How to Catch a Duke

by Grace Burrowes

  “He’d do it too,” Quinn said, sounding almost cheerful as he took the place at Stephen’s right and tugged Hercules’s leash from Stephen’s hand. “On the off chance that my brother required assistance, I’d happily serve. I frown on abusing the privileges of the peerage, but just the once, my duchess might overlook it. Duncan?”

  “Pounding one aging windbag flat will hardly take three of us,” Duncan said from Stephen’s left, “but of course, I am ever available to my family when the law itself can’t be relied upon to keep the wheels of justice turning smoothly and in the correct direction.”

  Marriage had agreed with Duncan, marriage to Matilda, anyway.

  “His Grace of Walden,” Stephen said, “is sponsoring a bill to reform the use of child labor in the mines. You will vociferously support that measure and any other that His Grace tells you to support. A man who can look at his six-year-old grandson and commend children of the same age to twelve-hour shifts at hard labor is sorely in need of guidance.”

  And a job crawling on his hands and knees through endless darkness in the mines.

  Stapleton nodded. “What of you?” he asked, gaze narrowing at Stephen. “I’ll support Walden’s damned bills and offer Miss Abbott handsome reparation. Tell me what I must do to ensure you leave me and mine in peace, and let’s be done with it.”

  “From you, I want nothing. I act only as the agent of those I care about. Keep them happy, and you have nothing to fear from me. I’m off to find Miss Abbott.” He bowed, such as he was able to bow, and left Stapleton to Quinn, Duncan, and Hercules’s tender mercies.

  “I loved him,” Lady Champlain said, as she led Abigail down a carpeted corridor. “I was an idiot. Were you an idiot too?”

  Abigail did not want to exchange feminine confidences with the widow of the man who’d betrayed her. Her ladyship seemed so wan and weary, though, that to snap out some acerbic rejoinder would have been churlish.

  Champlain had been Harmonia’s husband, and she had loved him. Both facts had doubtless caused her ladyship sadness. With some relief, Abigail realized that she had not loved Champlain. She’d been infatuated, smitten, enthralled, swept off her feet by the attentions of a dashing, worldly charmer who had made her feel feminine and desired.

  She had not loved Champlain, but she did love Stephen Wentworth.

  “I was easy to infatuate,” Abigail said. “I knew nothing of men, I was lonely, and my father had long since stopped expecting me to get up to any mischief. I had become invisible, and at nearly six feet tall.”

  “While I am invisible at little over five.” Lady Champlain stopped outside a door on the third floor. “I love that sound.”

  A child laughed merrily in the next room, and a man’s softer tones sounded patiently amused.

  “The letters, if you please,” Abigail said, as a vast emptiness welled in the region of her heart. “I am here only to retrieve the letters.”

  Her ladyship pushed open the door and stopped a few steps into the room. A large oval rug covered most of the floor, and upon the rug sat a small dark-haired boy and a handsome man of about thirty years.

  “My two favorite fellows,” her ladyship said, “and you are up to mischief, I see.”

  The man got to his feet easily. “A lad is never too young to try his hand at painting. We were making birds. Canaries, because they are yellow,” he said with mock gravity, “and bluebirds, because they are blue.”

  “I made a green bird,” the boy said. “When you swirl the paints together they make a new color.” He cocked his head and turned a blue-eyed gaze on Abigail. “You are very tall, miss. Are you the queen?”

  “Manners, child,” the man murmured, taking the boy’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “Lady Champlain, might you introduce us?”

  Abigail endured the introductions, too drained by the events of the day to muster much curiosity even about the gorgeous Mr. Endymion de Beauharnais.

  “If you’ll wait here,” Lady Champlain said, disappearing through an open door near the windows.

  “Would you care to paint with us?” the boy asked. “I like making new colors. I could paint a kite to look like birds, and the other birds might try to make friends with it. I want to make a kite that’s big enough to lift me into the air. Don’t tell Mama. She would worry. She worries if I merely climb a tree, so I forget to tell her when I’ve been climbing trees in the garden.”

