am—this is infinitely better.”
“You didn’t sleep?”
His hand drifted up to gently palm her breast. “I did not want to miss a moment of your company.”
By the time he’d finished with her, Abigail was lying prone, a pillow under her hips, and Stephen draped over her, in the fashion of a pair of lazy beasts. The pleasure had been nearly unbearable as a result of arriving at the end of a slow build, for Stephen refused to either hurry or relent.
He knew what he was about, the wretch, and Abigail was coming to suspect that Champlain had not known what he was about. Stephen produced a handkerchief from Abigail knew not where and tucked it between her legs, then rolled to his side.
“You have worn me out,” he said, “but fear not. Given present company, my humors should be restored within the quarter hour.”
Abigail lay over her pillow, enjoying the glow of wanton abandon. Lovemaking had never left her so utterly boneless and at peace before.
“Do you fear I’ll leap up and desert you for the shops?”
Stephen lay on his back, Abigail on her belly. He appeared to feel as great a sense of repletion as she did, if the slumberous calm in his gaze was any indication.
“You will abandon me,” Stephen said, “though probably not for the shops. You will return to finding missing nieces and errant husbands, retrieving incriminating letters, or confronting embezzling clerks. Does lovemaking build up your appetite? For food, that is?”
“What will you abandon me for?” Abigail asked, though where the courage to posit the question came from she did not know. Perhaps from Stephen himself.
“You think me a fribble,” he said, reaching over to caress her cheek. “I enjoy fribbling, but I’m also a consultant to the military on all manner of weapons design questions. I am tinkering with steam power for naval vessels, and I am fascinated with locomotives. Steam could be used for everything from sending packets back and forth to Calais—no more waiting on the tide and wind—to reducing the manual labor involved in purse seining. I’m also fiddling with a lift that can be built on to the outside of an existing building, rather than requiring internal renovations.”
The small of Abigail’s back began to protest her position, so she pulled the pillow from beneath her hips and shifted to her side, taking Stephen’s hand in her own.
“Do you support any charities?”
“A dozen or so, mostly to do with returning soldiers, or families whose soldiers did not return. Many of the veterans need medical attention, and I’m not a doctor. I can hire doctors, though, and order them about and build surgeries and clinics for them. The Scots are the closest we have to competent medical practitioners in Britain, so I tend to employ them if I can.”
Abigail tucked closer. “What of children? Are you active in children’s charities?”
“I run two orphanages for the offspring of soldiers. They want more attention than I can give them, but the children seem happy and well cared for. I pop in unannounced whenever I’m in London, and have my eyes and ears among the urchins.”
Abigail would love to pop in with him and see him consorting with his little spies. “You are no sort of fribble whatsoever.”
“I’m a ducal heir. We apparently have a reputation to uphold as decorative bon vivants. You never did tell me if you’re hungry.”
Abigail was hungry. Starving for the company of a man who chatted in bed, took his time with lovemaking, and quietly supported more charities than any five dukes combined.
“I am a bit peckish,” she said, mostly because Stephen had to be famished. “I would not want to put the staff to any trouble.”
“It’s half day,” he said, sitting up, “and my employees are well compensated for tolerating my eccentricities regarding mealtimes. I also look in on the kitchen unannounced.”
“Eccentric, indeed.”
And so dear. Stephen was the most attentive lady’s maid Abigail had ever encountered, using his pocket comb to tidy her hair and making short work of her ribbons, hooks, and laces. He required no assistance dressing, having developed methods of donning his clothing that let him either sit or use one hand while balancing on sturdy furniture.
All too soon, he was again the natty gent, and Abigail was a lady attired for an outing to the shops. When she would have left the study for the kitchen, Stephen stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“A hug for courage,” he said, drawing her close. “And for gratitude. Thank you, Abigail. I will dream of this interlude when I’m a curmudgeonly old relic, and the memory will make my heart that of a young and happy man.”
She hugged him back, hard, and blinked away foolish tears. All too many of her encounters with Champlain had ended with a quick kiss and him telling her to “tidy up and take care.” He’d disappear for days or weeks, then show up again, all smiles, ready for another quick trip to the nearest hayloft.
And she, being young, stupid, and desperate for a man’s notice, had gone with him willingly.
