“They are young ladies, Duncan, not starving wolves.” Quinn’s daughters would be among those young ladies all too soon. Elizabeth was already jabbering about putting her hair up and letting her hems down and she was still a little girl, for God’s sake.
“The heiresses and matchmakers are of the same ilk as those who sent you to the gallows, Your Grace. What do we know of Lord Stapleton?”
That was Duncan, always focused, always thinking, and protective as hell where Stephen was concerned. “Should our duchesses join this conversation?”
“They are closeted in the sewing room. Miss Abbott’s wardrobe needs attention if she’s to be courted by a ducal heir.”
That bothered Quinn—the courtship that wasn’t supposed to be a courtship. “Stapleton and I butt heads in the Lords,” he said. “Jane is adamantly opposed to children doing factory labor, especially in the heavy industries. Stapleton maintains that a poor child should become inured to hard work early in life, the better to accept God’s will and make a contribution to the improvement of the realm. Children who don’t work are parasites in his estimation.”
The music box played a rendition of Mozart’s Sonata in C, a confectionary piece Elizabeth banged away at by the hour. Quinn had grown to detest it, though he’d never admit that to his daughter.
Duncan closed the lid of the music box and the contraption went blessedly silent. “Stapleton had only the one son if I recall?”
“Champlain, who went to his reward shortly after his own son was born. Stephen knew Lord Champlain and was among Lady Champlain’s many admirers for a time.”
“Stephen finds married women likeable.” Duncan set the music box in the middle of the reading table. “They are not interested in his prospects, according to him. He said Lady Champlain’s chess was so bad as to be interesting. I think he felt sorry for her because Champlain was such a bounder.”
Stephen seldom operated out of pity, at least not when he could be caught at it. “Could that be why Stapleton is in such a lather? His son misbehaved and left written evidence that Miss Abbott now possesses?”
“Few people care if titled sons misbehave,” Duncan said. “Stephen and I first encountered Champlain in Paris, where he was quite the bon vivant. According to Champlain, his papa sent him to the Continent precisely to indulge his frivolous inclinations. He and Stephen had a few adventures, about which I did not inquire.”
“Bordellos?”
“The French are more tolerant of certain predilections than we English.”
Duncan was former clergy, and the habit of primness died hard. “You think he and Stephen were lovers?”
“I did not inquire and neither will you, unless Miss Abbott, of all the ironies, has evidence of Stephen’s indiscretion and has earned Stapleton’s wrath as a result.”
Blast and bedamned. No wonder Duncan hadn’t suggested the ladies join them. “You and Stephen traveled on the Continent years ago. Why is Stapleton taking up the matter now? Maybe Stapleton committed the indiscretion or one of his mistresses did.” The old boy hadn’t remarried, which was odd, when the succession rested on the shoulders of one young child.
Duncan took the seat behind Quinn’s desk, and Quinn thought, not for the first time, that the wrong Wentworth had been made the duke. Duncan could inherit the title, if Stephen left no male issue and predeceased him.
Duncan—like all Wentworth menfolk, apparently—did not want the title, but he had the requisite gravitas, and more to the point, he would wield the power of the title for good ends.
“I am loath to suggest it,” Duncan said, “but somebody had better thoroughly interrogate Miss Abbott. Is Stapleton prone to violence?”
“We are all prone to violence under the right circumstances.” Quinn certainly was. “Stapleton dotes on his grandson, he provides well for his daughter-in-law, and he is civil enough when he and I meet. We disagree as reasonable gentlemen often do.”
Duncan took up a quill pen, twiddling the feather between his fingers. “Perhaps Stapleton’s problem is commercial. Most people who advocate working children and the poor to death for the sake of God’s holy plan have commercial interests. Mines, foundries, mills. What do we know of Stapleton’s investments?”
“I’ll put Ned and Jack to researching that question, and by this time tomorrow, we will know who sews Stapleton’s underlinen, whether he pays his bills on time, and the exact hour he last visited his mistress.”
“You will keep Stephen informed?”
Quinn would keep Jane informed. “The question should be, rather, is Stephen keeping us informed, and if not, what secrets is he guarding?”
Duncan looked pained. “He is entitled to his privacy, Quinn. Your motives for sending him touring with me weren’t entirely academic.”
“You’re right. My motives where Stephen was concerned were desperate, and in some regards, they still are. We will speak with Miss Abbott, and Stephen will insist on being present when we do.”
“The duchesses will insist on being present. One wishes Althea and Constance were on hand as well. They know Miss Abbott better than we do.”
“Shall I send for them?”
“Let’s confer with Stephen first. If we bungle this, he will never ask for our help again. You do not want a blunder of such proportions on your conscience, and neither do I.”
Hyde Park was a magical oasis of clean air, open space, autumnal verdure, pretty lanes, and quiet. York, true to its medieval origins, had nothing quite like it, and Abigail was enthralled.
“In spring,” Lord Stephen said, “the vehicles jam the pathways, and all the young swells on horseback flirt their way from carriage to carriage.”
“Are you among those young swells?”
“I was, for a few years. I am no longer flattered by the overtures of women willing to hold their noses and marry me in hopes of wearing the Walden tiara. Every time Quinn and Jane have another baby girl, I feel the wolves stalking closer. Horse, stop pulling at the bit or we will have words.”
The horse slowed to a walk.
“Did somebody break your heart?” Abigail asked. “Somebody other than your darling Jenny?”
“Half of Mayfair, a quarter of Paris, and about one-third of Berlin. By the time I reached Rome, I was a sadder and wiser fellow. I took to keeping company with widows and married women because they could be trusted. Married women and a few flirtatious fellows. Are you horrified?”
“No.” More than one client had retained Abigail to secure and destroy evidence of such liaisons. “Is that why you haven’t married? You prefer men?” She would be disappointed in a purely theoretical sense if that was the case.
“This is not the sort of conversation I envisioned us having, Abigail.”
“Then tell me to mind my own business and bestir yourself to flirt with me. We are here to be seen, are we not? We could also discuss the list of my clients with London connections, but I doubt that will be a productive conversation.”
A swan glided along on the still water of the Serpentine, cutting a path through the leaves dotting the water near the shore. The time of year was pretty but melancholy, and Abigail was abruptly homesick for York. She was in Hyde Park, driving out with one of the most eligible bachelors in England, wearing a truly lovely dress for the first time in ages.