  “The views from high in a tree are marvelous, aren’t they?” Abigail asked. “And nobody knows you’re there, because they don’t think to look up.”

  The child grinned at that notion and scrambled back to the carpet. “I shall paint a tree, and I will put a little tree house in it, and all the children will want to play in the garden with the tree house. Not even pirates or bandits will be able to find us in our tree house.”

  “So imaginative,” Abigail said softly, and that smile would turn heads when the boy grew older.

  Mr. de Beauharnais was looking at her oddly and holding out a plain white handkerchief. “Are you well, miss?”

  Abigail nodded, surprised to feel a hot tear sliding down her cheek. “The day has been taxing.” And that little boy is so very, very dear.

  “You tangled with Stapleton. He has worn her ladyship down to a shadow, but I am determined…Suffice it to say, she has allies. I hope you do too.”

  Abigail touched the handkerchief to her cheek. The scent was plain lavender, the cloth an unremarkable linen with no embroidery, and yet, the gesture had been kind.

  “Lord Stephen Wentworth is among my acquaintances, and he speaks”—she cast around for the right word—“fondly of you.”

  “I speak of him with equal affection.” The moment might have turned awkward, except de Beauharnais was smiling bashfully. “Don’t believe half of what he says.”

  Abigail believed every word Stephen uttered, unfortunately.

  Lady Champlain returned, holding a packet of documents. “I learned of these letters only because, like Papa-in-Law, I read Champlain’s journals. This is the lot of them. I read some of them, because I wanted to hate you.”

  “You should not hate anybody, Mama. It’s un-Christian.” This homily was delivered from the carpet, in such bland tones as to be a mere recitation.

  “Quite right,” her ladyship said. “And I was not successful, in any case. The letters are nearly identical to ones I received from the same source. When I came into possession of these, you were off on some case, your companion went to visit family, and your staff took their half-day. Somebody left a kitchen window open to let in the fresh air, and your basic sense of orderliness apparently made the rest of the job easy. I did not keep my letters. I burned them in a fit of rage at some slight or other.”

  “There were many slights,” Abigail observed, chagrined at how easily her home had been tossed. “I’m sorry for that.”

  “The apology is not yours to make, Miss Abbott. My mother tried to warn me, but Papa wanted the match. It wasn’t all bad.”

  De Beauharnais watched this exchange with an expression more of concern than curiosity. “Shall I take his lordship down to the garden?” he asked, though that was hardly a portraitist’s responsibility.

  “I’ll just be leaving,” Abigail said, stealing another look at the boy. He was absorbed with his painting, his handling of the brush surprisingly deft for such a small child. He wasn’t that much younger than Winslow would have been.

  The empty place in Abigail’s heart threatened to choke the breath from her body.

  “I’ll show you to the door,” Lady Champlain replied, “and then I will return here, to see what masterpieces have been wrought in my nursery.”

  Abigail required the entire trip to the front door before she found the words she needed.

  “Shall I fetch Lord Stephen to see you home?” Lady Champlain asked, a little too cheerfully.

  “His lordship is doubtless occupied acquainting your father-in-law with the rudiments of the conduct expected of a peer. You ma
y ask Mr. Duncan Wentworth to join me here.”

  Lady Champlain set off at a brisk walk, doubtless thinking she’d had a very near miss indeed. Abigail let her get a half dozen paces off—out of reticule range—before she brought her ladyship to an abrupt halt.

  “I will give these letters to Lord Stephen,” Abigail said, “because he of all people has a right to hold over this household any and all evidence relating to your son’s conception. When did you plan on telling Stephen you bore him a child?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Stephen gave orders to send his horse home with a groom. He wanted to be away from Stapleton’s house, but more than that, he needed to be with Abigail, and to think.

  “There you are,” he said, as he gained the soaring foyer. Harmonia, her expression guarded, stood two yards away from Abigail.