“Food for the soul having been attended to,” Stephen said, stepping back and taking her hand, “let’s find some food for the body. One doesn’t attempt a mercantile sortie on an empty belly.”
He knew his way around the kitchen, and waved off the single scullery maid on duty. He directed her to take her work into the garden, and she seemed happy enough to gather up her bowl of peas and go.
“That one,” he said, “was plying the horizontal trade until six months ago. You never saw a woman happier to peel potatoes. Ham or beef on your sandwich?”
“Neither. Cheese and butter will do. Do you prefer cider or ale, or should we make a pot of tea?”
“Cider this time of year is a good choice. Were your people the sort to boycott sugar?”
“Absolutely, and I still buy sugar sparingly and only from Indian sources.”
Stephen was at home in this kitchen, knew where the knives and bread loaves were, handled the cheese parer competently, and managed to move about with a cane in one hand and plate in the other.
He brought a tray stacked high with sandwiches to the plank table in the center of the kitchen. “I suspect,” he said, “that reducing English consumption of sugar just allowed more enslaved labor to be devoted to tobacco, rum, and coffee, all of which lend themselves to habitual consumption, and were more impervious to boycotts.”
“Do you hold property in the West Indies, my lord?” Abigail would protest if he did, but would she flee his company and take her chances with Stapleton?
“Certainly not. Jane is a preacher’s daughter. She has strong views on abolition, as do I. Quinn’s favorite political cause is getting young children out of the mines. He labored like a bullock as a boy, and because he was a boy—albeit a large boy—he was paid a pittance compared to what a man was paid for the same work. Pass me that mug.”
Abigail slid a mug of cider to his side of the table. “For what we are about to receive, we are humbly grateful. Amen.” Abigail’s Quaker relatives frowned on recitation of grace as a rote exercise, while Abigail liked the comfort of a simple expression of gratitude.
“Amen,” Stephen murmured, “and for the company in which we receive it too.” He nudged her foot under the table with his boot and saluted with his cider.
She was lost. Utterly, entirely lost. The lovemaking was wonderful, but this casual affection, this friendliness and honest joy in her company…she had been infatuated with Champlain, and with the notion of being in love.
Stephen Wentworth was stealing her heart, and she was helpless to prevent his larceny.
“Stapleton opposes any child labor reforms,” he said, taking a sip. “He and Quinn oppose each other frequently on various committees. If I were a better brother, I’d stand for a seat in the Commons and support Quinn’s issues in the lower house.”
The food was
good, hearty and plain. The cider was cold and fresh, and Stephen’s willingness to discuss politics an unexpected treat. Quakers were pacifists, and they did not hold office, but they could be intensely political.
“What stops you from taking a seat in the Commons?” Abigail asked.
He sent her a peevish glance over the rim of his mug. “The actual sitting. The job entails hours and hours of it, far into the night, and my backside honestly can’t tolerate the inactivity. Then there’s standing to make speeches, another activity at which I do not excel—the standing. I can speechify as well as the next man.”
“You could still back a candidate or two, if the right man came along.”
His lashes swept down. “This is good cheese, don’t you think?”
Subtle, that was not. “How many seats do you control?” And, yes, the cheese was wonderful.
“About a dozen, not enough to do any damage, just enough to keep me well informed and make a spot of trouble for the occasional nabob or marquess. Quinn can’t be allowed to have all the fun. Are you fortified sufficiently to plunder the shops with me?”
“Let me finish my sandwich, and then you may dragoon me wherever you please.”
“Careful, Abigail. You could find yourself flat on your back on this table.” He looked to be considering it too, all dangerous and steamy.
“Or you might find yourself flat on your back, my lord.” She reached for her cider, but Stephen caught her hand.
“I adore you,” he said. “From the bottom of my heart and a few other parts of my anatomy, I adore you.”
What on earth was she to say to that? “I am flattered and fortified, and you are…”
He brushed his thumb across her palm. “Yes?”
“You are not a fribble, my lord. Your attempts to impersonate one fail utterly with me. You are no fribble at all. Let’s start with a toy shop.”
He, of course, knew exactly where the best toy shop in London was, and clearly, the proprietor knew Lord Stephen as a frequent and devoted customer. Abigail browsed, she did not buy, while Stephen chose a number of items for his nieces. He knew each child’s likes and personality, and for the baby he bought a storybook.
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