Ned, ever one to delight in an intrigue, either took the bait or, for once in his benighted life, showed a little mercy to a fellow mortal and let Stephen change the subject.
“Sounds complicated,” he said. “And if you do not marry Miss Abbott, you are a moron.”
Ned could deliver a setdown as effectively as any duchess, but his comment was accompanied by a gentle, nearly affectionate, shove to Stephen’s chest.
“And why,” Stephen replied, “would a woman like Abigail marry a moron, pray tell?”
“Because she is a lady of singular tastes.” He patted Stephen’s shoulder. “Have a care, Wentworth, or I will have to show you how to properly romance a willing female.”
“It’s not a true wooing.”
Ned snorted, flicked Stephen’s cravat, and strolled off down the corridor.
“It’s not,” Stephen repeated, to nobody in particular. “But it needs to be.”
Abigail’s courses had arrived two days early, which provoked mixed and entirely pointless feelings. She distracted herself by writing out the remainder of Champlain’s letters, organizing them by date.
Today finds me in dreary Auxerre, missing my darling goose desperately.…
I write to my dearest sugarplum from godforsaken Tournus.…
I spend this week pining for you desperately in Chaumont.…
The exercise had brought her no peace and less joy. The damned man had been a philandering, selfish cad, and not much of a lover, come to find out. His geographical descriptions and affectionate effusions struck her as inane, and even insulting. Could he not have used her name? Did he forget to whom he wrote?
What did a Quaker gunsmith’s daughter care for a description of vineyards she would never see or chateaus where the likes of her would never be a guest? Why had Champlain bothered writing to her at all?
“This is the last of the letters?” Stephen asked when Abigail assumed her place beside him in his town coach and passed over the letters. Duncan, Matilda, and His Grace of Walden would take the Walden town coach to the Portmans’ ball, though Her Grace would remain at home in deference to her recent travail.
“That’s all of them,” Abigail said, “and I can’t help but feel that I’m missing an obvious pattern, such as a code or signal. Do you think Champlain could truly have been a spy?”
Stephen tucked the packet into an inside pocket of his cape and took Abigail’s hand. She would rather they weren’t wearing gloves, but then, she would rather they weren’t on their way to a fancy dress ball.
“Champlain lacked the brains or integrity to be a spy,” Stephen said. “He might have undertaken some state-sanctioned snooping out of a lust for excitement, or he might have been used by spies, but he hadn’t the patriotism and nerve for true espionage.”
“You knew him that well?” Abigail agreed with Stephen’s characterization, though she would have added that Champlain had been charming, funny, and more manipulative than an ambitious matchmaker.
“I could have been him,” Stephen said. “Swiving my way across the Continent, more drunk than sober, much affronted when my smallest whim was denied, foolish wagers and broken hearts on every side. Duncan and Jane took me in hand and mitigated disaster. Champlain was an improvement over Stapleton—the son was nowhere near as overtly mean as his father—but that is hardly an endorsement. Witness Champlain’s mendacity toward you.”
Abigail had considered the months of trysting she’d allowed Champlain, and the fact that he hadn’t once brought up the issue of conception. She’d assumed he’d marry her, and he’d encouraged that assumption. He probably hadn’t bothered to consider the possibility of a child, and if he had, a bank draft had been the limit of his moral compass.
“I am nervous,” she said, squeezing Stephen’s fingers as the coach slowed. “I have never worn such a daring ensemble.” Nor had she ever felt so pretty. The Wentworths were tall, and their domiciles were built on a grand design. Somewhere in the past few days, Abigail had lost the sense of being out of scale with her species, if not her gender.
“I insisted Jane equip you with a silk shawl,” Stephen said, “because I am acquainted with your modesty. Please recall that these people are terrified of you, Abigail. You might not know their secrets, but you know how to unearth secrets.”
“I would never divulge—”
He held up a hand. “They don’t know that. They divulge one another’s closest confidences at the drop of a glove. The lowliest crossing sweeper has a greater sense of responsibility than do many of the people you’ll meet tonight. They are afraid of you, and that’s exactly how you want it.”
Stephen had the mental agility to think in such terms. Abigail could not be quite so detached. “Will Stapleton attend?”
“I doubt it. He and Portman are usually on the opposite sides of political issues. The marquess would have been invited, of course—anybody with a title receives an invitation from anybody with a title—but I’m more concerned that Fleming will be on hand.”
Stephen had a remoteness to his bearing, for all that he held Abigail’s hand. Mentally, he was someplace other than the coach.
“Are you having Fleming’s quarters searched, my lord?”
“Thoroughly, and Stapleton’s office as well. I’ve already had his mistress’s quarters searched, and do you know, the poor woman hasn’t a genuine gemstone in her entire jewelry box?”
Abigail would never have thought to investigate the mistress’s quarters. “Does she know that?” Like father, like son.
“I will make certain she does. If she’s putting up with old Stapleton’s strumming, she should be handsomely compensated. A hint or two that she’s considering writing her memoirs ought to get Stapleton’s attention.”
“What an inspired threat. You have a gift for seeing justice done.” Not skulking around on client business, but upending injustice in plain view. Abigail had never found her profession anything but interesting before, though lately…
The coach came to a halt. “I have a gift for justice rather than revenge?” Stephen asked. “Revenge is a bit more dashing than justice, don’t you think?”
She kissed him before the footman opened the door. “No, I do not think. If more men of your station were concerned with justice, the Stapletons and Champlains would be much less of a problem. How do I look?”
In the light of the coach lamps, Stephen’s smile was piratical. “I asked Jane to dress you in raspberry velvet. The memory of you licking raspberry ice from my spoon has resulted in more fevered dreams than you can possibly imagine. You look gorgeous.”
He kissed her, the sort of friendly kiss spouses might bestow on each other: Best of luck, chin up, onward to victory! But what did victory look like, when the battlefield was a chalked parquet dance floor and the combat uniform was formal evening dress?
Abigail waited in the receiving line with Stephen, her arm twined through his so that she might surreptitiously offer him support. As the ordeal dragged on, he leaned on her more heavily. All the while, he chatted with this viscountess or that half-deaf baron, introducing Abigail with a fond smile and a pat to her hand.