  Abigail, by contrast, had her cloak over her arm and her bonnet in her hand. Her bearing was militant, which made little sense when the battle was over and victory secured.

  “My lady,” Abigail said, plunking her bonnet on her head, “Lord Stephen will call on you one week from today, and you will receive him.”

  Why would I call on a woman who never wants to see me again? Stephen decided to ask the question later, after he and Abigail had enjoyed a private, celebratory hour or six.

  Harmonia nodded minutely. “If his lordship calls, I will receive him. You have my word on that.”

  Stephen set his cane in the umbrella stand, took Abigail’s cloak from her, and got the cloak situated over her shoulders. She submitted to this courtesy so passively that he was doing up her frogs before he realized Harmonia was watching them with more than a little curiosity.

  “My lady,” he said, retrieving his cane, “we wish you good day. His Grace of Walden is delivering a long overdue birching to Stapleton’s conscience and to his exchequer. Duncan Wentworth will document the agreement reached, and I’d advise against disturbing them. You will have complete control of your son’s upbringing by the time they are through.” He offered a bow, though Harmonia wasn’t looking at him.

  Abigail did not curtsy, and neither did Harmonia. Something female and complicated was afoot between them, which was to be expected. Stephen opened the door and escorted Abigail to the waiting coach.

  “That went rather well,” he said, handing her in. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I have the letters,” Abigail replied, taking her place on the forward-facing seat. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought.”

  Stephen took the place beside her, when he wanted to ruck up her skirts and share with her the most primal of joys.

  “We vanquished all comers.” He kissed her hand, which reminded him that she yet wore gloves. Those he dispensed with—his and hers—and after he’d kissed her knuckles, he kissed her cheek. “My mood has turned affectionate. This happens when I have a breakthrough with a design. Does solving a case have the same happy result in the inquiry business?”

  “Sometimes.”

  And apparently, sometimes not. Stephen tucked an arm around Abigail’s shoulders and she subsided against him. Perhaps she too was plagued by a niggling sense of overlooked details, or puzzle pieces that had fallen off the table. As long as the letters were in hand, those puzzle pieces could be picked up later.

  “I should have focused on the dates sooner,” he said, stroking her hair. “Should have known that’s what had Stapleton in such a swither. The butler mentioned that the boy’s birthday is next week, and that jostled something in my brainbox. Ned pointed out that Champlain wrote to you every Monday and Thursday, which was also a helpful nudge in the direction of noticing the dates.”

  Stephen paused long enough to kiss Abigail’s temple. “By the by,” he went on, “you are soon to be comfortably well off as inquiry agents go. Both Fleming and Stapleton will offer you reparation in the form of bank drafts. I know your pride will tempt you to reject these sums, but I must advise you—advise only, of course—to consider that you are owed every penny.”

  He was babbling, mostly for joy, because Abigail’s enemies had been thoroughly routed, but also from a growing sense that something with Abigail was amiss. What had he overlooked about the situation relating to her?

  “You aren’t arguing with me. My darling Miss Abbott never misses an opportunity to air her opinions.” His darling Miss Abbott didn’t take that bait, so he blundered on. “Fleming is off for an extended tour of the Continent, or maybe his papa will force him on the diplomatic corps, though he’ll probably start some minor wars, given his dunderheadedness.”

  Abigail put her fingers to Stephen’s lips. “Hush. The day did not go as I’d planned. I was sure Fleming had taken the letters.”

  Ah, so they were to analyze the battle maneuvers then. “I considered him too, but if he had the letters, why not use them to secure Lady Champlain’s hand in marriage or a return of the gambling markers? Your letters have been missing for months and Fleming took a serious and unnecessary risk interfering with a stagecoach.”

  “So he did not have the letters. What made you think of Lady Champlain?”

  “She was the logical next choice, having a very great interest in keeping from Stapleton’s grasp anything that imperiled her standing in the household. Perhaps the old boy was growing difficult, perhaps her ladyship had read Champlain’s journals and reached the same conclusion Stapleton did. I hardly care now that the problem is solved.”

  Later, when Abigail was smiling and once more on her mettle, Stephen would review the whole matter as he would review a rifle pattern, ensuring every part was labeled accurately and drawn to scale.

  Abigail rested her head on Stephen’s shoulder, the gesture weary. “I met Mr. de Beauharnais in the nursery. He’s very attractive. Has all the heroic features.”

  Gracious. Was this what troubled her? Stephen most assuredly did not want to talk about Endymion de Beauharnais’s excellent nose.

  “If you must know, I think his great good looks are a problem for him. The merry widows plague him ceaselessly and the gay blades want a discreet go at him. All he longs for is to create good art and— Abigail, was that a yawn?”

  “Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping at all.”

  She closed her eyes. “Have you dreamed of me anyway?”

  “Yes.”

  “I dream of you too.”

  What was a fellow to make of that? Stephen let Abigail drift off, or pretend to. Her breathing was regular and slow, but he’d spent a night in her arms and knew the difference between real and feigned sleep. Abigail’s reaction to a case solved and a marquess put in his place was apparently fatigue. Perhaps good spirits would come later.

  Perhaps she was due for a nap.

  Perhaps something had gone badly awry between her and Harmonia or her and de Beauharnais, in which case, no force on earth would pry confidences from Abigail Abbott until she was ready to share them.

  When the coach pulled up before the Wentworth town house, Stephen escorted Abigail inside and sent word to Jane that the letters had been retrieved without incident. After Quinn and Duncan returned, there would doubtless be a round of brandy in the library, but first, Stephen would enjoy a private interlude with his beloved—and with whatever she was keeping from him.

  Inspiration struck as he drew off Abigail’s cloak: Perhaps she was the sort to have a private little fit of the weeps after vanquishing a foe. That would explain much.

  “Upstairs with us,” he said, when Abigail’s cloak and bonnet were on their respective hooks. “We’re entitled to share a tray in your sitting room.”

  Abigail held the packet of letters in her hand. The paper was yellowing, the ink already fading. The red ribbon binding them together was fraying on the ends.

  “I want to burn these,” she said. “But I can’t. A tray is a good idea.”

  She preceded Stephen up the steps and led him into her sitting room. He locked the door behind them, and when she would
have reached for the bell pull, he plucked the letters from her hand and kissed her.

  “Food and drink can wait, Abigail. I have a voracious, burning need of you and hope you are similarly interested in enjoying an intimate interlude with me. I will grovel on my knees—my good knee, anyway—to win your favors, and never have I more fervently wished for the ability to literally sweep a woman off her feet.” More than that, though, he wanted her to talk to him, to confide in him, to tell him where it hurt so he could love it better.

  Those daft sentiments were extraordinary for their sincerity. Stephen had flirted with, propositioned, and been propositioned by many lovers, and it all had been so much posturing. If the other party wasn’t inclined, he’d smile, wave, and design them a music box, deriving about the same degree of pleasure from that exercise as he would from a casual tumble.

  With Abigail, he wanted to design the rest of their lives.

  “I have missed you,” she said, resting her forehead against his. “Very much. We’ll take each other to bed, shall we?”

  God, yes. “Take me to bed hard, Abigail. Take me to bed until I can’t think or move.”

  She clasped his hand and they moved to the bedroom. “Take me to bed sweetly, Stephen.” She punctuated that command with a brush of her hand over his falls. “Sweetly and hard.”

  Stephen, you have a son. Abigail had been unable to get the thought from her mind. You have a gorgeous, healthy son with a lively mind and no worthy adult male to show him how to go on in life. Your son needs you.

  She had spent the coach ride home tormenting herself with a recalled conversation. If I get a woman with child, decency alone dictates that I marry her, and my conscience would insist on that course as well.…Children matter, Abigail. My children matter to me…or they would if I had any.…

  Well, Stephen had fathered a child and now he could marry the mother—though he wasn’t anybody’s husband yet.